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bimboamyrose · 1 year

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Unfamiliar - Ch. 14

First two chapters ☆ Previous (Ch. 13) ☆ AO3

(life update at the end cause it’s been quite the year)

Ch. 14 - The Present

“There’s no time like the present.” Amy thought back to her conversation with the fortune teller- how wise and experienced she seemed. Her words echoed in Amy’s head- “Your time is as valuable as anyone’s.”

Amy kneeled on the floor of her room, her stack of tarot cards fanned out in front of her. It reminded her of when she was a kid; of when she first met Sonic. The excitement and nerves of that time reflected to her from the back of those same cards.

But there was no time for a full spread today, as much as she would have liked the guidance. She would instead draw her daily card and discern what she could from that.

She’d been staring long enough. Closing her eyes, she reached in whatever direction felt right. Her fingertips made contact with a frayed corner. Amy held her breath as she turned it, slowly opening her eyes.

“The fool?” she said out loud. At first glance it was a silly choice, but her face quickly lit up. “The fool!” she repeated with joy. “Perfect!”

The card was illustrated with a carefree man happily standing at the edge of a cliff, as if on the onset of a precarious journey. But he looks confident, even if unaware of the possible risks ahead. For better or worse, The Fool took his chances and looked toward the future with optimism.

It couldn’t be a clearer sign. Madame was right- it was time she understood how Sonic felt about her. She would find an opportunity for that today.

Nervous as it made her, Amy hopped around the room giddily, imagining the scene. It went on for a few minutes until she caught sight of her alarm clock.

“Oh!”

The morning was growing late. She quickly gathered up her deck, placing her special card face-up on her nightstand. She would slip it into her pocket later for good luck.

Amy rushed out of her room, past her house guest. “Morning!”

Metal read, sitting at his usual spot on the couch. The shape of his heavy body grew further indented into its cushions by the day, a reminder of how much time had passed since Amy opened her home to him. She rustled around the kitchen, glancing at her guest and out the back window as she made herself a quick breakfast. In the time Metal had been there, the weather had slowly shifted from frosty to damp, the ground flourishing as spring showers rolled over the landscape. It was warm out.

Amy had overfilled her coffee mug as she pondered it. She frantically reached for the paper towels.

In reality, Metal was doing anything but focusing. A low hum had made its way to Metal’s hearing, tuning in and out since the night before. It echoed the high pitched ring that entered his head after leaving the festival.

Feet away in the kitchen, Amy slammed down a plate on the counter. His head shot up. She was slurping from a coffee mug as she took slices of bread out of the toaster. She placed them on the plate gently enough, but the contact came across as banging to Metal. Then the ringing continued. As if instinctually, Metal scratched at his pointed “ears”- the triangular sound receptors mounted to the top of his head- but the buzzing persisted. Amy was seemingly deaf to the noise. Was it coming from inside him?

“Gotta change,” Amy said quickly, footing it back to her room with her meager breakfast in hand.

Metal followed her with his eyes until she shut the door behind her. He tensed like a guitar string at the noise. He focused on adjusting his receptors until his surroundings were no longer deafening. But why was his hearing so sensitive all of a sudden? He couldn’t even recall using it to that extreme prior to that morning.

Before he could process what caused the error, his receptors picked up again. Metal could hear Amy in her room; involuntarily eavesdropping on her. He heard the distinct sound of cards shuffling. She was surely reading those tarot cards of hers, drawing them with gasps and giggles between pulls. He listened on, wondering silently what she was so excited about.

Then her tablet rang loudly, screeching to Metal’s sensitive hearing. Amy picked up the call as he frantically adjusted his sound receptors again.

“Hi, Tails!” she giggled.

“Hey Amy. You’re sure in a good mood!”

“Well-”

Metal immediately tuned out. It probably wasn’t the right thing to do, invading her privacy- but curiosity had gotten the better of him. And he probably should focus on why his hardware was malfunctioning instead.

But it was no use. Whatever was causing the issue wasn’t letting up, and he could hear their conversation coming in and out. He finally relented when he heard his name some minutes later.

“I’ve been thinking,” he heard Tails remark. “I still find it sorta suspicious that Metal’s here just as Eggman’s supposedly turning over this new leaf.”

Amy sighed. “What is it now?”

“Well, I checked him over yesterday and couldn’t find any evidence of spying like remote control or tracking, but… I’m just not convinced Eggman would abandon him just before going on some business venture. Don’t you think he could be some kind of distraction?”

Amy paused for a moment. Metal sat up on the other side of the wall in anticipation for her response.

“Nah,” she said finally. “I trust him.”

Trust. Metal nodded to himself, relieved at her answer.

“Oh, speaking of spying- what’s the plan for today?” Amy continued.

Tails grumbled. “I’m giving Sonic the listening device. All you have to do is pay Eggman a visit and plant it somewhere we can listen in on him. It’s not like Eggman to be this private so whatever he’s planning has to be big-”

“If he’s planning anything at all.”

“What?” Tails sounded annoyed. “You believe this act?”

“I’d like to,” she groaned. “He is getting kinda old.” And so is chasing after him, she thought.

Another voice interrupted the conversation before either of them could continue. “Hey, buddy!” Sonic called to Tails from another room.

“Be right there!” Tails answered before turning back to his tablet. “Just… be careful, please?” he pleaded with his friend. “I know you’ve been getting along with Metal, but we can’t put anything past Eggman yet.

“Yeah, yeah,” she responded aloofly. “When is Sonic coming?”

Metal turned down his glitching receptors before listening to Tails’ response. He tensed his body, once again reminded of the intrinsic, intense loathing he held for Sonic. He hadn’t had time to process how he would manage that rediscovered fury. Then there was the knowledge that Tails still felt threatened by him. Logically, he understood Tails’ concern- armed with his memories, now more than ever; but it was, nonetheless, hurtful. That seemed like the right way to describe it. Metal slacked back into the cushions.

But, what if Tails was right? Metal still couldn’t remember what led up to the day he lost his memory. He could, very well, be part of a scheme unbeknownst to him. And now that he could recollect the relationship he had with Dr. Eggman, Metal felt strange staying out of either Sonic or Eggman’s involvement. Metal, for his part, felt no desire to fight against his creator. He didn’t feel any loyalty to the man, either. But one way or another Amy would end up in the middle of it again…

Before he could ponder it any further, Amy giddily stepped out from her room. She seemed especially cheerful when she returned, unable to keep the grin off her face. Metal was instantly distracted from whatever was happening with his hearing. His eyes followed her path as Amy twirled into the living room, a gift bag hanging from her wrist as she plopped onto the couch next to him. She looked like she was ready to burst with some kind of good news.

“Hello again!” she beamed.

Metal sat back upright, glancing down at the bag on her lap and immediately setting aside all those complex thoughts for later.

“I’m getting picked up soon, but I wanted to give you this before I head out today…” Amy held the glittery paper bag out to Metal with a bashful smile. “It’s a present! It’s nothing fancy, but…”

Even as he reached out for the gift, Metal couldn’t keep his eyes off her. What was the gift for? She cast her shy gaze off to the side with a rosy flush. Metal would match it if he could.

He took the bag from her carefully, setting it on his lap. Fluffy white tissues stuck out from the top which he pushed aside as carefully as he could manage. The delicate paper wrinkled and tore slightly from his touch, causing him to hesitate. “Don’t worry- presents were made to be ripped open,” she assured with a grin.

Metal looked to her beaming face momentarily and continued opening his gift, tossing the crinkly gift wrap aside. The contents were as much a surprise as receiving a gift at all.

“Do you like it? I thought you might like to write on something nicer than a notepad or a smudgy old whiteboard.”

He pulled out the journal she’d shown him at the equinox festival, its supple leather binding as pleasant in his grip as he remembered. Metal stared at the book, studying its smooth surface. Although it felt durable, he held it gingerly in his palms, still fearing his claws could rip into it unintentionally.

“There’s something else in the bag, too!”

A velvety drawstring sack sat at the bottom of the gift bag. Amy’s expectant eyes watched him. He pulled the top of it apart with care, revealing the contents. He was unsure what he was looking at.

“They’re gloves,” Amy said, as if reading his confusion. “I handmade them for you. I hope you don’t mind…”

Gloves. He examined them carefully. The insides were lined with a hard wearing suede that backed the fine leather exterior, like sturdy working gloves in reverse. Of course; she was probably concerned that he would tear into things from time to time. Her scarf had been unfortunate enough to meet his metallic claws and his whiteboard was scratched beyond reasonable use. Not to mention her arm…

“You don’t have to wear them if you don’t want to.” Amy cut in. “But I thought you might find it more comfortable for some things. Maybe you won’t have to be so careful when you’re reading anymore!”

That was true- he had to take his time turning pages when he read, which slowed him down. It was cumbersome to him especially as he could otherwise get through a book at full tilt. Metal looked from Amy’s considerate gift to her uneasy expression.

“Do you like them?” Amy worried that she’d offended her friend somehow. “Maybe if you tried them on…? I could always make adjustments…”

Metal shook his head, carefully slipping one of the gloves over his sharp fingers. It fastened at the wrist with openings on the palms and backs that allowed for greater mobility than full gloves would. He ran the tips of his covered claws over the face of the journal. No scratches. He then flexed each of his fingers with ease before slipping on the other. It wasn’t until then that the thoughtfulness of Amy’s gift registered in his mind. They were perfect.

He took the opportunity to reach for her hand as well, easily sliding his fingers beneath her palm and placing his other palm over top. It was a bit harder to sense her, almost as if slightly numb- but he could do it without worry of harming her. It seemed a fair trade. He chimed enthusiastically as he held her hand in both of his.

Amy’s worry melted away. “You do? I’m so glad! I had Tails help me with the measurements and design. I can still make changes if you need them, though,” she assured.

Armed with a doubtless nod, Metal met her eyes and chimed with more enthusiasm than what was probably necessary. Amy wore a satisfied grin as she chuckled back at his reaction. There was comfort in knowing that he could touch her without harm. Metal gave her hand another soft press before pulling back and watching as she slipped away. He followed her hand back down as it met the other in her lap. She knit her fingers together nervously, but the smile didn’t leave her face.

“Anyway, big day today,” she sighed dreamily. “Sonic’s picking me up for this spy thing real soon. Wish me luck!” Warmth radiated from her cheeks as she thought about her goal for the day.

Metal was intrigued at her excitement. Could she really be that elated just about going on this mission?

Unable to keep her excitement to herself, Amy continued. “It’s been a good day so far. You liked your gift, which is such a relief, and this morning, I drew this!” She pulled a tarot card from her pocket. “This is The Fool! I know the name seems silly, but this card is telling me to take a risk in order to embark on a new adventure. Isn’t that exciting? I think it’s a good omen for today.”

The Fool. Amy was so animated, it must have been important to her. He echoed her excitement with a melodic set of beeps. Still, Metal couldn’t help but think of someone else when he heard the card’s name.

As if he was summoned, the doorbell then rang, followed immediately by a quick knock on the door. Anyone could guess who the impatient visitor was even if they didn’t already know Sonic was on his way over.

“Coming!” Amy lept from her comfortable sitting place, practically sprinting to answer the door. She smoothed down her fluttering dress in anticipation.

Metal didn’t move. The mere thought of his rival sent his engine into overdrive. He brooded as Amy opened the door, determined to remain calm for Amy’s sake, but unable to do much about the intense whirring produced by his body when he heard Sonic’s voice.

“Hey, Ames. You ready?” Sonic leaned against the outer door frame with an arm tucked behind his back.

“Hey! Yeah, I’m ready when you are,” she beamed.

“Could you take care of these first?” He brought a small bouquet of blue and white forget-me-nots out from behind his back. The wildflowers poked up the tops of stems long and short, irregularly arranged together in a little bundle. It wasn’t the neatest bouquet, but they were lively and pretty nonetheless. Amy gasped at the sight of the flowers, catching Metal’s attention.

“Oh, Sonic! They’re so pretty!” She took the modest little arrangement in her hands lovingly, examining the bulbs. “Thank you! Where did you get these?”

“Found a patch of ‘em on the way here. Cute, huh?”

“I love them!” she nodded giddily.

“That’s not all. Brought you a present- Check this out.”

Sonic dangled a small paper in front of her face. It was dated almost 9 years back. Amy’s face lit up.

“Oh! Is that-”

“Yep!”

He turned it over, and Amy was face-to-face with the likeness of her younger self. The photo showed Amy, Sonic, Tails and Knuckles around a cake. It was from her 10th birthday party.

With her free hand, Amy took hold of the little memory and sighed. “How funny! I thought this was lost for good.”

Sonic nodded. “I found it while cleaning out Tail’s lab. Guess it fell off the ol’ pin board behind a bunch of old junk.”

“You were cleaning?” Amy stepped aside so he could come in.

He came in past the doorway. “Well, you know, with his wrist and all…” Sonic trailed off with a shrug. “Anyway, thought you’d want to keep it.”

“I’m gonna stick it on the fridge! Oh- and let me put these in some water.”

Metal listened as she invited Sonic in and took care of the flowers. Amy slipped into the kitchen, immediately pinning the photo under a magnet on her fridge and disappearing under the counter in search of a vase.

Metal did his best to avoid eye contact as Sonic approached nonchalantly.

“Hey, Metal. What’s up?”

Aside from the whirring of Metal’s engine, he didn’t answer.

Sonic took a step back. “Whoa, sounds like you’re about to blast off...”

The smug greeting alone could have sent Metal after him, but he sat still in silence. Or he would have been silent, were it not for his unruly engine and its ever intensifying burring. His fingers creaked together. He could feel his body involuntarily cranking up the heat.

“Uh, you alright?” Sonic repeated.

Amy peeked back at them from over the counter as she stuffed the shaggy stems into a narrow vase. It was difficult to ignore Metal’s demeanor, his engine practically screeching now, body language no more reassuring. “Metal?” His red-hot gaze shot back at her eerily and her own eyes grew wide. “Do you… need some fresh air, maybe?”

The surprise in her expression snapped Metal back to reality. The glow from his eyes dimmed to its usual state and his body relaxed, fans powering down, as if it were his way of exhaling. He lifted his frame from the couch with a nod. There was some concern in her soft smile as he approached her.

“You ok?”

His eyes shifted back at Sonic, who was now looking to the front door and tapping his foot impatiently. Turning back to Amy, Metal crossed his arms as if to ask her the same question.

“Oh, don’t worry about us- we’ll be fine.” Amy laid a gentle hand on his tense shoulder, feeling it give as he seemed to relax.

Then, pointing to the fridge, she practically yanked him into the kitchen by the arm. “Before we go, take a look at this!”

But he was too fixated on her grip to see where she was pointing.

Amy clicked her tongue. “Look~!” she repeated, pulling him further.

Metal’s gaze snapped to the photo stuck on the fridge.

“It’s from when I turned 9! A year after we met. Neat, huh?”

Suddenly captivated, Meta straightened his body. He approached the fridge, vision fixed on the crinkled little photo. He plucked it from under the magnet to take a closer look.

The girl in the photo looked just as she did the day Metal met her; the day he was activated. He could picture her behind those bars, chatting with him. It was strange- he remembered her perfectly without the photo, but it was like seeing a different side of her. She beamed back at him from the picture with a wide smile. short hair and a childish gap between her teeth. There was never an opportunity to see her that way back then. Not for Metal.

“Ah, I forgot I’d just lost one of my baby teeth that day,” Amy blushed giddily. “How embarrassing!” She didn’t actually seem all that embarrassed.

Metal took a moment to scan the rest of the photo. Sonic looked just like he did the day they met, cocky grin and all. It looked like he was the one holding the camera, facing the lens back at the group. Then his eyes wandered to the cake. It was a small whitish cake messily slathered in cream and topped with strawberries and 9 candles. There was some writing in the frosting.

Happy Birthday, ROSIE!

Rosie? He couldn’t recall hearing that name.

Metal turned to Amy, pointing inquisitively at the cake in the photo. She immediately knew what his question was.

“Oh! The boys used to call me Rosie…” There was something between a smile and a grimace on her face, clearly much more embarrassed by the nickname than the photo.

Sonic laughed from the living room. “Rose the Rascal! Man, we were so mean!”

“Pff, yeah.” Amy took the photo from Metal and pinned it back to the fridge, the magnet now stuck right over the cake. “Guess we all grew out of it,” she concluded. “Anyway!”

Amy turned on her heels and walked past Metal and out of the kitchen. His eyes followed her as she addressed Sonic and led him through the front door.

“Just lay low while we’re out, kay?” Amy called to Metal, pulling open the door.

Metal caught Sonic’s quick, perplexed glance from Amy and then to Metal as she waved good-bye and the door closed behind them.

Amy let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Shaking off the embarrassment, and glad to have avoided any conflict between her rivalrous friends, she aimed her attention back at Sonic.

“So, do you have that spy thing?”

Sonic cleared his throat. “Yeah.”

He pulled a tiny gadget out from his glove. “No way Eggman will spot this. Apparently it’s some sorta microphone.” The paper-thin listening device was no larger than a dime. “Since we’re supposed to stick this thing under his desk or something, maybe you oughta handle it.”

“Probably,” Amy said, plucking it from his grasp before he could carelessly toss it to her. She barely had time to tuck it away before she’d been swept off her feet without warning, carried away without another word by her sprinting companion.

Inside Amy’s home meanwhile, the pathetic little bunch of flowers sat in a vase upon the kitchen counter, all crookedly poking out of the vessel. Metal focused on them bitterly.

Distracting himself, Metal gathered up the gift wrap from earlier into the bag for disposal. He watched his fingers as he did, impressed at the craftsmanship of the gloves that allowed him to complete the task neatly, rather than making scrap of the delicate tissue. It felt slightly unnatural, the change in his usual grip. He glanced out the back door at the lush landscape dotted with flowers. It was so much more vibrant, more pleasant to look at since he’d arrived. An improvement.

Somehow, Amy received Sonic’s messy bouquet with all the same enthusiasm as she had Metal’s perfect bunch some weeks back. Still, he supposed, he could do better now.

Metal tossed the gift wrap and set his sights on the lush landscape beyond the back door. Surely Amy could spare another vase when she returned.

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sooo that was another 10 months without updates ackjhasdf oopsss

yeah so since my last update i’ve:

sold my house gone house hunting found the house of my dreams & had my offer accepted... packed up most of my belongings and moved them into storage gone on a very nice trip through greece & italy LOST the dream house due to legal bullshit (i am still devastated tbh) returned home and immediately packed the rest of my things & moved(not into my dream house :I) had to go house hunting... again idk make like 5 offers. none of them were accepted found another place finally, bought it, started renovations (still ongoing) moved into the new place partially got accepted into art school!! (this is my third degree askjdfh) got offered an adjunct teaching role (accepted cause ya girl broke) gone on a little trip to turkey for xmas (it was v nice) started the new job (i have 2 now :I) started art school (bad timing) CONTINUED RENOVATING (i still don’t have a kitchen man) and more renovating i mean it never ends FINALLY moved the rest of my things into the new place (6 months later) and. kept renovating. that’s 3 moves for y’all keeping count

yeah so i’ve had a rough few months lmao BUT it’s summer break, i don’t teach right now, & I’m taking very few classes. my day job is also a lot less busy this time of year. i plan to spend the summer renovating the rest of the place, building a proper kitchen, and hopefully writing & working on my graphic design degree

oh and i get married in august c: AAAAAAAAA

ANYWAY hope you all have had a much less stressful few months & enjoy the chapter. next chapter is actually written & i’m just editing it for next week (knock on wood)

love u guys, thank you, besos, BYE

#it's back again!#metal sonic #amy rose #metamy #sth #unfamiliar #ch 14

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good-night-doll · 2 years

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Tis the season~

•Part 3–Ice Skating

: As the Christmas season creeps around the corner, you can't help but want to show your girlfriend all the different activities there are to the season other than decapitating the jolly fat man.

Word count: 900

Warnings: None

Tis the season to appreciate the outdoor activities alongside the indoor ones too. An activity like ice skating- for instance.

The ice rink has been my best friend growing up, a place where I would go to find all my best and worst memories. It has an irreplaceable place in my heart as it's always been my comfort zone, a place I'd go to cry and a place I'd go to cure my boredom for a while.

I've missed the place as it's been years now since I last visited, and with new journeys comes new people- like Wednesday, who I've dragged out the house on this freezing night to skate around with me before it closes in a few hours time.

"I really don't see the point" Wednesday scoffs, standing by the entrance to the rink- her hands grasping the railing beside her for that extra support.

I roll my eyes, breathing in a steady deep breath to calm my adrenalized nerves from overpowering me. I gleefully look out over the sight with a recalling mind- a sense of pride washing over my top layer of skin.

The smooth, oblong ice rink has a low wall with a metal railing atop that outlines its perimeter. Street lights illuminate the streets around the rink- looking like spot lights for the criminals looking to snatch any last minute grub at a conveniently unguarded house.

Snow-dusted trees and snowdrifts litter the local park just across the road. There's a restaurant on the other end of the park- lit up in golden colours of rich red and fine green to match the festive season's colour palette. Skyscrapers stand in the mist of night just beyond- barely recognisable if you weren't to squint.

But the most exciting part- the few people skating the night away around the rink. It just shows unity in an odd but seeable way, and it has me smiling silently at the view.

Memories from childhood seem so real now, almost so real that I could just about taste the bitter cold sensation I would get when our local Hockey team would lose because a key player was in a world of their own- just enjoying their time on the rink. But did I ever care? No. I cared solely for the rink- not the small flimsy trophy we would've received back in the early years of the 2000s up until the later ones of 2010.

My parents never really gave my addiction much thought, especially since there's a long line of yetis in my bloodline.

How the bright lights around the rink tormented me as I messed up the teams streak with my joy for purely just skating- how the local mothers and fathers would yell at me to do better and how my own teammates and coach looked down upon me. It all seems so hazed now.

"Do we have to do this? Why can't we go home and just bask in the warmth of its confinements?"

"Because" I pause to look at Wednesday, her face sour with a scarce demeanour "this is special to me"

Without another word, I take Wednesday's hand and slowly but surely lead her into the icy terrain. Her ankles wobble from the new balance required, her hands grasping my snow glistened coat tightly and her bottom lip tucked so delicately between her snow-like teeth.

"We'll take it slow, okay?" Wednesday only nods to this, complying with a heavy heart as I drag her along the oblong ring that forms the rink.

The blades on our skates cut along the ice, leaving trails and indents in the frozen over floor. Very faint chatter off to the sides are evident and even the faint music playing from the speakers around apply that Christmas-like feeling as they place all sorts of December hits.

"How do you feel?" I ask, sensing Wednesday's graduate build up of confidence.

"Better…"

"Want me to try and let go?"

"I, uh-" she evidently gulps, looking at her own feet "okay"

I slowly release Wednesday, allowing her to slowly separate from her only beam of support- me.

Her knees are bent, hands flimsy by her sides as she struggles to keep herself up. Her eyes are still glued to her bladed feet with black skates- her braids frozen still against the cold weather as they stand like icicles.

However, just as she tries to stand tall, she loses her footing and falls forward- causing her to fall straight onto me. Luckily though, I was able to stabilise her fall before we had both fallen to the hard floor beneath us- causing us to become some twisted meat pretzel on the white ice.

Her gloved hands squeeze into my arms as she regains recognition, looking up at me to confirm she isn't yet on the floor. And when she registers my smiling face, her own shifts and contorts into swirls of mixed pinks and reds. Even the very tips of her ears are heated with the warm colour.

"You okay?" I ask, staring obviously at the blushing girl as she cautiously turns away.

"We're going home" she mumbles back, turning as she grabs onto the railings that are a good five feet or so away- shuffling herself over over the exit.

I laugh watching her as she gradually makes her way to our locker- face ever red and eyes glaring at anyone staring.

#Wednesday #wednesday x reader #wednesday x fem!reader #christmas imagine #imagine #ice skating imagine #wednesday addams #wednesday imagine #wednesday addams imagine #wednesday addams x reader #ice skating with Wednesday

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cmrosens · 1 year

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Dark Folklore & Gothic Horror Short Films - Interview with Lucy Rose

Lucy Rose is an award-winning writer/director for screen and prose/nonfiction writer with an interest in gothic, girlhood, horror, and literary fiction. Her fiction and nonfiction have been published in Dread Central, Mslexia, and more.

Lucy is represented by Cathryn Summerhayes at Curtis Brown (Books)

Other enquiries to hello [@] lucyrosecreative [.] co [.] uk

Listen to the interview here/on your preferred podcast provider (search + follow Eldritch Girl: Weird Stuff and Nonsense) Read the transcript off tumblr here or here

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Tip me if you can and you like this interview, it helps keep the podcast going!

Interview Transcript

CMR: Hello! Welcome back to Eldritch Girl! This is really exciting because we’ve got Lucy Rose who is a filmmaker, and we’re going to discuss the indie horror short, She Lives Alone. Lucy, would you like to introduce yourself?

LR: Hello, I am Lucy, I’m a filmmaker based in the northeast and I am the writer-director of She Lives Alone. She Lives Alone was such an amazing fun project to be able to work on. The development process was really fun. I worked really closely with my producer to explore the rural landscape of the place I grew up, which is a place in Cumbria. And I really just kind of wanted to bring a small facet of our Celtic regions and that tiny little culture to the screen and combine that with my love of Gothic horror and ghost stories and all the stories basically that I heard in Cumbria growing up that used to keep me up at night forever.

She Lives Alone has gone to some really cool festivals and it’s gone to some BAFTA and Oscar qualifying festivals, which is really intimidating but very cool. And then it ended its journey by winning best runner under 100 K at the Northeast Arts awards and getting picked up by Alter, which was the most amazing surprize in the whole world, because now it kind of finally gets to see its audience after a virtual festival runs so that’s lovely.

CMR: that’s so exciting I’m really happy, the whole film is about 15 minutes long and it is available on YouTube and so I’m gonna play a little bit of it I’m really excited about, which is kind of at the end, so I mean spoilers, but it is a ghost story, so you can kind of – I mean you can’t see it, you can just hear the audio. But we want to talk a little bit about the folklore behind it and a little bit of what’s going on, so we’re going to start from 11:41 so you get a sense of the music and the dialogue – it’s very much a monologue, isn’t it? A lot of it is a monologue because well… she lives alone.

[Laughter]

LR: Yeah.

CMR: it’s really dark and atmospheric and I think there’s maybe like two other characters in the whole film, which is like you know really cool. Okay, so. Let’s see how this let’s see how this works.

[clip plays from 11mins 46secs in: an adult woman with a low voice and Cumbrian accent is speaking. The line is “Bury you in earth, bury you in mud as thick as bark” over and over in hushed, desperate tones, with the tense score, whistling wind, and metallic clinking. There is a sharp scream and gasps at the end as the music swells ominously.]

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CMR: Actually going to pause it there because that’s like a really good bit. I think the coolest image of that is the iron nail through the Bible through her hand which I was seeing as an exorcism ritual or part of an exorcism ritual, and can you tell us a little bit about that element and the little bit of dialogue that she’s got as a kind of mantra that is “Bury you in earth, bury you in mud as thick as bark”?

LR: And so I grew up in like the tiniest, tiniest village like. It may be had like six or seven houses. And it was so remote so if you wanted to go anywhere to like a shop you’re looking at least 25 minutes’ drive, and so the sense of isolation and because of that, like the Community, and what the Community felt like, and how we as people kind of used storytelling as a method within our like our tiny, tiny little culture that again – seven houses – I basically took things that I’d heard in my childhood and sort of morphed them and manifested them into this film.

I used to live by this woman who I will literally remember for the rest of my life, who was very superstitious, an extremely superstitious woman, and she was just the most incredible person and so like unashamedly weird. She was just so in touch with herself, which I think is so difficult in a small community, to be able to just like live your weirdness and like not care what people think of you, because everybody has opinions in those tiny little tight knit groups.

And she used to mess around with all sorts, but she you know she taught me like what ouija boards were and what voodoo dolls were, and she was really, really like spiritual and she often talked about like how connected to the earth and to the planet she felt was like a human, and I’d sometimes visit her after school. And I’d sit in a kitchen, while she was cooking dinner, for I was burned, and she just seeing these like really weird songs that she just made up herself like these little folk tunes. I just pulled phrases and lines and words that she was saying, because she did – she – I think she was just sort of… in hindsight, as a grown woman, I think I see her loneliness now, and how that connection to the earth and to nature was something that really, really kept her from going insane.

And it was a sort of gravity to her and that’s kind of what I wanted to give to Maud was this sense of like you might be without a person or people but you’re not on your own, and you can always rely on different spiritual things to sort of find your centre and in terms of the Bible, the nail going through her hand, I think it’s really metaphorical but I really just wanted to talk about the power that was kind of harnessing her, and the struggle between how her mum was treating her. So, for context, people [listening] if you haven’t seen it, Maud lives alone that’s the “she” in She Lives Alone. Her mum’s just passed away and she’s basically like in this normal grieving period and she begins to realize that she’s haunted by the spirit of her mother and her mother left her one thing which was the Bible, and it was because the mother always thought she was a wicked girl.

Basically, at the end film she casts out the spirit of her mum by bonding herself to this Bible, like physically binding herself to it, and I think it’s in part a metaphor about… I think in terms of discussing themes like trauma, like that trauma is always going to be a part of you. You can’t separate them, like, they’re together, and that’s horrible, but I don’t think that that’s a bad thing. I think it’s like an acceptance that like it’s just one of the bags you’re carrying with you in your life, and one of the items that you keep with you, and it doesn’t make you an awful person, it’s just something you’ve got in you.

And in a more sort of physical sense like, for me, like one of the staples of rural life is cast iron. You see it everywhere, you see it made making the gates, making the beds, making the keys, the locks, everything.

So I think it’s just bringing that industry and that sense of objects having a space in our community, and it sounds ridiculous, but one of the other things is the red stone and you constantly see some stone in in Cumbria, it’s everywhere you go and all the houses are made out of it.

And everything is red and orange and rust and copper coloured so it’s just one of those things about like bringing the identity of the land and the place and the people, whether that’s the minerals, the materials and the industry and embedding it in the world of the film, so that it feels real and also acknowledging the spirituality of the place so like, the folk song that is in the film…

Acknowledging that however small the culture is, it doesn’t mean it’s not important, and like that folklore, I think is a hugely, hugely important staple of that place and I just really wanted to like bring that to life in this in this film.

I think it works really well like and I also like the detail when she draws, um, so she has the Bible in the palm of your hand and then she draws a diamond on the front of the Bible around the Cross. Is that from something or is that a detail that organically came about, or is that based in folklore?

LR: And so, one of the things that came from, that sort of like rhombus square shape, is the woman who used to live next to me – again this incredibly spiritual woman who I, like, everything I learned about our tiny culture I learned from this person.

And, and she used to make these like… they were like twigs that you’d like put into squares and then you put different twines around them.

You know one day it’d be like fishing twine that she … her husband used to fish a lot, so she’d take some of his fishing twine, and she’d make these little rhombus shapes, I can’t do it like that. [shows me with her fingers in a rhombus shape]

And, and she put little flowers in them and she used to just leave them around house, I was never quite sure what they were, but she always used to call them wishing hexes.

She’d just leave them around and they were to bring good fortune and it was really beautiful, it’s really beautiful.

CMR: Oh that’s really interesting I like that melding of that kind of folk tradition and then Christianity and then like, different spiritualities is that you get kind of melded in a place like that.

LR: And I find that that’s a truth though, isn’t it, I think a lot of people find spirituality and no one person’s version of any faith is the same, and that’s something that’s actually quite beautiful and that’s born of our experiences.

CMR: Yes, and I think it’s a flavour of folk Christianity as well because, like I think it’s become… from outside perspectives I think it’s a very homogenous religion or a very homogenous spirituality and I think a lot of that is due to, you know, perceptions of modern evangelicalism and that kind of thing. But I think you’re right, in different enclaves people still do have their own traditions.

And it’s really – it’s really cool to see that because it’s a period drama as well, this film, so it’s linking back to a kind of earlier age and an earlier kind of expression of Christianity and folk Christianity, but also, I mean, did you have a year that it was set in, or was it just general?

LR: So I imagine it’s set in mid 1850s but, like the year is quite vague.

But I think like one of… actually, speaking of time, one of the really fun aspects of the film is that where it’s based has such an interesting relationship with time. Cumbria, when you look into its background, it’s wild. It’s been constantly fought over, so its identity is like a complete mishmash of different cultures from like Norway to Roman to old Old English, to everything. There’s Germanic in there, and it’s absolutely insane.

And so I think that sense of time, and even though it’s a period drama, one of the things we tried to create was the sense of timelessness to it so it almost exists in its own pocket?

CMR: Yeah.

LR: And that was like really crucial for us because we just wanted… What we kind of imagined when we sat and we thought of as a creative team, we were like maybe this is what it felt like because it was so disconnected and its culture was so constantly changing and evolving and adapting new ideas from like people who came and left or people who conquered and then were defeated and… yeah.

CMR: I think that works really well in the film because you’ve got it centred only on two locations which is her cottage which is miles from anywhere so a friend from the village actually comes to visit her, but you never see the village and you don’t see it through her eyes, you don’t see it through her friends eyes, you don’t see any other people at all. you’re in, and you have a sense that the village is quite a walk away so she has to travel to get in there, however long that takes and it’s just this idea of… there’s no civilization that kind of thing, and even the civilization, that there is it’s obviously not urbanized and it’s obviously like quite far from any kind of urban centre so you’ve already got that kind of thing going on, and the cottage itself is this is where the horror is. That’s the locus of the domestic horror, because the spirit of the mother is haunting her in the house.

And so the other place you see her is just on the moors or you know that ring of standing stones isn’t it that she’s in.

LR: In yeah. The standing stones were actually based on a real place. We really, really wanted to shoot in the place, but we couldn’t because it’s an active spiritual site and it just wouldn’t be ethical to shoot there.

But the standing stones are based on a real stone circle called Long Meg and her Daughters.

And, which is place I used to visit all the time, and when you go now it’s just the most beautiful place, it’s in the middle of nowhere, there’s like ribbons in the trees, bells, and it’s just stunning, but I mean that sense of isolation is like. I think, with it being a short film, you can, from a boring technical perspective, you can explore those worlds, but I wouldn’t want to do that anyway, like I think it’s I really like just as a personal preference to how I approach things, again, going back to that word like pockets, I really like to capture like small pockets of hidden histories, quiet tragedies that don’t necessarily get written down in the history books, because they’re not deemed important enough to write down.

And when we think about period dramas which we think of like glitzy giant polished glossy manor houses, sweeping romances, like you know, especially with like the massive Bridgerton fad that’s going around at the minute, you don’t think of the real people and the very real lives and consequences and events and you know, there’s hidden pockets of laughter with one person to another and realizing that ‘oh my God that’s my that’s my partner and I’m going to spend my life with them’ or, you know, ‘I hate my sister because she’s the worst person in the world’, but they had to share a bed, because they had no money.

It’s those like really tiny moments that I tried to catch on to because they’re just not explored enough, but I think it really serves horror because horror’s everything we fear as a society.

And I think you know, I think, in some ways, like rural communities, the way that they’re treated within our society is odd. You often hear them referred to as sheep shaggers or whatever, or like farmers, and that comes with the added like a sort of thing of like well they’re not clever enough to have an opinion on this or that, but then on the flip side, though those communities are also beloved for their influence on things like literature, from like every genre you know from you Beatrix Potter to you know, everyone else, so it’s a really – I think that’s sort of push and pull, and those two opposites can create real conflict, which is why it serves horror so well, because you kind of have to address those conflicts within the subtext of whatever you’re making.

Can’t remember where I was going with that. Just monologuing about justice.

[Laughter]

CMR: Yes, but that’s it isn’t it, because you’ve got like – rural communities do have those polarized perspectives, that they either idealized and it’s like this pastoral idyll before urbanization when everything was perfect, or exploited because of the natural minerals you know, so you’ve got things like the South Wales coalfield, which is where I grew up, and there’s huge chunks taken out of the landscape there’s massive scars on the mountains from the quarries.

And then dying communities exist because they were only there for the mines and now there’s no mines and there’s no reason for those communities to exist.

And people are like, well the community just shouldn’t exist, you should all just go somewhere else. Where are they going to go? You know, I get very annoyed about that because, yes, it’s you know, there are communities that exist and they have their own identities, they have their own deep roots in that place and that sense of place both traps them there and anchors them there at the same time.

I think you get that in this film as well, that sense of both entrapment and anchorage comes across in like she won’t leave the cottage because you haven’t got anywhere else to go. Like, that’s all she’s got, she’s not going to… what are you going to do, move to the city? With what money?

LR: You know it’s true it’s I mean everything you’ve just said it like chef’s kiss, by the way, five stars.

I was just like, yes.

I would listen to a podcast just about that, but you’re so right, and I think you know, I was talking about this.

But I think it’s that split thing we have as humans, where our bodies want to be connected to nature but that’s what we want in our bodies, in our bones, in our fibres, but our brains are like … I want capitalism!! So you’re stuck in the middle, like I don’t know where to go, and I’ve already said this, [laughs] the middle ground is Animal Crossing, because you get that like relaxed beautiful countryside, but you’re doing it through capitalism.

[Laughter]

CMR: yeah it’s difficult as well to see it from a 19th century working class perspective which obviously we are so divorced from now that we have to see it through the filters and the lenses that we bring to it, because everyone sees things through the lens of their own culture, whether you think you do or not, right, so it’s a really interesting exercise in just looking at a little bubble, a little bit, like a pocket of time.

And, and what I love about it as well, is that that quiet domestic drama that we haven’t seen, but you start to fill in the gaps for yourself, because a lot of it is the silence and the things that she is not saying, and particularly in the dialogue when her friend comes to visit her, and it’s like Oh, where have you been and she’s like Oh, you know I’ve been here, living my life. Except she hasn’t been, because she’s been stuck in the house on her own, her mum’s dead, and then I think that’s when you get the sense that that space of grief and absence is the time when she’s actually starting to realize how shitty her mother was to her.

When you’re going through it and living it and you don’t have any other options but to stay in your situation, you can’t go anywhere because there’s nowhere to go and you have no means to go anywhere and everyone in the village in a community like that anchors you to that community, because they’re the only people that you know, but also you feel like you have these senses of duty and responsibility to your mother. But that sense, as well, is imposed upon you by other people who think that you do [have a responsibility/duty], right.

[People] that you’ve grown up with, and so you have to answer to everybody in that community based on your choices as well, and she obviously doesn’t want to do that later on.

Not for any bad reason but it’s just she’s like seems like a very introverted kind of character, who doesn’t have that ability potentially to stand up for herself. And you kind of get the impression that’s very much the mother’s fault.

But yeah, and this idea that she’s wicked as the mother is constantly telling her that she’s wicked and then at the end you get that realization of “you always said I was wicked but it wasn’t me it was you”, and the only time she could have said that is when her mother is dead.

LR: I know it’s sad isn’t it.

CMR: Yeah. Just crying here [laughs] like oh my God.

LR: Yeah. It’s like justice but it’s not the justice she deserves. I think. And that’s… which is what makes it horror, and it’s also what makes it true, right, like it’s so sad, and I think it’s – do you know, one of the things I always talk about this, but I think it’s so, so true and I think if we all just looked at this and acknowledged it, it would really change the way we think about how we express ourselves as humans.

I think, obviously, as a culture, as a society, as a civilization, we’ve picked up bits and pieces of our history and we’ve those are the bits that survived that’s what we are now, and I think the bedrock of what we’re doing at the minute is extremely Victorian, which is why I call it a Gothic piece, even though it’s not got the big manor house and, like, the two orphaned children.

But I think that’s why I call it a Gothic piece, because I think in terms of what it’s trying to say about us as humans now, like we are most directly linked to that time where Capitalism became everything, like mass production, science, medicine, industrialism, all of these new things that started changing the way we experience the world.

Things that kickstarted technology to a new level, things that opened the door to expression, conversation, like newspapers were selling more, books were selling more, people were experiencing new perspectives whether they liked those or disliked them, you know, and I think it’s that thing of expression, like now, when you put a parallel to that.

And you talked about like how quiet she was how she never said says what she thinks, and I think, you know, like especially like we didn’t make that film in lockdown. That was a pre COVID film, it was written years before COVID and it is just by chance that, like, everything that we experience when it comes to human expression was just absolutely amplified during the COVID lockdowns. So like, when we look at how we communicate our lives, especially on things like social media, I know it sounds corny, but we never say what we really think.

I think, you know, when people are getting… even when people appear to be saying what they think when they’re being reactionary on Twitter or getting triggered by an opinion and saying something because they just need to get the anger out, like I think they’re not saying what they actually think because they’re reacting to something that’s triggering them and they’re not talking about the trigger. They’re talking about why they’re angry about the thing that they’ve been triggered by.

And likewise, on the other side of that spectrum we’ve got like you know people who thrived in lockdown: I’m doing this, I’m doing this wellness masterclass, but really we were all struggling you know, and I think that’s what Maud’s experiences is just that, like, a journey of learning to express herself, learning to get the words out, the real words, the ones she’s actually thinking and not just what she’s been told is acceptable to put out there and to let out of her mouth, and you know, I think that that really links to the Gothic because it’s all about you know repressed desire, whether that desire is for like a person or expression, you know.

CMR: Yeah definitely and I think…Yeah there’s so much, I mean that there’s that kind of sense of Gothic isolation as well, like we talked a lot about that and also like the… I guess the fracturing of your identity and the rediscovery of your identity, which Maud kind of goes through on this really short journey, but it’s a very intense journey that we kind of go on with her and you’ve got that sense of that really intense time of grief and coming to terms with, not just the death of her mother, but also grieving for potentially the person that she could have been.

LR: yeah.

CMR: Which she’s only just coming to terms with, and that’s also kind of like a haunting for Maud as well, that kind of the you know, that the spirit of the mother is what we decide is haunting her and then at the end is like the reveal of the you know the actual spirit itself that you see, just very kind of Woman in Black-esque which I love.

But you also get like this… I love the fact also that she was also in mourning dress, the mother and presumably you know her husband’s dead and that’s why it’s just her and her daughter but you get this dour woman who was sunk in her own grief and that has been haunting Maud also, like her mother’s emotional absence, you know, through her life.

But what’s actually haunting Maud isn’t just the mother.

It’s a lot of things.

And so you get that kind of rejection and you know that that she tries to reject all of that and bind herself to something positive, and cast out that spirit, but it’s not easy to do and I keep coming back to The Babadook in my head because it’s something that you can’t get away from.

LR: Yeah.

CMR: The babadook as a metaphor for grief, you can kind of lock it up somewhere in a room and look at it and kind of acknowledge it’s there and make sure that it doesn’t hurt anyone else, and that you don’t… you know, you don’t lash out and you don’t let it escape and damage or fracture relationships, and you do that by acknowledging its presence and dealing with it in a mature way, and by communicating with other people about it. Otherwise it gets in the way of your relationships. Which, for me, was what that film was about, in particular, between the mother and son [in The Babadook].

Here it’s Maud. Almost as if there’s like a hint at the end that she doesn’t succeed in that, because it almost overpowers her. So I’m going to spoil it a bit, but I think these aren’t spoilers, these are more like reasons for you to watch the film.

[Laughter]

I think if I could explain the whole film and then you wouldn’t want to watch it, like, I don’t understand you.

[Laughter]

So yeah. So there’s a bit… so after she’s sort of nailed her hand to the Bible, the nail then comes out of her hand, and it sort of levitates, and it’s almost like the iron is… it’s almost like a rejection of her or a rejection of what she’s trying to do, that, that bond doesn’t work.

And that’s kind of like, oh is she a which you know, because that sign of cold iron not being compatible with the person of a witch or a fairy or something like that you know you’ve got that kind of link to it, which I thought was really cool, but you also have the mother standing there, the mother’s ghost is in the frame behind her where she can’t see it, but kind of looming over the proceedings, and you’ve got this sense of like what exactly is…[happening]?

Is the mother causing the rejection to happen, and is it the rejection this you know the physical rejection of the nail, but it’s that kind of… that [haunting/grief/trauma] isn’t going to be healed by a ritual.

LR: yeah.

CMR: That whole thing is not going to be healed by a moment in time. Even, no matter how grounded you are to the place you’re in, no matter how well thought out that ritual is, no matter how desperate you are, that is a process that is going to take years and she is always going to be haunted by numerous layers of things that have come out as a result of her relationship with her mother, so, in a sense, her mother is always going to be there, whether her spirit is physically present or not.

And that’s kind of the end of the film, it is very ambiguous and quite chilling, because you get that sense that it’s not – it’s not over, it’s not going to be over and that Maud’s haunting is kind of something she’s going to have to live with – or not – and that’s… that’s the difficulty of living with grief isn’t it, that for me that was very kind of relatable and very powerful and I really appreciated the whole tone of it, and I was like oh God yeah that was very upsetting as well, really upsetting to think about.

But I think that’s like you say there’s not a lot of space in a lot of kind of glitzy period dramas that are more about the romance and the upper classes, to look at working class tragedy, and you know, the ordinary people and those pockets of normal domestic drama, and how they deeply impact someone.

LR: For sure. I think more like more biggest tragedy is that it’s… You know, the ghost is never going to go, she’s just going to learn how to live around it, and you did that thing, that’s kind of how that grief and that trauma works, and I think another thing that’s quite sad about these experiences, is that, like, you can look at something ugly, whether that’s an experience or person and it’s really hard to accept that person as a complex human being with their own troubles, because I think one of the hardest things to admit, and it’s something you touched on, actually, is like, when you think about the mother’s character and how she’s in mourning dress, she’s lost her husband, she’s got a lot going on in her mind, and I think one of the things that Maud can look at is the fact that, like it doesn’t make it okay, and it doesn’t make it acceptable what this woman has done to her, but like pain recycles into pain so often. It’s horrible and I wish it didn’t do that, but it does, it punches down and it punches down, and it keeps going, and keeps going, until someone strong enough to go, Nope, not anymore, and it’s so hard.

Whether Maud does that remains to be seen at the moment because I think it’s that’s another journey. Just looking at it is the first step isn’t it, and then dealing with it in in all its complexity, in everything that it carries with it that’s like a whole other beast like it’s just so much.

But I think you know, like in terms of like the working class aspect like one of the things that just became so apparent to me when I was doing my family tree. So I grew up in Cumbria, but my family are all from Yorkshire and I realized, none of us really had left Yorkshire since the 1500s, that’s what I discovered, and we’d always been in like areas like Sheffield and Huddersfield.

Well, I think what’s so sad is when you look at some of the family trees on like all of these research websites, they have photographs, they have items, they have diary entries they have pieces of those people.

And I still think I’m lucky, a lot of people don’t have names, but I just have a list of names. I don’t have church records, I have a couple of sentences that I found.

And I just think that’s so awful that like, we’ve deemed that some people are worthy of being remembered, some people are not, I just find that like horrifying and that’s, you know, like, oh God.

CMR: yeah I taught a family history course a while back, and it was it’s really hard when you’ve got like very limited things to go on.

And one of those things is the access, which people I think take for granted now and don’t realize, but the accessibility of things like photographs.

You had to save up for those and maybe there was only one you know one shop in the town that was like three towns over so that’s a whole day of it and you have to take that day off work and you can’t take days off work because that’s not how it works.

If you’re running a farm you can’t just go off.

LR: yeah.

CMR: You know, never mind about the cows today, love, we’re having our photograph taken like.

LR: You can’t just book in some holiday.

CMR: yeah so it’s like it’s a very… It becomes a very lower middle class – aspiring middle class – kind of thing, but a very middle class kind of thing to have a photograph taken.

But also at least in Wales, you had to pay for a church service but you didn’t have to pay to have your relationship blessed on the church steps. So there was a lot of… so you won’t have parish records of those blessings for the relationship, because those relationships were not technically legally “marriage”.

LR: Wow.

CMR: So in Wales like I know somebody was doing his family tree, he’s retired and he was doing it as a thing you know, and he realized, he was the first legitimate child in about 200 years.

LR: Oh my gosh, that’s insane.

CMR: And the reason was that it was just too expensive for people to get married so they would that they used to do a thing, where they would take take on the name, Mrs., the epithet and say that they were Mrs Jones. But they never legally changed it and they never legally had the marriage certificate to prove that. They just had, you know, they just moved in with their partner took on Mrs as an epithet and then had the children and the children will have the husband’s name and everyone just worked around it as if they were married, and that that’s a lot more common than people think. It was, you know, a lot more widespread, especially if you were poor. And that’s why it’s really hard to find a lot of the records, but also just the accessibility of things like weddings, things like, you know, things that would leave that indelible mark.

LR: You know it’s honestly insane to me like I think it’s it’s just I think that’s where a lot of load my characters come from even like I don’t have any family called Maud, but I look at a name on a piece of paper, and all I have is letters, and I’m like, who are you? What did you look like? Was your hair brown like mine, did you have the same sense of humour as me? Like, just trying to really untangle something that you have no information on, and I think it’s just that…it’s just that thing of, like, there are so many humans on this planet, many like millions millions millions, and you know, and just trying to find a way to like honour every life, even if it was small, and I think… God what you’ve said blown my mind.

CMR: I’m not sure how prevalent it was in England or different parts of England, but um yeah that’s certainly the case in a particular area of Wales anyway.

[Takes a breath to get back on track!]

CMR: I wanted to talk about the aesthetic of it as well because you’ve got this it opens with that and see and see if it opens with her on her knees on the moors digging earth up. You use such a lot of muted colours and muted tones is that, like, was that a conscious decision from the standpoint of we want this to be Gothic and we want, we want it to look like this, or was that something organic or how did that kind of work out for you?

LR: And so I work super, super closely with my DP [Director of Photography], Lizzie Gilholme, she was amazing, I think she’s the best cinematographer in the world, I might be a little bit biased, but I do I think she’s incredible and so a lot of the time you give a script to a DP quite late on, but I literally from the conception of the very idea before it’s written down I WhatsApp Lizzie, and I’m like “Hey, I’ve got this idea, I want to know what you think”.

So she’s there from day dot and she, bless her, like she shouldn’t have to, she reads so many drafts and she really does see a project folder from like you know, bare bones to like the fully fleshed form that it ends up in.

And, but me and Lizzie like we talked for a really long time about how we wanted this film to look we watched loads and loads of different movies that we really loved.

But I think the main, in terms of like creating an aesthetic, building a world, like our main thing was like we want this to feel like it felt for Maud so.

The muted colours and the sort of like the mauves and the browns and the muted greens, like those are all colours she would have experienced and those are the colours of her world.

And even down to like how much light we use so this film it’s very dark like extremely dark and you’ve really got to watch what’s going on, but it’s because they didn’t have that much light. If you got up in the middle of the night you’d go to the embers of the fire, you’d light a single candle, and that’s all you had to see in the house, especially if you didn’t have gas lamps, so we really wanted to bring that sense of her world and her, her everyday experiences, in terms of what she saw what she felt.

Even the music, that was like… The woman I worked with was called Die Hexen who is an incredible Irish composer just has the most beautiful mind, and it was super important for me to go to find somebody who lived in a Celtic region, because obviously, Cornwall through Wales up through Ireland and then like at the top strip of England and Scotland, like those are the Celtic regions, and like I don’t want that piece of that culture to be lost on the film, so it’s really important to me, to find somebody from those regions.

Die was, you know, luckily she was like I really like this project, and I want to work with you and I was like, amazing, and the first thing I said to her was, I wasn’t super particular in terms of what I wanted. I didn’t send her any music I liked I was just like, this is what you need to know about this film. And I said it’s about trauma and I really want that to be present in the score.

But, most importantly, one of the main sounds that you hear in Cumbria is the sound of the Helm Wind, which is a specific type of wind crafted by the shape of the valleys.

And it’s this really high pitch whistle, but it is so strong it can like literally pull the roofs off of houses, it’s just fierce. And I just said to her that I want that, like I want that sense of like, it’s, it’s flowing past you, and you just have to keep yourself standing up.

And, and I mean she came back with the most incredible score that I’ve ever heard in my life, and I literally think I heard one note, and that was it, and then we were done, and I don’t – I don’t think that happens.

But um, you know there’s some – even in the quiet moments where like the score isn’t central to the scene, you hear that whistle. And that’s something that’s all the way through, and it is just that sense of creating Maud’s world.

I love the Gothic, and folklore, and I’m obviously influenced by those things, but it just so happens that they were central to Maud’s day-to-day existence, and that’s why it came through in those creative choices, because she demanded it to be that way, and I couldn’t say no.

CMR: I think it really works I love it, I think the music is so good, it really adds to the drama of it and also like it’s just got that right balance. It’s creepy but it’s yeah and that whistle tone-!

LR: It’s chilling.

CMR: Yeah, it is chilling yeah, it very much… yes, that sense of isolation and nature and just being buffeted and existing in this kind of world that she – because she’s very much on the cusp of that industrial world in the mid 1800s but also she’s embedded in the past as well, and like where you get that sense of the Standing Stones scene and the wild moors and that kind of thing, that she’s trapped by the past of the landscape as much as by her own past, as much as by her family’s history, and yeah I think that and the music just works so well with it and the colours and the, the, you know, just that sense of darkness.

LR: very dark very, very dark.

[Laughter]

CMR: I really loved it and I would recommend everyone watch it and I’m gonna put the link in the transcript so everyone can see it, I might actually embed it in the blog post so everyone can watch it.

Do you have anything that you want to plug while you’re here or any other projects that you’ve already made that you want to tell people about go for it.

LR: So I’m currently in post production my next film, which is definitely more identifiably Gothic with the big house, the big spooky house, creepy hallways and I’m really, really excited by it, it’s kind of honestly I’ve been working on this short film script for years so it’s really nice to see it actually exist and we’re really, really excited about it, where we’re on we’re really, really, I think we’re really close to picture lock it now, but my producer will slap me on the wrist for saying that.

It’s looking so, so good, we’re so fucking proud of it and and everybody who worked on it just worked so hard so I just they are, they are the best. Thank you if you’re listening to this.

But other than that, we’re developing our feature film as well, which is very …

CMR: [gasps and claps]

LR: I know and it’s somewhere between like She Lives Alone and, like the sort of more Gothic leaning “Taste”, which is the film that’s in post-production, so it’s kind of like a nice little lovechild between those two which I’m really, really excited about and it’s also based off a local folklore called the Croglin Vampire.

CMR: Oh, my God.

LR: I know, I’m really excited, so if anyone’s listening, please manifest like crazy, so that we can make it.

CMR: Is there a kickstarter any kind of… can anyone contribute or?

LR: No…

CMR: You’re doing it via grants and things right?

LR: Hopefully, yeah so. We’ve just finished a talent lab called Edinburgh Talent Lab Connects, which was a year long program with an amazing woman called Kate Leys, and also we got a mentor who was incredible.

And we’re hoping to move from treatment stage to draft stage next and it’s quite a slow process because with larger projects it just takes so much longer to really refine the story, but I think you’ll really like it, I hope you like it.

[Laughter]

CMR: I’m pretty sure that I will like it.

[Laughter]

LR: But other than that I’m just vibing you know, and manifesting like hell.

CMR: I think that’s enough though isn’t it. Like pre production and then a feature film is a hell of a lot of work.

Yeah I’m so happy I’m so excited for that. I can’t wait. So everyone watch the space. Go follow Lucy on Twitter.

LR: Please do, I post hilarious memes.

CMR: Yeah.

LR: Oh thank you so much for having me on, I’ve genuinely loved this conversation.

CMR: Feel free to come back anytime.

LR: I’ll be knocking on your door.

CMR: Obviously excited to watch the films that you’ve got coming out. Just really, really thrilled for you, so yeah lots of manifestation.

CMR: And that’s all we’ve got time for, so thank you very much for listening and we will see you again next week bye now.

LR: Bye!

#long reads #filmmaking #gothic horror #ghost movies #interview #lucy rose #creepy folklore #folklore #cumbria #dark folklore #Vimeo #Youtube

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aneetasingh · 7 months

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Same-Day Car Tour in Jaipur with India Trip Advisory Travel Agency

The Pink City, Jaipur, is a historical, architectural, and cultural gold mine. With its opulent palaces, bustling bazaars, and massive forts, Jaipur offers visitors an amazing trip into the heart of Rajasthan. The India Trip Advice Travel Company has a car tour of Jaipur that is available for the same day. It is specially planned for people who want to see the highlights of this regal city in a short amount of time.

Heading Out Early: Leaving Delhi

Your journey starts early in the morning as you leave Delhi in a cozy vehicle that India Trip Advice has supplied. To make the most of your time in Jaipur, you must rise early to ensure that you have enough time to see the city's attractions.

The majestic Amber Fort is the first stop.

Your first stop upon arriving in Jaipur should be the Amber Fort, a magnificent specimen of Rajput architecture. The fort, which is perched on a hill, provides stunning views of Maota Lake and the Aravalli Hills in the vicinity. While narrating tales of the emperors who once called these magnificent gates, courtyards, and palaces home, your guide takes you around them. Don't pass up the opportunity to see the Sheesh Mahal (Mirror Palace), which has brilliant mirror tiles covering the walls and ceilings.

Investigating Jantar Mantar and City Palace

The City Palace, a collection of gardens, courtyards, and buildings that showcase a fusion of Mughal and Rajput architecture, is the next stop on the schedule. Several museums displaying royal armor, weapons, and treasures are housed within the palace. The 18th-century astronomical observatory Jantar Mantar is only a short stroll from the City Palace. Astronomical observations are still conducted today using its enormous architectural devices.

Having Lunch at a Neighborhood Restaurant

Enjoy a well-earned lunch at one of Jaipur's traditional restaurants after a morning of touring. Savor the flavors of Rajasthani food, which is well-known for its flavorful breads and hearty curries.

The Remarkable Albert Hall Museum and Hawa Mahal

Visit the Hawa Mahal, also known as the "Palace of Winds," after lunch. It is renowned for its unusual five-story facade that resembles a honeycomb. With its 953 tiny windows, this architectural wonder was created so that royal ladies could watch street festivals without being noticed. The state's oldest museum, Albert Hall Museum, is located nearby and has a sizable collection of items that include paintings, rugs, ivory, stone, and metal sculptures that shed light on the history and culture of the area.

Purchasing and Free Time

Without visiting Jaipur's bustling markets, a trip there wouldn't be complete. Spend some time browsing the many products available at the neighborhood bazaars, which include pottery, handcrafted fabrics, and exquisite jewelry. This is the ideal occasion to purchase presents or mementos that encapsulate the essence of Rajasthan.

Trip Reverse: Returning to Delhi

With fond memories of the day's activities in Jaipur, your vehicle ride back to Delhi commences as the day comes to an end. The smooth journey provides a time to unwind and consider the fascinating history, breathtaking architecture, and lively culture you have encountered.

Why Select India Travel Tips for Your Tour of Jaipur?

Convenience & Comfort: Escape the bother of public transportation and travel in style with a private vehicle. Professional Advice: Reap the benefits of knowledgeable guides who vividly depict Jaipur's history and culture. Effective Itinerary: This tour makes the most of your time in Jaipur by covering the main sights in a single day. Personalized Experience: The tour offers a customized tour of the Pink City based on your preferences. In summary

India's Same-Day Car Tour of Jaipur For those who want to see Jaipur's splendour without having to commit to a long stay, Trip Advice Travel Company is a great choice. Travelers looking to immerse themselves in India's regal past will have a wonderful experience with this tour, which captures the beauty, heritage, and culture of Rajasthan's capital.

Click here to get access now:

Heading Out Early: Leaving Delhi

The majestic Amber Fort is the first stop.

Investigating Jantar Mantar and City Palace

Having Lunch at a Neighborhood Restaurant

Enjoy a well-earned lunch at one of Jaipur's traditional restaurants after a morning of touring. Savor the flavors of Rajasthani food, which is well-known for its flavorful breads and hearty curries.

The Remarkable Albert Hall Museum and Hawa Mahal

Purchasing and Free Time

Trip Reverse: Returning to Delhi

Why Select India Travel Tips for Your Tour of Jaipur?

Click here to get access now: https://indiatripadvice.com/tour/jaipur-pink-city-day-tour-from-delhi/

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scapegrace74-blog · 4 years

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Ginger Snap, Chapter 5

A/N Know what this fic needs? More Geillis. No really, I think you guys are going to like where I’m going with this. Just bear with me. Only one more chapter to go after this one, plus an epilogue. Thanks for coming on the journey with me! With due credit to Sia, this chapter’s title is Fire, Meet Gasoline.

Previous chapters are best enjoyed on my AO3 page, because I have a bad habit of going back and editing them after they’ve been posted.

Geillis Duncan drove much the way she approached life, which was to say without much regard for rules and at white-knuckle speed. I gripped her Range Rover’s leather cushion and swallowed any exclamations of dismay as we ricocheted through Edinburgh’s late afternoon traffic. When we finally slid into an underground parking spot and emerged into the bustling festivity of the Princes Street Christmas Market, I felt the tension of imminent disaster abandon my shoulders.

“Where to first, then?” Geillis asked, looking far too animated by the prospect of accompanying someone while they did their Christmas shopping.

Geillis and I had kept in touch and met for coffee a few times over the past months. When I explained that I wouldn’t be taking any more cooking classes at Ginger Snap because Jamie was giving me at-home lessons, her reaction was a moonbeam grin.

“Look at ye, wee vixen! I ne’er wouldha thought ye had it in ya, Claire. Tho I canna say as I blame ye.”

No matter how much I protested that I was together with Frank and that my relationship with Jamie was purely professional, she refused to believe me. The ongoing absence of a ring from my left hand didn’t help.

“Now,” Geillis exclaimed once we’d taken in the sights and sounds of the market, “let’s have a keek at yer list. Where should we start?”

I pulled out my phone and opened the Notes app. As she read, my friend’s nose wrinkled in confusion.

“Trouser socks, shoe stays, Moleskine notebook, Rive Gauche... who are ye shopping for, yer grandparents?”

“No,” I protested. “The first three are for Frank. The perfume is for me.”

When I explained that Frank had made a list of the items he would like to give me for Christmas, Geillis grew incensed.

“Ye mean he has ye doin’ his gift buying fer him? Tha’s the least romantic thing I’ve e’er heard. Do ye even like Rive Gauche, Claire? And dinna lie tae me, fer I can read yer feelings all o’er yer face.”

Truthfully, I didn’t much care for the flowery scent. My personal taste ran more towards woodsy or herbaceous aromas. But it was Frank’s favourite, and it pleased me to please him. Or it had. I was beginning to wonder when it would be my turn to please myself.

“Right,” Geillis interrupted my thoughts. “Marks and Sparks will do jes fine for yer wee granny list. And then you and I are going shopping fer yer real gift.”

Geillis was a force to be reckoned with in a retail environment. She navigated like a guided missile from one department to the next. Twenty minutes later, we were back on the pavement, which glistened with the colourful reflections of decorations strung above.

“Your car is the other way,” I explained as Geillis turned left.

“Aye, tis, but our destination is right o’er here. House of Fraser. See? Tis practically calling yer name, Claire.”

Inside the venerable old building was an astonishing multi-tiered arcade reaching over five stories to a massive skylit ceiling. The central space was dominated by a fifteen metre-high Christmas tree (a Fraser fir, of course) and every archway of every arcade was dripping with lights. The impression was like stepping into a Fabergé egg.

Geillis dragged me, slack-jawed, towards the ladies’ wear section. Circling the racks like a hawk on the wind, she eyed my body, sizing me up quite literally, then thrust several pieces into my hands.

“Geillis,” I hissed, wary of the sales staff hovering nearby, no doubt smelling an excessive commission in the offing. “I don’t need a new outfit. And I certainly don’t need,” I shook the garments in question, “something like this. Wherever would I wear it?”

“Well, fer starters, ye’d wear it tae dinner t’night. I dinna wish tae offend ye, Claire, but I canna in good conscience allow ye tae set foot in the Timberyard dressed fer a job interview as a primary school teacher.”

With that she shoved me in the direction of the changing rooms. Deciding to humour her, I was unbuttoning my top when two lacy bits of nothing came flying over the door.

“Start wi’ these. And dinna think I willna notice if ye’re no’ wearing them!”

I stripped down to my panties, bemusedly wondering how she knew my exact bra size.

Upon seeing me exit the dressing room in her choice of clothing, Geillis let out a squeal of delight. She insisted I rip out the tags and leave the store wearing my new outfit, declaring it was her Christmas gift to me.

I felt tremendously self-conscious as we walked towards the restaurant. The aubergine velvet jeans clung to my legs in an unfamiliar way and the black turtleneck, while technically not revealing, hinted at kink with its many heavy zippers and fastenings. Together with my unruly hair, unstraightened for once, I felt like another woman entirely. I didn’t recognize her, but I felt like she might be someone I’d like to get to know.

The Timberyard was a modern restaurant in a rugged old warehouse, not far from the farmer’s market I’d visited with Jamie. We were joined there by several of Geillis’ friends, and we ate, drank and laughed until my sides were sore.

As I wobbled to the loo, I noticed the bartender following me with an appreciative gaze. It had been a long time since a man had looked at me that way, and it gave me a guilty thrill.

We left the restaurant just before midnight. I pulled Geillis into an impulsive hug.

“Wha’ was that for, hen?” she asked.

“Nothing. Everything. Just, thank you for being you, Geil.”

“Och, tis my pleasure, lass. I only want tae see ye happy. Now, what do ye say to a digestif?”

After only a slight protest on my part, the two of us piled into an Uber. Our destination was another restaurant, this time in a converted whisky warehouse by the harbour in Leith. It was well past last sitting, but when I mentioned this to Geillis she explained away my concern.

“I ken the owner, who’s also the chef. Tis a popular spot fer locals in the restaurant scene tae meet after they close up fer a few drinks afore heading home tae their beds.”

Inside, the walls were rough stone, supported in places by industrial metal beams. The kitchen was open to the main dining area, and I grinned as I thought of Frank’s strong opinion on the matter. Near the back of the room, lit by dim naked bulbs and the glow from several open fireplaces, was a huge square table surrounded by nearly twenty chairs upholstered in bright yellow plaid. Around the table was gathered a motley assortment of men and women, all talking and laughing and sipping on a variety of drinks. And in their midst, his copper hair shining in the firelight, sat Jamie.

A shout went up from the table as Geillis approached. I hung back, tugging at the hem of my new turtleneck as though I could stretch it to cover my arse. Besides Jamie, I recognized Jenny, Angus and Murtagh, but I only had eyes for the big ginger chef. He sat at one corner, probably in deference to his long legs which were stretched out before him, wrapped in black denim. A black leather jacket hung over the chair behind him. He looked dangerous. It was a very good look for him.

Dragging me by the elbow, Geillis nudged and bumped Angus to one side despite his vulgar protests, then practically pushed me down into the chair directly next to the chef. With a smug smile of satisfaction, she then retired to the opposite side of the table.

I looked anywhere but directly at Jamie, but I could feel his butane eyes on me. I was certain he would scorch right through my outer layers and down to where Geillis’ choice in lingerie burned against my tender skin. The noise from the rest of the table faded away.

“Ye look bonnie t’night, Arsonist.” His voice was low and gruff and it sent a quickening through my veins.

“Thank you, Jamie. It was Geillis’ Christmas gift to me, and I feel, well... let’s just say it isn’t my usual look.”

“It suits ye, I think.” He reached out and lightly touched the silver tab of a zipper that ended near my wrist, setting it swinging. I swallowed and looked frantically around. Several open bottles of liquor stood nearby. Grabbing the nearest one, I poured myself a generous serving and knocked it back, all in one go. I tried to steady my breathing.

“Look, Jamie...”

Just then a blond man in chef’s whites called to Jamie from across the table. An exchange involving a lot of Scottish cursing and an off-colour reference to someone’s lobster pot ensued. I tried to convince myself I needed to leave. It was late, I was half-drunk, and whatever I intended to say to Jamie should definitely wait for another moment. Maybe never.

A hand on my thigh broke my preoccupation.

“Sorry, Arsonist, ye were sayin’ something?”

I wet my lips, frantically trying to recall anything but the feeling of Jamie’s strong fingers, stroking me through the velvet of my jeans.

“I...”

At that moment, the woman on Jamie’s far side broke into song. The rest of the table cheered and clapped along, and it was impossible to hear anything except the concussive pounding of my heart against my eardrums.

Jamie grabbed my clammy hand.

“Come wi’ me,” he instructed, grabbing our outerwear and pulling me towards the door. Geillis watched our departure with all the excitement of a child on Christmas morning.

Outside the air was dense and cold, a briny slap after the stuffy warmth of the restaurant. Jamie obviously had a destination in mind, and we walked hand-in-hand along the cobbled streets for several minutes before finally emerging at the port. A jetty struck out into the inky sea, and it was there that we ended up. Besides a few gulls and the winking of a nearby lighthouse, we were all alone. The sodium street lights caught Jamie’s curls and made them burn.

“Forgive me, Arsonist. I couldna hear myself think in there. Tho, come tae think of it, tis no’ much better now.” Rather than release me, as he spoke Jamie stroked my hand, running calloused fingers over each vein and every knuckle. I don’t think he even realized he was doing it, but it stole every thought from my head.

“No ring,” he remarked, stroking the finger in question.

“No,” I whispered in response.

And then it burst out of me, like a tidal wave of feeling that I never saw coming. I told him everything. My childhood roaming the globe with my uncle, pre-occupied and rootless, dreaming of stability. Meeting Frank at Harvard, and realizing that he represented all the things that my life to date had lacked: structure, security, a solid foundation, a home. And how it took moving to Scotland and coming into contact with a group of near-strangers to make me realize that the price I had paid for that stability was higher than I’d ever imagined. I’d given up my dream of becoming a doctor. I’d become so lost in Frank’s vision of who I should be that I’d almost lost sight of who I actually was.

By the time the flood of words left me, I was in Jamie’s arms, crying into his leather jacket. He hushed me with quiet murmurs and languorous stroking of my hair, as one would a child who has woken from a nightmare.

I stepped out of his embrace and rubbed my sleeve across my face. I must have looked an absolute mess, but he still watched me with those earnest, patient eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I began, “I don’t know what...”

“Claire,” he interrupted. I’d never before realized just how many consonants were in my given name. “Ye dinna need tae apologize tae me. But ye may want tae consider an apology tae yerself.” At my raised eyebrow, he continued.

“I’m no’ the kind of man tae tell another what they should and shouldna do. But ye strike me as someone who’s made decisions fer the right reasons, yet ended up in the wrong place.” Here he paused, as though carefully weighing his words. “There’s no sin in changin’ yer mind, Arsonist. Tis very well tae be hungry, so long as ye ken what ye hunger for.”

“And what do you hunger for, James Fraser?” The provocative words had left my lips before I had the chance to censor them. His answer came in the form of a blistering look that left no doubt as to its meaning. Then he gathered himself, banking the fire I’d unconsciously ignited.

“Many things. Regular, ordinary things, mostly. My family’s health and happiness. A faster bike. My own restaurant.”

“Like Tom’s there?” I asked, gesturing towards the harbour.

“Och, Tom is a braw chef, and worthy o’ every accolade tha’s been showered upon him. But the hospitality scene in Edinburgh is cut-throat, an’ suitable locations cost a fortune. Nah, Jenny and I want tae buy back our childhood home in the Highlands. Tis called Lallybroch, and when our Da passed, our Mam sold it tae her brother. We’d turn it inta a country inn, wi’ Jenny running the lodging side o’ things and I the dining. Tha’s the dream anyway,” he ended with a shrug.

I rested my hand on his forearm. “That sounds like a wonderful plan, Jamie.”

Before he could reply, an enormous yawn burst from my lungs.

“Time tae get ye home tae yer bed, Arsonist,” Jamie grinned. “Come, I’ll give ye a ride.”

“Wait, haven’t you been drinking?” I inquired as we walked back down the jetty.

“Three years sober,” he explained with no hint of embarrassment. “I went somewhere pretty dark after my Mam died, an’ it took a near-fatal crash tae scare me straight.” His eyes squinted in a poor approximation of a wink as he added, “Besides, there are better ways tae chase a rush than in the bottom of a bottle.”

“Such as?” I asked brazenly.

Which was how I found myself on the back on a black motorcycle, my arms twined around Jamie’s waist. Rather than take me directly home, he steered us north, following the coast. It was very late, with hardly another vehicle about. We merged onto the motorway, and Jamie picked up speed. My thighs tightened around his lean hips, the vibration of the motor beneath us shivering up my spine. As we emerged beneath the hastate lights of the Queensferry Bridge, I stretched my arms wide, icy air ripping against the sleeves of my jacket. I laughed, although no-one could hear me. I yelled, and only the wind yelled back. I was flying.

***

It was nearly dawn when Jamie pulled up in front of my flat. My legs thrummed, my eyes were dry with fatigue, and my heart ached, but I felt better than I could ever remember. I handed Jamie back his spare helmet and shook out my curls. He watched me in that half-sleepy, half-vigilant way of his that I now recognized as desire.

“I don’t know what I could ever say to thank you, Jamie.”

“Ye needn’t say anything at all, Arsonist. Nae matter what ye decide, it has been my very great honour tae get tae know you.”

Without another word, he kick-started the engine and drove off into the early morning mist.

“Goodbye,” I whispered to his vanishing shadow.

***

The lamp above the couch was lit, and Frank lay still beneath its glow. I realized he had fallen asleep waiting for me to come home. Instead of regret, what I felt in that moment was pity.

The sound of my jacket being unzipped woke him. He blinked in confusion and then in shock.

“I’m very sorry if you were worried,” I began.

“Worried? Do you have any idea what time it is? My God, Claire, I don’t know what to make of you these days. You’ve never behaved irresponsibly before, and now you’re out at all hours and you’re wearing,” he gestured wildly with his hand at my new outfit which I had, quite honestly, forgotten I was wearing. “And your hair, Claire!” he finished, as though the manic state of my curls was definitive evidence of my fall from grace. Despite my exhaustion, I stood tall.

“Frank, we need to talk.”

#my writing #outlander #ginger snap

64 notes · View notes

lorkai · 3 years

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🌺 Title: One More Life

🌺 Summary: There is no future without learning the mistakes of the past, but there is also no past without the hope of a better future. And to repair mistakes or to make things better, a child is dragged into a tragic history of coups d'état, deaths and re-concessions.

🌺 Words: 4096

🌺 Notes: Some may remember that I already posted this story here, but I decided to rewrite this chapter. Hope you like it.

🌺 Warnings: Mention of dismemberment, explicit death, gore. Please check the tags for more.

The closed clouds formed strange patterns over the faint sunlight that ended on the horizon, red and orange slowly disappearing, leaving behind a thin trail of snow. And despite the hours, the children ran over the lights of the lanterns that they carried in their small hands, without knowing what was close to happening. Their laughter would be remembered in young Morgana's mind for a long time. Everyone was happy, after all it was the Harvest Festival - affectionately nicknamed the Demon Race by the girl - it was the day when her Lord liked to send his little soldiers to face demons that he summoned to see how much they had evolved with their magic and spells, that always happened at the end of the night.

Morgana did not grow up in a good or happy place, but she had no choice but to follow what her Lord commanded. The organization he worked for was also not a good place if she remembered correctly, there were so many experiments going on, so much pain and cries of help echoing through those walls that would never come out of the young girl's head or anyone who heard them. It was terrifying.

And in the dark of the old empty hut, she sat. Chained at the ankles by a metal pillar. The dark did not frighten her any more than the task entrusted to her, hunting demons, killing them and bringing their hearts to her Lord. Morgana hated that time of year, hated the snow pulling her down and the cold so intense to freeze her bones, and on top of that she hated the magic that came out of her hands and the blood that spread through her fingers afterwards. She hated the throbbing of the organ in her hands and even more that sadistic smile on the face of the man who had taught her so much about magic. But she had no choice, not yet.

"Your folly is amazing, my dear." Said a well-known voice, making Morgana turn around. It took her eyes to get used to seeing something in the immense darkness that surrounded her, but when she finally found him she started to massage her temples in search of momentary relief. It was Toby, a small, transparent ghost who wore bloody rags of clothes that looked from the 1800s. He was, unfortunately, the girl's dead brother, now a ghost bound to accompany her.

"What would you have done?" She replied, showing her hands chained by heavy metal. She didn't want to have to deal with the ghost now.

"I sure as hell wouldn't be pretending to be a good girl, waiting for someone to give me an order. Morg, you must take the chance to escape. They plan to summon a strong demon this time... What was the name again? Diavovo? Dialovo?" Toby yelled, crossing his arms. He floated to the other end of the cell, tossing a thick, old black leather book from hand to hand. And contrary to his angry tone, the ghost seemed calm, stopping beside his sister to hand her the book. "Whatever! You know the Demon Race is the closest thing you have to an opportunity to escape."

"Patience, my dear. I can't rush the sand into the hourglass any more than it can." She said, mysterious. Her fingers traced the pattern of unfamiliar letters and she smiled, feeling the strong magic so familiar that emanated from that Grimoire. The book that belonged to each of her brothers was hers now and she asked that it be useful in her journey. "Can't run away now, brother. This isn't the time. Also, you know what B would say."

"I don't care what that traitor has to say to me! He wasn't there when you or our brothers begged for help, he isn't here now to save you." the ghost grunted grudgingly and crossed his arms over his chest, seeming to adopt a defensive posture. "I insist you use this to escape, there's a very useful spell here. Take a look."

Morgana looked. It was the old book that passed from sibling to sibling in her family, but she never read it and didn't even know her secrets. Its pages were old and fragile, yellowed, she analyzed the strange letters forming strange words – it was an unknown language that was written there, but little by little the words moved and began to form sentences that the girl knew and understood. Spells appeared over the pages and she let out a big sigh this time, one of relief. Toby moved closer to her. "There are some spells you won't understand, Lothos made sure the younger ones wouldn't understand. So I can translate what you don't understand." The ghostly fingers roamed the pages with great nostalgia as he read her the simplest spells, almost overjoyed that she couldn't read in the dark.

And she was looking at him even through the dim light from a lantern, but it pained her to nurture his hopes when she herself knew she might die at any moment. She wasn't going to run away from Cosmos, no, she was going to destroy them inside and save those who could be saved. The emotion she felt at the moment couldn't be explained, she was happy to have him around and hear his voice, but she didn't feel his touch, his heat. Anyway, that moment was almost enough to make her forget what was going to happen within the next few minutes. There was a noise that disconcerted her and made her close the book with a bang, she quickly stuffed it into the pocket of the dress she was wearing. And she waited.

She looked at the figure standing over the wooden door, the light shining over his head as he chuckled softly. Then she noticed that he was shaking the human head of a child much younger than she was, and his red eyes glowed with excitement, watching the blood trickle across the floor of the cell. "He deserved it, he was making so much noise when I whipped him. But I like to think of it as his good luck gift." He threw his head towards the girl, falling to her feet. The child's transparent eyes stared at her, hot blood running in abundance over her legs and onto the floor. A horrendous image. She tried to move away but the chains stopped her.

"Too bad. His voice was so beautiful when he screamed." He commented and removed a cork of keys from his pocket, walking very calmly towards his expressionless pupil. He seemed to root for her to cry, for her to scream so he could punish her, but that didn't happen. He released her from the chains slowly as the blood on his hands smeared her and made her shiver even more, he pulled back far enough so that she could get up and seemed to find the sounds of bones cracking amusing. "Project K is almost perfected, so no failures will be tolerated. Stay still."

Morgana pressed one hand against the other, bracing herself. He handed her a red pill and watched as she swallowed without question. The burning sensation that engulfed her body was almost unbearable, causing her to fall to her knees and bring her hand to her throat. And anger filled her as her lord laughed to the point of being in tears. The pill he handed her must have been an improved version of the drug they were creating, she felt like she was being ripped from the inside out and blood leaked from her mouth as her vision glowed. Everything about her body ached, Toby and His lord went out and into focus. His voices mingled in her head as she vomited more blood.

"There, there." Her lord pulled her to her feet, using a spell to stop the bleeding. He patted her head lovingly as he smiled and she leaned closer to the contact, albeit involuntarily. His gestures didn't match what he was saying at all, but it took her a few more moments to process that. "It's going to be alright honey so don't let us down. I know you can do it, now go." He gently guided her out of the hut and closed the door slowly. A barrier was erected as soon as the girl was thrown out, to protect him. And she heard him laugh. Maybe he imagined all the bodies he would have on his worktable in the morning. Perhaps he had imagined a morbid joke. She didn't want to know.

"Are you okay?" Toby questioned. "Do you feel pain anywhere?"

"I am fine, brother." She analyzed the landscape around them. Shady trees, whose roots were hidden by snow, rose so high that their leaves and branches almost completely obscured the dim moonlight. This was a perfect place for demons to come to hide waiting for a meal, a subtle black trail of sulfur could be discerned through the tree branches. The smell also did not hide that there were demons there. She looked up at her brother, stifling a moan of pain as she smiled so as not to worry him. "Where are we going?"

"Demons everywhere. Three of them are northwest, seventy meters and they're strong. But there are two weaker ones you can kill easily, ten meters away. This way." Toby pointed, starting to follow a narrow path between some crooked trees, destroyed by the force of some demon. He heard Morgana walking behind him and her teeth gnashed so hard that he felt sorry for her, he couldn't feel the cold or heat anymore due to his condition, but he remembered now that she wasn't so lucky. The fine clothes she wore couldn't protect her from the incessant cold, that was a punishment and even she knew it. She had failed in her last mission, so it made sense to let her suffer her own luck. He knew she wouldn't survive like this and they had little time for it. Unfortunately she couldn't use any fire-based spells either because the scent would alert the demons.

Toby stopped his sister with a wave of his hand, gesturing to the pockets of her dress. "I almost forgot, but there's a spell in the Grimoire you can use to keep yourself warm. Let me show you."

"You know the cold can't kill me, even if it hurts" She warned him, giving a half laugh that was followed by several sneezes. Toby frowned as if he didn't quite believe his sister, signaling to himself as if he was setting an example. "Right, but that won't happen, brother."

"Enough stubbornness and give me the Grimoire. We have to be quick." Morgana let out a huff of indignation as she pulled the book out of her pockets and opened it, after glancing from side to side to make sure no one else was there. She created a sphere of light and illuminated the pages while a short wave of wind caused by the ghost opened the right page. He whispered the spell to her once, twice. Then she chanted it aloud and felt something warm run through her body, strengthening her. "Back to the subject... Use the Grimoire." He muttered looking directly at the book in her hands, with puppy eyes.

Morgana was preparing to give him an answer not as kind and patient as the others, but she was silent. She hid behind a tree when she heard a thin scream very close by. It had started. Really started. Limb by limb and the sound of flesh being ripped off was heard through the forest loud and clear, she covered her mouth with her hand so that no sound escaped her and signaled for the ghost to see what was happening.

"Looks like we found them, yay." Toby muttered grudgingly, his fingers making hollow sounds against the trees he touched. The feeling of running or fighting was never higher than when he approached some supernatural being, not that the ghost had seen more than other ghosts and lost souls, but he knew a thing or two. Finally he went to his sister, almost exasperated. "If you insist on following your role, the audience awaits your show, little star. They say they want to see his heart."

"If you insist." The girl whispered something in a low tone with her hands clasped together as if to pray and from the center of her hands flaming chains ripped the skin until they huddled together, moving of their own accord. Morgana was smiling. And she moved faster than Toby's eyes could see, like furious lightning. Toby ran to accompany her, without worry. He had seen a lot of that happen over the years. And it came as no surprise to him when he saw Morgana manipulating the chains and lifting the demon's body by one, two, three, four meters from the ground, hearing him scream when his arms and legs were broken, twisted at odd angles. Bones exposed on his skin. Black blood trickled over the snow as he screamed profanities.

"I really didn't want to do this." A deep, husky voice came from the girl's lips as she laughed, enjoying the smell of burning flesh. The chains slowly burned the entire demon's body, to the point that she would have ripped his heart out of his chest before he died. "But the grains of sand can only fall into the hourglass when it is time for them to fall."

"You are the disgusting witch that everyone talks about!" The demon screamed, blood dripping from his mouth. He struggled against the chains, but the more he struggled and screamed, the more the chains tightened.

"The only one but I think you don't like me that much, too bad." Morgana made a single movement that threw the demon on the ground and she approached him, pulling a red blade from her pocket that she would use to kill him. The demon tried to fight the chains, struggling, forcing its wings to work to get him out of there. But the girl kicked him in the face and commanded the chains to hold him more tightly. Toby flinched when he heard the sound of more bones being broken. "You had to be a low level one, it smells like sulfur. Shame on you, someone of your level would never be able to kill me." And then she sank the blade into the demon's chest. More blood flowed as she stabbed again and again, feeling it tremble beneath her small body, laughing when she saw life abandon the weak entity.

Toby yelled after her that he was dead, but she only stopped stabbing him when he was reduced to an unrecognizable mass of flesh. The white dress she wore was black, filled with demonic blood. She looked down at her hands with something akin to curiosity, then she looked down at the body and for a moment she couldn't make out anything that had happened there. "Fuck, this shit is scary every time. Morg, you...?"

"I'm fine, silly." She returned the chains back into her hands as she grunted in pain, the next moment her palms were intact as if they had never been injured. She got up quickly, muttering aggressively that she would have to find another demon now that she couldn't take the one she'd just killed, so she stepped away from the dead body and looked around. The sun wasn't even close to rising yet and she had plenty of time, but she also knew that failing couldn't be an option. Not this time. She has seen what happened to those who failed and it was something much worse than what happened to that demon at her feet. There were so many limbs and guts out of a body while her lord was using poisons and having fun, she didn't even need an anatomy book to tell the difference between a lung and a tibia. She wouldn't be next - between failing here and being next, she could freeze to death.

"You went into a trance again." Toby sighed, if he was alive he would probably be shaking. "Are you wondering about your next target?" Morgana nodded.

"Far away. About forty meters. But they are powerful." Toby tried to concentrate to find out something else, but he didn't have much to feel. They were powerful entities without a doubt, if they were strong to face the girl or not he did not know and did not want to know, he wanted her to run away. But there was only a little he could force her to do. The ghost watched as she seemed to consider whether she was going after them or not, but stopped walking before she could state her thoughts. There was a dismembered body in front of them. The head was tied to a tree as if it were a sinister pinata, a wide smile from cheek to cheek still frozen on the face. Blood dripping still. It was recent. She gasped and tried to walk away, but she felt something hot and hard on her feet that made her stop. Something that the faint light of the moon illuminated very well, she stepped on top of the corpse's guts.

"All this for what, I wonder sometimes. So many dead children, so many tormented spirits. If the fate had been different they could have been happy away from this misery." Toby whispered so quietly that even a breeze made more noise. He tried to pull her away, despite being cruelly reminded that he couldn't touch her. He was just a lost voice over others inside his own sister's head, so he did what he could. He caught her eye and pointed to a safe place.

"Because they are all too cowardly to fight for what they want, so they train us and use us," Morgana shivered with rage when tears came to her eyes, her fist closed on the blade that was just used in the poor devil's murder. "We are weapons in a war that we do not even know when it will happen. But it will be all right because I will destroy Cosmos and free all who still live, even if I die trying, I will drag those motherfuckers to hell with me!"

"Oh, now you're talking like yourself, good little girl." She felt the speck of happiness in the ghost's voice, even with all the sarcasm he dripped from each syllable. "Morgana, the girl who wanted to save the witches. Sounds like a good title for a biography." Toby continued to tease.

"I won't save them, wizards, humans, they both always think they're above everyone else. I'm just going to free them and then go home. Or what's left of our house. They can handle their problems on their own." Morgana sighed, crouching for a moment in the mud to undo an exploding trap. She eyed the device curiously before standing up and following the ghost further into the forest. The trees gave way to a brighter place, a snowy field opened up for them. A frozen river was mere steps ahead, their reflection was reflected under the stars and moon. There, the girl almost looked livid. A confirmation that her dead brother really was by her side - not that she didn't know it, but she thought she was crazy after everything she'd been through there.

"What are you going to do?" Toby asked, floating around her. She shrugged with a cynical laugh.

"I have all the information to destroy them, but I need time and resources," She explained taking a big breath to try to warm up, but she failed and she shivered. "We will complete this ridiculous task and we will go back to the base."

"Or you can open a..." Toby tried to dissuade her like an annoying good brother, but he stopped in mid-sentence and turned with confusion hovering over his face. And for the first time he was serious. If he could go pale with fear, he would surely be now. Although he was tired of running around, protecting the girl, he knew that every year was the same thing. But as he said hours earlier, her lord had summoned stronger demons this year. And the ghost felt three of them behind them at that moment. The same ones he didn't know if his sister would be able to defeat.

He pointed out to Morgana that she should start walking slowly and quietly to get as far away from the hiding demons as possible. Stumbling and almost slipping, Toby pushed his human and hoped that no one would appear. To his displeasure, Morgana started sneezing and coughing up blood again, he felt her magic get out of control and he cursed himself for letting her drink that strange pill the old man had given her. A lot of things could go wrong, but he really hoped nothing would happen now. The bushes moved and branches broke, and when Toby looked around there were three demons staring at Morgana with a desire to take her soul. The young girl was on the verge of a breakdown and he knew that her magic would be as unstable as every other time that she drank that pill.

"Can i do this?" He heard his sister swear in pain. "Do it, brother."

He looked at her before taking possession of her body as he had already done before. The cold she felt, he felt. The feelings and thoughts she had were his now. And with that, he moved his hands very quickly when he realized that the demons were approaching and surrounding them quickly. A great barrier separated them and prevented them from attacking it. It was weak and so he started running while he still had time, looking for a place he could use to keep his sister's body warm and safe until he thought of something.

"Bloody hell, what a shit situation, Morg!" Toby grunted, but now in a hoarse and dragged tone. He did not know how long he looked for shelter or how much time he spent running, but he knew that the presences were approaching again and this time much more aggressive. He heard the murmurs of disdain and sarcasm, and he feared for his sister's life. He saw the horns slowly came out of their heads, small and sharp, twisted to the sides and long black wings with emaciated feathers punctuating out of their backs.

'We are going to die!', Toby thought, no longer able to continue. 'This is all B's fault!'

"Look, Apoliom, Belial! Such a brilliant soul. Will you want to?" One of the demons commented to his friends in a tone of immense mockery, lifting the girl by her white hair and smiling when she struggled to get out of his grip. Unsuccessfully. Toby tried to use the chains, but the most that came out of the palms of Morgana's hands was smoke. And it made the demons laugh hysterically.

"If you're going to eat her soul, do it soon. We have to go back sooner or we are going to have problems." Apoliom murmured with great disinterest in the situation, but he wanted to know how someone so young had a soul as brilliant as those. "We're already full." Belial shrugged. "Hurry up!"

The demon's face seemed to melt like candle wax, revealing a hideous face of muscle, and his eyes went the blackest shade Toby had ever seen. He leaned forward, encouraged by the other two friends who had already satisfied their hunger, he opened his mouth ready to suck Morgana's soul, and if Toby still had one, his too.

But a very bright light suddenly blinded all the demons. It was hot. Intense. Angry and calm in the same proportion. There were screams of pain and curses thrown at random, but the light just kept expanding and expanding. And a flood of warm feelings went through the ghost's chest and he knew that this sensation reached Morgana somewhere in her tired mind, he felt that she fell into a deep sleep, warmed by that light. Her body finally fell, but not in the snow. In a pair of firm and gentle arms that lifted the small body. The demons were forgotten, expelled, although not even Toby was able to remain lucid for a long time, visibly affected by using possession for so long.

"The only survivor, we are going to take her with us, Barbatos."

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welcometomy20s · 3 years

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July 2, 2021

HoloServer Quarterly Report

Usada Constructions - Buy

To understand the current position of UsaKen, we must look to its history. At first, UsaKen was a joke, a riff on Majima Constructions, a potemkin company only existing to serve the whims of the founder and CEO. Pekora’s project was sophisticated and massive, her pranks simply legendary. But out of the blue, Moona enters. The mutual awkwardness worked in their favor, in fact this will be a prevailing theme, what might seem like a highly dysfunctional group, actually turns the whole thing into strength.

The Rabbit and Moon theme didn’t hurt them either, and the idea of Usada Construction as an actual entity enters the public consciousness, especially as a point of comparison to the fledgling Akukin Constructions… although it could be said that Akukin was the remnant of Hololive Resistance in some sense. This led to the initial expansion with the hiring of Coco and Kiara… but again this was more of a joke, a fleeting thought before UsaKen was about to come on its own.

It was the Akukin Relay that really set the ball rolling. Not only did we have the fortuitous event of Kanata accepting a position in UsaKen before finding out she did get a callback from Akukin, it spurred Pekora into focusing on Minecraft, especially her gaming plans were dirtied by corporate pressure. Pekora started small, with her misbehaving cannon and putting out her petty anger onto Noel, but soon Pekora unveiled her grand plan, Pekoland, and immediately set out to organize the company as a whole.

By now, the company was fairly-sized. It added Botan and eventually Towa into the mix, although Botan is still technically an affiliate and Towa first came with revenge, before using the company as an opportunity to learn how to be evil. Now the company measured seven strong, although they were quite disparate, having members from all three branches and across three generations. This was quickly noticed and a discord server was made in response, which led to another group project immediately after Pekoland, which was already a pretty big project. Combined with Coco’s final innovation, the Summer Festival became an even bigger project in the end.

And it would be odd to think this would end soon. There’s an actual structure to things now, people can communicate and build on ideas and the whole thing seems pretty democratic, even with its autocratic start. And Summer Festival brought UsaKen into the center of Hololive narrative. UsaKen is now the de facto face of HoloServer, and perhaps even Hololive itself. People look at the former loner as the master organizer. Things only look up from here, which is worrisome, but there’s enough in UsaKen that I’m less worried than usual. UsaKen will always come out stronger in the end.

Akukin Constructions - Buy

Meanwhile, Akukin completely collapsed. It felt like Aqua would return from her Apex marathon, but it turns out prior and prep for the solo concert meant a month break is what she needed, therefore Akukin was without a leader for one more month.

Lamy and Nene managed with their own projects, but the rest kind of fell apart. But the Summer Festival changed all that. Just as Akukin Relay signalled Pekora a restructuring was needed, Summer Festival meant Akukin had to show up. So, the skit continued. During the Akukin Relay arc, the mysterious yet feisty boss with two second-in-command who actually runs the thing scheming and fretting was a hit, with a hint of blackness in its blasted scaffoldings. Now, the blackness is very much apparent. Aqua cannot let the failing company go, and has become vicious. Considering Marine's past, this works to their favor. Lamy and Nene would be their own thing. Roboco and Mel would pop in now and again. As for Iofi and Aki… well, I’m not sure.

Choco, which I deemed the liaison for Shiranui, which has a contractual relationship with Akukin, now liaisons for Oozora Group as well. Choco might be the next important person just because of that connection factor. Akukin might be a contracting company now, although Aqua would not be happy about where they stand now.

Oozora Group - Hold

I know that Oozora Constructions, now Oozora Group, is not a publicly traded company anymore, but I still suggest holding onto that now-worthless piece of paper. The problem with Oozora Constructions was that its story went nowhere. Korone’s house was interesting, but it rarely had an ending, since it required Korone to cooperate and that’s usually an awkward thing at best. Her other projects were half-baked, and most importantly Subaru never really had that recognition. She wanted to build a company but others laughed at the prospect. So Rushia lost faith and moved to UsaKen. Oozora was tanking before it started to fly. But Matsuri took grace and joined Oozora, at which point it became a group. It’s not like Matsuri and Luna, the other employee, haven’t been together, and Subaru was called Matsuri by Sora, so why not?

In the last report, I said Matsuri is more like a government employee than a free agent, and indeed it seems Oozora Group now acts like a governmental organization, with building a police station being the first undertaking after restructuring. This is actually not bad. Public utilities are dearly needed in HoloServer anyways, and Subaru acting as a public servant removes the desperation in her actions that would make interactions much more friendly and interesting. By falling, Subaru might have turned a corner.

Tangent - Using an extended analogy, when the age of giant reptiles was wiped out by a meteorite, there were small survivors, which we now know as birds. So, it looks like Coco’s legacy would also be held by birds, holotoris to be exact. To explain why, let’s look at the current functional part of Coco. Coco is the bridge that connects East to the West, not just in terms of language, but also in culture and mores. In that way, holotoris nicely distributes this responsibility. Subaru might be the best JP member after Haachama in terms of English comprehension, and she is quite cognizant of recent foreign perspectives as well… so she could be a good future ambassador. For Reine, her Indonesian teaching stream reminds me of Coco’s early streams. And Kiara’s Holotalk has been the counterweight to Coco’s meme review since it started… Not to mention, these three are the most extroverted of their respective branches.

Shiranui-Elite Conglomerate - Hold

SEC is an organization of my own creation, but it’s a useful one, because it fits the current situation well. To sum up, Elite Construction was starting to fall apart as Minecraft activities waned, one of the replacements was GTA V, and the three major players were Miko, Flare and Suisei. Their collab together was probably the highlight of the last quarter and gave us a bright spot during a time of troubles.

As Minecraft activities increased, due to PekoLand and HoloID mall and Mel and Roboco popping in and out, the connection before was starting to bore out in Minecraft. Shiranui was originally a contracting company, working with Akukin for example. Therefore it had a family business type, indeed the only other employee was an honorary one given to Flare’s wife, Noel. But a series of interactions with Polka and Choco led to this master and apprentice relationship, which was a major hit.

Flare, pardon the pun, was always the black sheep of the Hololive Fantasy. While the other four have something to stand out and something to back the flash (Pekora draws with her laughter and manic behavior which is backed up by her earnest shyness, Rushia draws from her yandere metal screams which backed up by her sincerity and fragility, Noel draws with her upper assets and ASMR which is backed up by her erogaki silliness and her charming singing, and Marine draws from her horny nature which is backed up by her wit and almost motherly wiseness), Flare never really landed a character. Indeed, Flare is a straight man through and through. Not quite a tsukkomi like Subaru or Kanata at times, since there is not that retorting arrogance the two can exhibit, as people call, Flare was your comfy older sister...

But the Western audience and this Polka relationship changed that. In the West, the fatherly figure has more of a distinct and prominent role, and Flare can emulate this pretty well. A dad is grounded and serious, but can be silly and childish at times. But the silly and childishness does not undercut his serious nature… and that goes well with Flare (perhaps even more so than Calli, who is on a goofier side of things). Therefore Flare could finally breathe and express herself. And the introduction of Miko and Suisei brings the crew into full focus. They are reminiscent of early UsaKen, except while UsaKen was disparate, SEC most closely resembles… well, a D&D party. With your typical silly arguments and trials leading to growth and so on.

Adding Marine or even Nene might disturb this. Flare is fine with the size and I am too. It’s not like there are any real pickings left anyway. Shiranui-Elite conglomeration have a long journey ahead of them, but a brighter future that goes along with it too.

Haachama Construction - Sell (but buy Watasheep)

It was inevitable. Haachama/Haato thing was not going to be settled soon. Haato barely finished the Coexist arc, getting the Anno disease in the process. It was pretty clear that the Haato/Haachama thing became overblown and unfitting to what Hololive was now.

But this leaves us with Watame, and Watame is in an interesting position. Watame is between a lot of companies now. With Shiranui-Elite, she is part of the four heavenly lords, and as Watasheep, she does the delivery of Menya Botan and KFP, both part of UsaKen, who inadvertently cornered the fast-food business. And she is part of the 4th Gen, who has come much closer due to the departure of Coco.

Watame has always made the safe choice, she revolutionized the server with her excellent Janken machine, but it was Kanata who became the seller. Watame might choose to leave herself out, since her Minecraft streams are kind of meant to be relaxing. The reason she deliberately chose to level her field, instead of building the sign outwards like the rest of the signs. So, perhaps nothing comes of this…

OkaKoro Constructions & Shirakami Forestry - Buy

This wave of HoloServer was so large that even the rarer visitors felt a need to visit. Flare has reached out to Okayu, who has pointed out the reason for her absence was the loss of her basement and Korone has followed interest in the server as well.

Fubuki returned to finish her massive sakura tree, of course she acts alone, but she has been increasingly open to hiring people, but it’s not sure if this will become reality. Perhaps if Akukin finally dissolves, there would be enough workforce…

Kureiji Constructions - Buy

Ollie had a roller coaster of three months… Like a burnt fuse, Ollie has had several physical problems… that didn’t stop her from doing math streams (there are precedents Yashiro and Gwelu being good examples) and returning recently with late contributions to the Summer Festival. Reine has been helping on the side as well…

Free Agents - Sell

There is not much of this category anymore. Anya is the One who does not play Minecraft, in fact her demeanor is quite different from anyone else. Ayame not only has been gone from Minecraft, she has been gone, period. She really just returned to streaming after about three weeks? Risu is the only one remotely available, but she has the gene of OkaKoro, which does not induce work ethics in Minecraft, no matter how skilled she is. (Her roller coaster MLG is still one of my favorite clips)

Overall, 2021 Q2 was the best of times and the worst of times. There was a lot of big progress and a lot of setbacks as well. It’s a deeply uncomfortable but adventurous position, as it always has been for HoloServer and HoloPro as a whole. Next quarter will be further accomplishments and further challenges, and the company and the personalities and the audience will bear it through it all, as they always have.

#hololive #quarterly report #minecraft

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cno-inbminor · 4 years

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adsentio - the masque

a/n: it’s royalty!au once again! i would recommend reading adsentio AND bonus letters for the full context. thank you to those who were waiting patiently! did i rewatch ‘ever after: a cinderella story’ for inspiration? of course.

genre: royalty!au ft. fem!reader, angst, fluff; warnings: terribly written sword fight, somewhat unedited.

summary: You’re starting to wonder if an impostor wrote those letters instead of Prince Akaashi, but the show must go on.

wc: ~7.4k

royalty!au: adsentio (pt. 1) | bonus letters (pt 1.5) | the masque (pt. 2)

“Are you sure everything is packed?”

“Yes, mother,” you reply, voice laced with exasperation.

“Is your dress for the ceremony there as well? We absolutely cannot leave without that gown!”

“Yes, mother, it’s in there,” you reassure, pointing to a trunk that’s already in the carriage. An audible sigh of relief leaves your mother’s lips. Even though your mother’s fretting was starting to grate at your last nerves, you still felt the excitement of going back to the Fukurodani Kingdom.

After all, Prince Akaashi is waiting for you.

Akaashi’s Christmas gift had come a month and a half before the holiday it was intended for. Soon after, the two of you agreed to refrain from sending any letters during the months of frost, wanting to lessen the burden on the delivery man. He needed to be home with his family when possible, and the journey could be treacherous during those times. As warmer weather rolled around in mid-March, his familiar face had arrived at your castle steps with a small bundle of letters tied with parcel string. They were all addressed to you in a handwriting that you had grown extremely fond of.

If it were up to you, you would be adorned in your most comfortable riding attire and charge full speed ahead. You would probably be able to cut the journey time by about a third, and though it wasn’t much, it would still mean that you would see Akaashi sooner. With how forward he was in his letters, you could only bubble with enthusiasm at how different this summer could be.

Nevertheless, time passes as it does, and you’re once again at the entrance of Fukurodani’s castle. As always, the king and queen stand side by side at the bottom of the steps, the prince standing politely by them. It seems that Prince Akaashi has only grown more handsome since last summer. If you had to guess, he would be more than a full head taller than you. Besides height, Akaashi’s face seems to have lost any remaining baby fat, leaving nothing but a pointed chin and a sharp jawline. Whether or not it be a result of your newfound attraction towards him, there’s no room to deny just how handsome he truly is, bordering on ethereal beauty.

His piercing blue orbs seem to sparkle in delight when you step out of the carriage. In fact, he’s quick to take place of their usual footman and hold out a hand for you to grasp, securely ensuring that you don’t lose your step. Your grip is tight, and you can only hope that he sees the joy reflected in your own eyes. With intention and purpose, he presses his lips to the back of your hand, needing no reminder from his mother this time, and never removes his gaze from yours. Your breath seems to have escaped your lungs, even more so when he straightens and takes one daring step closer to you. Both of your parents must be brimming with satisfaction at this interaction, but all of it is ignored and disregarded. Akaashi still keeps your hand in his as he slightly leans down to whisper in your ear.

“You look beautiful as always, Princess (y/n).”

Your title had always moderately annoyed you over the last 18 years, but you decide then and there that there would be no complaint if he addressed you as so for the rest of eternity. Furthermore, if it weren’t for your dignity and pride, you would kiss him right now in front of everyone. As he pulls away, you do your best to compose yourself. After all, two can play this game.

“Thank you, Your Highness. You’ve grown more handsome since I last saw you.”

“Have we returned to formalities again?”

“Please forgive my old habits, Prince Akaashi.”

“(Y/n),” he murmurs darkly, metallic blue eyes full of warning and mischief. “Need I remind you of my given name?”

You register the tightening of his grip. Don’t even dare, his eyes seem to caution, not when so much progress was made through paper and ink. But you know he will rise to a challenge for his desires when he sees one – it’s only in his nature.

“Perhaps I need a reason to address you as such,” you quip, watching his eyes flash with an emotion you are unable to pinpoint. Nevertheless, you remove your hand from his, ignoring the yearning for the warmth that he had provided. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must greet the king and queen or they’ll have my head.”

Akaashi only watches with longing as you trek away to curtsy before his parents. Could your birthday celebration come any sooner?

You’re beginning to think that someone other than Prince Akaashi wrote those letters to you, that someone else had just forged his handwriting to a tee and perfectly replicated his writing style. Since the little interaction between you two on the day of your arrival, Akaashi was acting as if this were any other summer. Very little was said to or done with you – even last summer, the two of you had often strolled through the gardens while discussing various topics. Yet now, it was five summers ago all over again: the two of you at opposite ends of the castle reading your desired books.

You only ever saw him during mealtimes or in passing – even then, he would simply nod in your direction or only speak to you when he had to. Your efforts to narrow the gap diminished significantly by the third day, and by the end of the first week, you decided to completely give up. The prince has constructed a wall between you two and you possessed no ability to strike it down.

On days you weren’t reading, out of boredom and the need to fill your mind with thoughts of anything other than Akaashi, you would help prepare for the ball and your coming-of-age celebration. A private, proper ceremony would be done in your own kingdom once you returned, but it had long been determined that the festivities would be held here. Invitations and RSVP’s had steadily increased over the months, indicating that this would be a grand occasion. All the lessons on design and party-arrangement were finally paying off in its fullest, but your mother could not ignore the lack of life in your eyes.

It’s two weeks before the ball – you’re currently sitting in your chambers, lounging in a chair on your balcony with a book in your lap. You’ve recently taken an interest in philosophy, first starting with the works of Aristotle and Plato. A faint rap of knuckles on your door breaks your focus. “Come in,” you call out loud enough for your visitor to hear. The door clicks open and shut, and you’re mildly surprised to see your mother turning the corner to search for you.

“Mother, what a surprise,” you express while standing. She pulls you in for a hug without a word, only confusing you in the process as you return the embrace. After removing herself, she guides you back inside until the two of you are sitting on the edge of your bed, still holding your hands.

“Something has been bothering you, my child. Is there something you wish to tell me?” Your mother doesn’t want to push – she knows of the letters, your developed affection for Akaashi, and the lack of interaction between the two of you this summer. It’s hard to miss the lack of your figure by his side when he’s wondering around the castle, the ever pensive, calculating look on his face never fading. It’s hard to miss the way you often pick at your food, even going as far to request smaller portions for all your meals.

But it’s even harder to ignore the worried look in the prince’s eyes that’s cast your way when you excuse yourself after every meal, leaving earlier than everyone else.

You can only sigh before your teeth begin to gently gnaw on your bottom lip. “Mother, how angry would you be if this engagement doesn’t proceed as you’ve planned?”

“To be quite honest,” she begins as a small smile forms on her face. “I wouldn’t be angry at all. Not if the cost of it was your happiness.”

“But what about the merger?”

“With all these years between our kingdoms, engagement or not, a merger of sorts would only be inevitable. We only hoped that naturally, you and the prince would be drawn towards each other. But to force the two of you together would be unfair – your father and mine, as well as his parents, main concern is the happiness of our children.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“Of course,” your mother emphasizes, a hand reaching up to cradle your cheek. “In fact, if you would like…

“We don’t have to come here next summer.”

Your eyes widen. Your mother was giving you a choice in this?

“Are you...sure?”

“I’m absolutely positive, (y/n). I will not force you and neither will your father, especially if forcing you would only make your pain greater.”

“Very well then, mother. We shall see.”

“Keep your chin up, my dear. We must keep you in your best shape for the ball, and…” she pauses, her smile turning somewhat mischievous. “Perhaps remind the prince that he should be properly courting you by now.”

“Mother!”

“Is it proper for a princess to be sparring?”

“Bokuto, you’ve known me for so many years, yet you still ask me this question every time. Do you really think my father would allow me to marry without knowing how to defend myself?”

“I can’t really say, Princess. At least, not without possibly offending the king.”

Every summer, you make it tradition to leave time for sparring. When you turned fourteen, many of the younger guards in training had been terrified of practicing with you, fearing that they’d be punished for engaging in behavior that could possibly harm the princess. But after much coaxing and convincing (as well as written promise from King Akaashi), they finally felt comfortable in sparring with you. Back at home, you had a few designated training partners from the royal guard, but it would do no good if you didn’t keep up with your skills.

You’ve won your fair share, as well as lost a few handfuls. But you were never a sore loser and only thanked your partner for their time, even asking for pointers. On a few occasions, you would duel with Akaashi, though for times when you were at an advantage, you would purposely lose. The prince needed faith and trust from his men, and many would be dimwitted enough to let a few losses to a woman diminish their view of him. Akaashi was very well aware of your generosity, as well as Bokuto, which only caused him to tease the prince relentlessly in private.

For the sixth time this summer, just one week before the masque, you had pleaded with Bokuto for his time. At this point, you prefer to not ask for anything from Akaashi, especially when you’re so obviously kept at arm’s length. Bokuto is much more agreeable and doesn’t treat you like a glass figurine, thanks to the many years of roughhousing during your childhoods. He isn’t afraid to use his full force behind the strikes of his sword and you could always guarantee a few good rounds from him. Additionally, he always offers a lot of good advice after each duel. When you incorporate his teachings into your skill set, he recognizes it immediately and howls with pride, praising himself for being such a wonderful instructor.

“Why haven’t you asked Akaashi to spar with you yet?” Bokuto asks while tightening his gloves. The training grounds are empty at this time, though to be fair, it’s still quite early in the morning. You wanted to spar comfortably without the overbearing heat of the summer afternoon sun. A sigh leaves your lips – it’s not as if he doesn’t know already.

“I believe you’re well aware of why I haven’t, Bokuto. He’s barely spoken to me in these weeks. In fact, I’m sure he has better things to do than to indulge me.”

“He still cares for you.”

“Well, he has a funny way of showing it,” you reply bitterly and draw out your sword. “Come on, no time to dawdle.”

Disobeying your words, Bokuto bides his time with some extra stretching. “I’m his closest friend, I would know.”

“Then he can tell me himself. Can we please start?”

“Very well then.”

His words have riled you up significantly, Bokuto notices. Your attacks are relentless and your senses seem sharper than ever, easily dodging and parrying with the footwork of an experienced soldier. In fact, your movement is breathtakingly graceful, almost as if you were dancing. The duel goes on for minutes until Bokuto accidentally hesitates and can only surrender when the tip of your sword is millimeters from his neck. He drops his sword and a big grin forms on his face.

You lower your weapon and step back as the both of you catch your breath. Behind you, Bokuto spots a familiar figure leaning over the edge of their balcony. They’re too far away to hear what you’re saying or what expressions you’re wearing, but that doesn’t stop Bokuto from coming up with a devious plan.

“(Y/n), don’t look behind you, but he’s watching.”

You freeze – you completely forgot that Akaashi’s room faces the direction of the training grounds. Naturally, he has his own balcony, but you didn’t think he’d be watching. Had he been observing all your other sparring rounds? And how was he awake now? He’s usually never up this early.

“I have an idea,” Bokuto continues. “But you have to play along, all right?”

“I’m not liking the sound of this…”

“You just need to follow my lead. Now, pretend you’re about to start another duel.”

With all the confusion displayed on your face, you warily adjust yourself into your preparatory stance. Bokuto steps closer to you while sheathing his sword, eyeing your position with his hands behind his back. He quickly checks to see if Akaashi is still paying attention, and after confirming so, he enters your bubble of personal space.

“If you begin to feel uncomfortable, tell me. If I’m right, it’ll only take a few minutes before he’s down here.”

“But I don’t want—”

“Shh,” Bokuto interrupts with a gloved finger on your lips. He smirks when he spots Akaashi suddenly straightening himself, his posture turning stiff and guarded. You watch as he reaches for the hand holding your sword, wrapping his own around your grip.

“What are you doing?” You hiss at him.

“Wait a few seconds…okay,” Bokuto removes himself from your personal space. You relax and put down your guard, resisting the urge to punch him in the arm.

“What ever was all that for?!”

“Look,” he replies, pointing in the direction of Akaashi’s balcony. “He’s gone. I guarantee he’ll be here in the next five minutes.”

“Bokuto—”

“Now, now, let’s have another round to pass the time.”

“But—”

You’re interrupted when Bokuto swings his sword towards you, your own blocking his instinctively. You could try to protest all you want, but he wasn’t going to let you have it. You would make sure that he regrets it. Much like the first round, you put your all into the sparring session, fury growing as Bokuto’s grin widens over time. He’s taunting you over and over, leaving you so focused that you’re completely oblivious to the third figure currently making their way towards the two of you. Once within earshot, Akaashi clears his throat and you whip towards him with horror in your eyes.

“Ah, Akaashi, excellent! So glad you could join us!” Bokuto yells, walking away from you to clap him on the shoulder. “In fact, would you mind taking over from here? I just remembered I needed to attend to something back inside the castle. Thank you, Akaashi!” And then Bokuto just…leaves.

A shroud of silence covers the two of you – your attention is directed at anything but the object of your affections, choosing to focus on the dew of the grass, the glint of the light on your sword, the light morning breeze blowing past your stray hairs, the loose threads at the waist of your pants—

“Shall we begin?” He asks, breaking the tranquility.

Akaashi is infuriating; infuriatingly handsome, infuriatingly good at stripping down your defenses, infuriatingly adept at raising your heartbeat to an alarming rate. It’s simply unfair, and it angers you.

You say nothing while taking a few steps backward, your feet adjusting yourself in the same position that Bokuto had you stand in just mere minutes ago. Akaashi observes and also readies himself, his stance very similar to yours. Only seconds pass before he’s charging towards you, and the fight begins.

The first round falls in his favor, his face showing little reaction throughout the whole clash. You demand another round, barely giving time for a break because you’re brimming with the need to have some semblance of a victory. Weeks of pent up furious confusion make themselves known in the way you fight – you no longer move with the grace seen earlier with Bokuto. Instead, traces of sloppiness are there in your footwork and Akaashi takes advantage of this, though he begins to worry. If this were a real duel, you would’ve long fallen victim to his sword.

The second round lasts much longer than the first due to your obstinate refusal to back down and give up. Your braid had long come undone and Akaashi can’t help but think about how beautiful you look, even with your hair seemingly flying wildly every time you spin to try to catch him off guard. His split focus costs him when your weapons meet in the middle, allowing you to push and twist his hand around to force him to lose his grip. The metal is flung towards the side and he’s met with the shimmer of your sword that’s dangerously close to his jugular vein. He slowly brings his hands up in surrender and you falter.

Both of your chests rapidly rise and fall, lungs desperate for oxygen. Akaashi struggles to remember the last time you had put so much effort into a duel, your desperation to win screaming itself into the air. He notices how much thinner your face has gotten, how your arm slightly trembles with exhaustion. You need to rest and eat more, Akaashi concludes with furrowed eyebrows. Your well-being is of utmost importance to him.

You feel yourself begin to quiver under Akaashi’s stare, yet long to know what could be going through his mind. Even though you’ve won this round, Akaashi still has your heart and the thought somewhat embarrasses you. You’ve always prided yourself in being level-headed, yet you just spent the last thirty to forty-five minutes taking out all your frustrations on him.

“Have you been getting enough sleep, (y/n)?”

Don’t say my name like that.

“I don’t see why it matters,” you sigh, moving away to pick up his fallen sword.

“You need to look after yourself,” Akaashi replies, following after her with a slight sense of urgency. You whip around too fast for him to react, only groaning from the impact when you practically shove his weapon to his chest. Nothing prepared you for this conversation – you aren’t ready to have it, and you’d rather not have it with swords nearby.

“I am looking after myself, your highness,” you bite through gritted teeth. Your feet carry you as fast as possible towards the entrance back into the castle, but a hand latches onto your wrist and demands your attention. You have no choice but to turn your body towards him, denying that his eyes are flashing nothing but concern and frustration.

“You’re eating less. You’re always awake at odd hours. Your corsets are too tight – they look as if they’ll squeeze the life out of you. You keep pushing yourself too hard during sparring sessions. It takes you longer than usual to finish books. You’re under the sun too much—”

“You have no right!” you accuse, attempting to wriggle your wrist from his grip. Why does he speak as if he’s been keeping a watchful eye on you when he can barely meet your own over the dinner table?

Akaashi refuses to relent, even pulling you closer to him under the shadows of the doorway. “Please (y/n), you must know how much I worry—”

“Then pray tell, why have you ignored me since I stepped foot into your castle?!” You cry out, tears of vexation beginning to form. “Why have you ignored my very existence, as if we are twelve again and trying to escape something seemingly inevitable?! How could—how could you build me up for months and months, only to tear me down without a second thought?”

Akaashi knows his reasoning is botched and full of fallacies – he’s beginning to understand the extent of how much his actions have affected you, but he can’t help but try to save some face. His cool, collected façade and wisdom had long taken a backseat towards matters concerning you, and he feels like a fool. A big, bumbling, inexplicably irrational fool in love.

“Princess—”

“I would have no qualms if you had just outright told me that you didn’t care for me,” you interrupt once more, though in a calmer tone. Your body is still shaking from the emotional downpour, tears streaking down your cheeks unattractively. You wish you could just take a horse from the stables and ride home, away from all this nonsense. “But you can’t write me those letters, the very ones that I’ve so deeply cherished this passing year, and treat me as if it were all some dream that my brain so desperately sprung together.”

“I have my deepest regrets – I’m so sorry, it’s just…with the way we greeted each other on the first day, I somehow convinced myself that you didn’t mean what you wrote—”

“Keiji,” you interrupt softly. How he wishes you were saying his name in a different context, in a tone that was full of love than disappointment. How he wishes there were no salty tears tracking down your cheeks. “You have known me for almost thirteen years. Thirteen long, playful, revealing years. Nothing ever escapes you, and you said so yourself; we are old friends. Therefore,” you pause, gulping.

“Shouldn’t you know that I would never pen those words to just anyone?”

And you disappear into the castle.

Akaashi feels that there’s nothing more appropriate than beating his head into the wall, cursing himself for being so stupid.

What have I done?

“I must say, in the most appropriate sense, you are truly, royally fucked.”

“I know, Bokuto. I know.”

Akaashi tries to make up for his mistakes in his classic fashion: silently, with small thoughtful gifts.

He has resumed leaving flowers from the garden in your chambers again: some days, you return to a peony. Other days, you return to the addition a single rose in the ardent shade of passionate love. They accumulate on your dresser, your room becoming filled with the floral scents. The lingering fragrance haunts your dreams, filled with flashes of childhood memories and anticipated encounters at the masque. You often wake up feeling as if there’s a lead weight on your chest, and even though you physically slept for eight hours, the fatigue in your eyes vehemently argue otherwise.

Akaashi becomes insistent on escorting you everywhere, always offering his arm for you to take. At first, you’re hesitant, but just a day later, it becomes second nature. Akaashi joins you again when reading – if he can, he’ll take a seat next to you. If not, he’ll be sure to be across from you, though he’s not reading most of these times. He often carries a journal with him, assistants always prepared to provide him with a writing utensil and ink, and scribbles away. Akaashi has never held back his admiration for the world’s literature, and four days before your birthday, you pause in your reading to feed the curiosity.

“What are you scribbling in there, if I may ask?”

“A…personal work of sorts.”

“Your Highness, an author? I must say, it suits you. Is it a work of fiction?”

“Not this time,” he says with the ghost of a demure, secretive smile on his face. “You could consider it a memoir.”

“If you say so.”

It had been decided some time ago that the ball would be held the night before your birthday, rather than the day of. These events were known to last well into the night, so at midnight, they would make an announcement in your honor and present you before everyone invited. With these change in plans, your original deadline for Akaashi to find you had to be moved ahead, and he was less than pleased to hear this the day before the ball, even though it was anticipated.

“Fifteen minutes is precious time, Princess,” Akaashi expresses with displeasure. “Could you permit me at least five ‘til midnight?”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, milord. I must have enough time to prepare myself.”

“Have I only been upgraded to being called ‘milord’?”

“How is it that your title irks you so?”

“Only when it’s coming from you, Princess. And I must say, you’re one to speak – don’t think I’m unaware of how much you greatly dislike it when you’re addressed as such. You’ve never bothered to correct me though. Why is that?”

“Perhaps…” you say, giving him a side glance full of mirth. “Perhaps you’re just an exception.”

Akaashi’s eyes widen a bit before crinkling with delight. You never cease to amaze him, reminding him at the most unexpected times that you are also invested in this growing relationship with him. He quickly looks around him before gently dragging you to the nearest empty bedroom, hoping that even though the walls have ears, they don’t have the eyes to witness this. Once the door is quietly shut behind him, Akaashi begins to take slow steps in your direction, towering over you and crowding you until your heels hit the wall. You struggle to maintain eye contact as well as keeping your breathing under control. Akaashi continues to pin you down with his piercing gaze, gradually bending down until he’s at eye level with you. Thoughts run amok in your brain as his face nears yours. Is he going to—

Your internal process ceases when he tenderly places a kiss at the corner of your lips, then moving until his breath is right by your ear. The sensation triggers a shiver down your spine, causing him to chuckle.

“To give you an idea of what I’d like my reward to be when I catch you tomorrow night, Princess,” he murmurs before moving away.

You’re blushing furiously no matter how much you fight it, barely registering when he lifts both of your hands to place a similarly gentle kiss on your touching knuckles. Part of you wants to protest when he steps towards the door and cracks it open, peeking out to see if anyone is lingering in the corridors. Akaashi keeps a hold on one of your hands, quickly leading you out and folding it into the crook of his other elbow. He fixes his gaze in front of him to bring on an air of normalcy, as if he didn’t just sneak you into a spare bedroom to do something that many would somewhat frown upon. Akaashi had yet to ask to formally court you, but he has full intentions to change that tomorrow night.

“Perhaps you’ll give me an insight on what you’ll be wearing tomorrow night?” He inquires cheekily and you send him your dirtiest glare.

“Only in your dreams, milord. Did you not read the part about making this harder on you so I could have some fun?”

“Wouldn’t it be better to have fun with each other?”

“Do you mean to tempt me?” You tease, chuckling into the back of your free hand.

“There was no guarantee that you’d refuse – am I not allowed to grasp onto any remaining hope?”

“Whatever satisfies you, milord.”

“Then let me find you tomorrow night. I don’t believe I’ll stand for any of the other suitors attempting to whisk you away with baseless words and ill intentions.”

“What would you know of their intentions?” You ask curiously, looking up towards him. His eyes darken and harden with an emotion you’re not familiar with. It’s one that is never directed towards you, almost dangerous in a way.

“More than you should know, Princess,” he replies gravely.

Before you realize it, you’re sitting in front of your vanity, sitting as prettily and patiently as you can while your handmaiden, Yachi, does her best work on your hair. You observe your current features – a faint blush had been dusted on your cheeks and a deep rouge painted on your lips. Your mask would be similar to many those of the other attendees, one more thing to pull in your favor in this game of cat and mouse.

Your heart begins to beat faster as the seconds tick by – there’s no doubt that Akaashi is already by his parents’ side, carrying a princely aura and politely greeting all the guests. The ball began at 9PM and it was already thirty minutes after. You can hear the faint sounds of the musicians playing up a lively theme, imagining that the festivities will be in full swing soon. Soon, your handmaiden is patting you on the shoulder, notifying you that she was done. In the mirror, you turn your head left and right and nod appreciatively, thanking her for her hard work. Your fingers shakily pick up your mask and Yachi ties it securely behind your head and underneath your hair.

“Do you think he’ll recognize me?” You ask nervously, fiddling your fingers in your lap. Yachi knew almost everything about the ordeal and had even come up with some good ideas to make things harder on the prince.

“If he keeps in mind that you’ll be the most beautiful maiden at the ball, then I’m sure he will,” Yachi giggles, tucking in some stray hairs.

“You’re not here to lie to me,” you whine, pouting slightly. “In all seriousness…”

“I have no doubt, milady,” Yachi says, her eyes and tone softening. “If His Highness likes you as much as he says he does, then he will certainly find you.”

You let out a deep breath before standing from your chair, the nerves beginning to course through your system. In the reflection, you gaze upon the line of flower-filled vases on your dresser, their presence somehow bringing you some serenity. Yachi is right -- with how much he boasted in letters about studying every memory he has of you, there should be a reasonable level of certainty that he would catch you by your deadline.

But now was the time to be festive. After all, the guests were here in your honor (and to have a joyous time) and you’d be rude to not partake in the activities. Some of the maids are bustling around, ensuring that drinks and food are readily available, never running low. The sound of your heels clicking along the granite echoes against the walls, yet your heartbeat seems louder and louder as you near the ballroom. The castle beholds two specific large ballrooms with double doors towards the courtyard, allowing the cool summer air in. You take a quick detour and choose to enter the ballroom from the outside, much less likely to arouse suspicion.

At least everyone seems to be enjoying themselves, you think to yourself with a smile. It’s easy to spot Bokuto in the crowd with that hair of his, just as you predicted. The band just finishes a song when you sneak in, yet starts up a familiar tune not long after. The piece calls for a large group to dance together, and wanting to join in, you make your way to the center. Luckily, one more female was needed and you are welcomed, as well as gently shoved to a tall man who seemed to be lacking a partner. It’s not hard to guess who it is, however. Even with a mask, you could recognize that crooked grin from anywhere.

As per tradition, he bows to you and you curtsy, then routinely placing your hand in his. He draws you close to him by the waist, but his grip is light and barely holds any weight on your back. Taking a quick once-over at the group, he addresses you.

“Should I be counting my lucky stars to be dancing with the princess in honor?” He teases just loud enough for you to hear.

“I would advise against it, Prince Kuroo.”

A quiet laugh leaves his chest as he gives you a spin, flawlessly bring you back to him. “You can trust me, Princess. Bokuto has already informed me of the game in place, though I suppose it was more of a warning more than anything.”

“Oh, how so?”

“If I didn’t want to face the wrath of your dear prince, I should refrain from attempting to convince you that a merger between our kingdoms would be more ideal.”

“I must say, I’m a little surprised that Bokuto isn’t trying to stir up trouble.”

“I would advise against speaking too soon – he’s already on his third glass of mead.”

“Good gods,” you mutter in disbelief. Kuroo shakes with laughter.

“For my amusement, I’d like to see Akaashi be a clumsy fool in love. You have my word that I’ll keep this interaction secret for now,” he promises, rushing his words a little bit. Soon, the two of you will need to break apart and switch partners.

“But don’t forget to have a little fun. Happy birthday, Princess,” Kuroo says sincerely in your ear, sneaking in a quick kiss to the back of your hand before letting you go. You fall into the hands of another male, one you don’t recognize, and fall into silent routine until the dance is over. When the band comes to a stop, everybody bows to each other with a wide smile on their faces and cheeks tinted red from happiness. Momentarily, you had forgotten about your nerves and Akaashi, but now that there was nothing else to focus on, the shivers of being chased creep along your body.

In one sense, it’s almost thrilling. The thought has you questioning your own sanity, but perhaps it’s only because Akaashi is the one searching for you, finding the right time to pounce. As a result, you never stay in one place for too long, mingling into other crowds and making small talk. Very few have noticed who you were, and even Bokuto replaces his antics for a wink when he passes by you, knowing his usual behavior would give it all away.

The clock strikes eleven, each toll causing your heart to skip a beat. You grant yourself one more glance towards Akaashi.

Earlier during the dance, you had spotted him in the far corner of the ballroom staring in another direction. Now when you have the time to watch and appreciate, you can’t help but marvel at how beautiful this man is. Time boded well on him, his features and height resembling a strong, trustworthy young prince. He had the intellect and perceptive level worthy of being king, and even the atmosphere around him agreed. His head was fit to hold a crown, and any woman would fall at his feet in seconds. Tonight, he is donned in the kingdom’s colors, his own attire a regal show of ivory, ebony, and gold. The design is not overly ornate or flamboyant, yet regal enough to instantaneously remind others exactly who he is. Each hue makes him shine like a beacon of light in darkness.

Needing some fresh air, you slip out towards the courtyard and quietly make your way to the garden entrance. A couple of guards are standing watch but let you in once you untie the mask from your face. Your feet pad down a familiar path towards the rows of peonies and you’re thankful for the uninhibited rays of the full moon tonight. They’re cast in a soft glow of white and blue – you can’t help but tenderly touch petals of one half-open.

“I had an inkling that you would come here.”

The familiar tenor startles you out of your wits, your hand flying back up to your chest as you turn towards the perpetrator for your premature heart attack. None other than Prince Akaashi stands before you with his hands behind his back and a twinkle in his eyes. Then, the weight is lifted off your chest.

He had found you.

Once you catch your breath, you can only let out a suppressed laugh. There was nowhere to hide, not when your mask is grasped between the fingers of your other hand. He hadn’t even bothered to wear one, though you’ll scold him later for not participating in the festivities.

“I suppose you followed me here?”

“You could say that,” Akaashi replies with a smile, moving closer to stand right in front of you.

“It did take you over an hour and a half though.”

“(Y/n).”

“…yes, milord?”

“I noticed you the second you stepped into the ballroom.”

The statement baffles you and freezes you to the core. You find yourself unable to do anything when Akaashi grasps both of your hands in his, bringing them to his lips much like he did yesterday.

“Then why did you not come to me then?” You question after finding your voice again. Akaashi says nothing at first, only rearranging your limbs to a familiar posture for a waltz. He begins to step and lead, your own feet naturally following him as if you’ve been practicing this for a long time together. His silence makes you grow more unsure of all this.

“I wanted to observe, reconfirm my suspicions that I was already fully convinced on. In addition, I wanted you to enjoy yourself. You and our mothers have spent so many months preparing this – it’s only right that you enjoy the fruits of your labor.”

“Then you saw me dance?”

“Yes, and you were the best of them all,” he instantly compliments, always honest and straightforward to the point, sending blood to your cheeks.

“Thank you, milord,” you reply sheepishly.

“You’re welcome, Princess. Though I must say,” Akaashi’s tone turns dangerous, leaning over to whisper in your ear. He notices how your hands tighten their grips on his, perhaps trying to ground yourself. “Why did Prince Kuroo of Nekoma speak to you like this, so intimately? I thought, perhaps, this would also be left as a privilege solely for me?”

“He was doing just as you had warned before,” you chuckle, silently apologizing for pulling the wool over Kuroo’s eyes. Judging by the sharp inhale, Akaashi was less than pleased at what you were insinuating. “He may or may not have been attempting to persuade me into forming a more personal alliance with his kingdom.”

“Was he now…” Akaashi murmurs. In an effort to contain the green jealousy rising within him (and gain a little leverage), his hands slowly release yours to gently grasp your waist. For a moment, he wishes they were holding you this way in a different situation, but that doesn’t stop him from daringly ghosting his lips over the column of your neck, his breath sending goosebumps along your skin. You keep as still as possible, completely unsure of what to do. But if there’s one thing that is certain, it’s that no man could ever have an effect on you like Akaashi does.

“I have known you since you were young,” he proceeds. “And though we didn’t want anything to do with each other, we eventually grew accustomed to each other. Before I even realized it, I was watching your every move, listening to every word you said. Even when we were twelve, I found myself wanting to be near you. I wanted you to take notice of me just as I did you. When we were fifteen and you sat against me by the fireplace…there was the most wonderful sense of belonging, as if you were supposed to be right there by my side.”

Your heart might fail you at this point, aching for the man who was now lifting his head away to face you. The back of one hand lifts to caress your cheek, and your eyes catch the ardent passion in his, even in the moonlight.

“I penned those words to you with every intention of properly courting you. I wished for you to understand the lengths I would go to ensure your happiness. It was never about this merger between our kingdoms and hasn’t been for a long time. I only want you to know that should you allow me to, it would be my honor to court you and perhaps…be your husband.”

Unshed tears of joy are brimming in your eyes. Akaashi has suffered enough, you believe. A tear must have escaped because he catches it with his thumb, softly wiping it away. You can’t help but let out a breathless laugh, and Akaashi knows it’s a good sign. The smile on his face grows wider as you collect yourself to give your response.

“You do, after all, deserve a reward for finding me.”

Akaashi smirks and tilts his head forward, his lips millimeters away from yours.

“And what would that be, Princess?” He purrs.

Your heart takes a leap and you press your lips to his. Instantly, Akaashi cradles your face, refusing to separate from you. The first kiss is innocent and unmoving, allowing the both of you to revel in the sensation. A thrilling streak of adrenaline courses through your veins and sets your soul on fire as he puts more force, conveying to you his neediness and years of pent-up desire. You return it ounce for ounce until you can’t breathe anymore, pulling back to breathe in some much-needed oxygen. Akaashi doesn’t stop, sensuously kissing every available surface of your cheeks until he’s tired of waiting to kiss your lips once more. You give in and let yourself fall until the point of no return – even if Akaashi was the devil incarnate, you would gladly hand over your soul for an eternity of his love.

“As much as I want to continue this,” he states over bated breath. “We have a ball to return to.”

You sigh and nod, brushing your nose against his before allowing some distance between the two of you. Akaashi offers to tie the mask before taking hold of your hand, folding it into the crook of his elbow as he has done many times before. The two of you bide your time as much as possible, giving each other knowing glances when the courtyard is within your view again. Some of the ladies (and men) throw you nasty looks for having had private time with the prince, but none of it matters as Akaashi asks for a dance, spending the rest of the minutes until midnight with you in his arms.

After midnight strikes and being presented to the crowd, Akaashi keeps a hold on you again, ignoring the jeering and teasing gestures from Bokuto and Prince Kuroo. Kuroo, the ever honest yet playful man he is, sends you a wink behind Akaashi’s back and you bury your face into his chest. Whatever the cause may be, Akaashi continues to envelop you in his arms with a light and comfortable conversation taking place. As a natural silence passes over, he whispers into your ear, “Happy birthday, Princess.”

“Thank you, Keiji.”

Ecstasy fills his soul -- there hasn’t been anything more gratifying or more satisfying than hearing his name from your lips again. Finally, from now until death...he feels absolutely complete.

249 notes · View notes

phykios · 3 years

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marmaromenos, 2/?, percy and poseidon for CommanderBear on ao3 :) [read on ao3]

June, 1444

Percy tilted his head back, staring up at the great, beautiful beast of a church which loomed before him, the one they called St. Sophia, the house of holy wisdom. Everyone in Constantinople knew of this church, of course, towering above the city as it did, a beacon for the men and women of Christendom. Supposedly, travelers from all over the world came to marvel at the sight, at the architectural marvel of the ancient Romans.

Personally, Percy thought it looked a little lumpy.

Though he supposed it was more impressive than his mother’s temple, with its stone walls instead of wooden beams. Certainly it was much larger.

He was surprised none of the church guards thought to throw him out, looking as bedraggled as he did. Dirty and travel-worn, with ripped clothes just barely covering his myriad of injuries, he must have looked as one of the homeless children who haunted the street corners, begging for coin or food from kind passersby. Percy was not at all fit to wander such exalted halls.

Yet wander he did, right up to a guard with a scar on his hand in the shape of a triangle, and with an air of bravery which he did not truly feel, Percy said to the man the words which he had been instructed to say, “I seek an audience with the emperor.”

The guard looked at him over his nose, unimpressed. “Then get yourself to the palace.”

“I request an audience with the Panellenios.” Still the guard stared blankly at him. But Percy had been warned he might be stubborn. “With Zeus Olumpios.”

The man narrowed his eyes.

Percy glared right back, for he could be a thousand times more hard-headed than any man.

“Have you been granted an audience?” he asked, after some time.

“No, but--”

“Then he shall not see you,” said the guard. “No appointment, no audience--no exceptions.”

“Oh, I wager he will make an exception,” Percy said, grasping the hilt of the sword which hung around his waist. It seemed to have shrunk on the journey back to Constantinople, now quite easily sized for him, where before it had clearly been forged for a much larger man, though the golden hilt was no less intricate, finely wrought with scenes of war and triumph, with a precision only found in the forges of Hephaestus.

Blankly, the guard looked at the sword on Percy's hip--then paled in sudden recognition. "Is that--?"

"Indeed," said Percy. "Would you like me to prove it?" And he made to unsheathe the lightning.

“No, no!” hissed the man, taking Percy’s shoulder and pulling him into a shadow. “Please, none of that here.”

Percy gave him a pointed look.

The man sighed. “Follow me.” Then, looking over his shoulder, he led them through the metal doors, into the church.

The first thing Percy noted was the walls. They were purple and green and white, cross sections of marble joined together in a stone tapestry of color and texture. Even the floors were a part of this tapestry, worn smooth from the feet of a thousand pilgrims.

And then he looked up.

Percy gasped.

He knew houses of worship to be dark, solemn places, but light streamed into the house of holy wisdom from a hundred different sources. Percy felt as if he were standing at the bottom of a great canyon, looking up at the sun which peeked out from over the cliff. The golden dome, the one which Annabeth had spoken so highly of, it seemed to float on nothing but air, suspended from the heavens as the walls which supported it dissolved into sunlight. And the colors! Lavish mosaics decorated each surface, portraits of emperors and empresses rendered in gold and precious stones, lit with colored glasses of red and purple and blue, as if they had harnessed the power of Iris herself just to shine on the faces of rulers long since passed.

The guard hissed at him, beckoning him through the hall towards the sanctuary. Laying a hand against one of the marble panels, there shone a blue triangle, and before his very eyes, the marble split open, like two leaves of a book coming undone, until there was a doorway, and a set of circular stairs. “Go,” said the guard. “Do not keep them waiting.”

He did as the man told him, and ascended the stairs. He walked. And walked. And kept walking. At one point, he had to stop and rest a while, catching his breath, one hand braced against the wall. How high was this malakes staircase?

Finally, blessedly, he reached the top. The doors to Olympus opened as he approached, revealing to him the home of the gods.

Percy stepped out and nearly fell off.

He stood on a thin, stone walkway in the middle of the air. Below him was the blue dome of St. Sophia and the city of Constantinople, from the height of one of Zeus’ mighty eagles. Before him, white marble steps wound their way through the clouds, into the blue sky, where Percy beheld the peak of a mountain, its summit covered with snow. Clinging to the mountainside were dozens of palaces, each one grander than that of the emperor of Rome, all with white-columned porticos and bronze braziers glowing with a thousand holy fires. Precariously perched gardens bloomed with olive trees and rose bushes, figs and pomegranates hanging low, ripe for the taking, almost as colorful as the temples. On one side, Percy could discern a stone amphitheater built out of the side of the mountain, a hippodrome and a coliseum on the other, and an open-air market filled with colorful tents in between, a vibrant, thriving city plucked straight from the past.

Percy wondered at it all. How could this be? How could the people of the city of Constantinople live underneath such splendor and not see it for themselves?

In a daze, he walked forward. He passed a few giggling wood nymphs who threw olives at him from the safety of their garden, as hawkers in the market offered to sell him fine food and rich wines, just as the mortals did. Traveling through a beautiful park, he spotted the nine muses tuning their instruments, while a small crowd gathered before them, satyrs and naiads, handsome youths and beautiful girls, unburdened and carefree. None seemed worried about the prospect of an impending civil war. Indeed, the mood was festive and joyful.

Several turned to watch as he passed, whispering to themselves.

Climbing the main road, towards the glittering white and silver palace at the peak, Percy passed through the central courtyard, stepping into the throne room. And it was a room, as it was contained within four walls--but room did not quite clearly capture the enormity of the space. Even bigger than the hall of St. Sophia, massive columns rose to another domed ceiling, gilded not with mosaics, but with living, breathing, moving constellations. He spied Orion, the Dioscuri, and his namesake, Perseus, traveling across the sky in their endless celestial dance.

Twelve thrones, built for enormous beings, were arranged in an inverted U, just as they were with the villas at the agoge, complete with an enormous fire crackling in the hearth, right in the center. The thrones were vacant, save for two at the end: the head throne on the right, and the one to its immediate left. Percy did not have to be told who the two gods were which sat there, observing him, awaiting his approach. He could barely even look at them without feeling his flesh begin to tingle, as though his body were mere moments away from burning.

Zeus Olumpios, the lord of the sky, sat before him on a throne made of solid metal, white and shining, in a great, purple cloak, the color that was reserved for kings and emperors only, his face proud and handsome, but grim, stern eyes steely blue like thunderclouds. The air about him crackled, smelling of flowers, the heartbeat before a lightning strike.

The god sitting next to him was his brother, of that Percy had no doubt, but he could not have been more different. He reminded Percy a little of the fishermen that dotted the harbors of the city, in his simple, light tunic and well-worn sandals. His skin was deeply tanned, hands scarred from the cuts of a thousand fishhooks. His hair was black, like Percy's, on which rested a crown of celery leaves, and his face was dark and brooding, the same look which had branded Percy as a troublemaker. But his eyes, the color of the Bosphorus in the sunlight, like Percy's, were surrounded by sun-crinkles which seemed to indicate that he was a man prone to smiling.

His throne was a fisherman's chair, and at his side, instead of a fishing pole, was a giant, bronze trident.

The gods did not move nor speak, but there was a tension in the air, as if Percy had come to them at the conclusion of some great argument.

Percy approached the fisherman's throne, kneeling at his feet. "Father."

He did not dare look up.

To his left, Zeus spoke, his voice the echo of thunderclaps. "Should you not first address the master of this house, boy?"

He kept his head down.

"Peace, brother," said Poseidon. His voice stirred one of Percy's oldest, most treasured memories: that warm glow he recalled as an infant, the sensation of this god's hand upon his forehead. "The boy defers to his father--this is only right."

"You still claim him, then?" Zeus asked him. "You claim this child whom you sired against our most sacred oath?"

"I have admitted my wrongdoings," said Poseidon. "Now, I would hear him speak."

Percy's heart beat in his chest, a lump growing in his throat. Was that all he was to this mighty being? A wrongdoing? A mistake?

"I have spared him once already," Zeus grumbled. "Daring to fly through my domain... pah! I should have struck him from the sky as I once did to Bellerophon for his impudence."

"And risk destroying your weapon?" asked Poseidon, as calm as the sea after a storm. "Let us hear him out, brother."

Grumbling once more, he acquiesced.

"Perseus," said his father. "Look at me."

He did.

His face was inscrutable. Percy saw no sign of neither approval nor disapproval. It was as if he were attempting to discern the mood of the ocean, whether or not it would provide safe travels or turbulent waves, from only the stillness of the waters. He could not sense whether or not Poseidon was pleased with him, he realized, and, in some strange way, it did not trouble him. Had he been more affectionate or loving, it would have felt like a trick, like the magic of some monster, luring him to his demise.

"Address Lord Zeus, boy," he intoned. "Tell him of your tale."

And so did Percy relate everything as it had happened to him, the long and twisted tale of the lightning thief. He told Zeus of Medusa and the Erinyes, of Echidna in Thessalonica, of the treachery of the god of war and the revelations uncovered in the Underworld. He unbuckled the sword and sheath from his belt, which had begun sparking in the god's presence, and carefully laid it at his feet.

For a long while, there was nothing but silence, broken only by the crackle of the hearth fire.

Zeus opened his palm, and the weapon flew to its master's palm. As he closed his fist about the hilt, it transformed before Percy's very eyes, into a jagged length of metal, a five-meter javelin of arcing, hissing energy.

"I sense the boy is telling the truth," Zeus muttered. "But that Ares would do such a thing... it is most unlike him."

"He is proud and impulsive, my lord," said Poseidon. "Something of a family trait, I believe."

Percy swallowed. "Lord?"

"Yes?" They said together.

"I do not feel that Lord Ares acted alone. There was another... a shadowy puppetmaster, operating just beyond his knowledge."

"How do you mean?" asked Zeus.

In one final, vicious confrontation, Percy had faced the god of war in single combat on the shores of Aitne. Though he had managed to land a blow on the god, striking his ankle, Ares had been poised to strike him down... until a strange, cold presence had seemed to cease the flow of time, causing Ares to stay his hand, a momentary breath of evil which had dogged his dreams, and Percy too told of this. "In my dreams, the voice bade me to bring the bolt to the Underworld, a voice that Ares seemed to have heard as well in his. I believe he was being used to start a war."

"So you do accuse Hades, then?" Zeus asked.

"No, Lord Zeus--I have been in his presence, and it was not what I felt on the beaches of Aitne. Rather, it was the same feeling I had when I got too close to the pit of Tartarus." For that was what it was, he suddenly realized. Something stirred down there, something evil and powerful... and older even than the two gods which sat before him.

Glancing at each other, the lords of sea and sky engaged in a quick, intense discussion in the ancient tongue, which Percy could not follow, though he was able to catch a single word: Father.

"We shall speak of this no more," said Zeus. "I shall personally go to purify this thunderbolt in the waters of Lemnos, removing the human taint from its metal."

He rose, looking at Percy, who stared back, willing everything in him not to flinch.

Then, his countenance softened, just a touch. "You have done me a service, boy. Few heroes could have accomplished as much."

"I was not alone, my lord," he said. "The satyr Aegidius, and Annabeth Fredriksdotter--"

"To show you my thanks, I shall spare your life. I do not trust you, Perseus of Constantinople, and I do not like what your arrival may portend for the future of Olympos. But for the sake of peace in the family, I shall let you live."

How magnanimous of him. "Thank you, sir."

"Do not let me find you here upon my return. Otherwise you shall taste this bolt--and it shall be your last sensation."

Thunder shook the hall of the gods, and with a blinding flash of lightning, Zeus had gone.

Percy was alone in the throne room with his father.

Poseidon sighed. "Your uncle," he said, rubbing at his nose with a finger, "always did have a flair for dramatic exits. Perhaps he should relieve his son as the god of theater, no?"

Percy could find no proper response to such a question. He was not certain that, even though he was no longer present, his words would not reach the god's ears. "Sir," he said instead, "what was the thing in the pit?"

The god regarded him. "Have you not already guessed?"

He had. "Kronos. The Titan king."

Even in the throne room, as far away from the pit as could be, the name darkened the room, cooling the warmth of the hearth fire at his back.

Poseidon gripped his trident, a calming gesture. "At the close of the First War, Zeus cut our father, Kronos, into a thousand pieces, just as Kronos had down to his own father, Ouranos, a generation prior. Zeus then cast Kronos' remains into the darkest pit of Tartarus. The army of the Titans was scattered, their fortress destroyed, their monstrous allies driven to the furthest corners of the earth--yet the Titans cannot die, any more than we gods can. Whatever is left of Kronos is still alive, in some hideous way, conscious in his eternal pain, hungering for power."

"He's healing," he said. "He is returning."

But Poseidon shook his head. "Over the eons, Kronos has stirred. He will enter men's nightmares, breathing evil thoughts, awakening restless monsters from the depths. But to suggest that he could rise from the pit is another thing."

"That is what he intends, father!" Percy insisted. "That is what he desires!"

"My lord brother has closed discussion on this matter," he said. "He will allow talk of Kronos no longer. You have completed your quest, child. That is all you need to do."

"But--" Percy stopped himself. Arguing would do him no good, and would very possibly anger the only god who he had as an ally. "...As you wish, father."

A faint smile played on his lips. "I see that obedience does not come naturally to you, then."

Percy shrugged. "No, sir."

"I must take some blame for that, I suppose. The sea is a wild thing, and it does not like to be restrained." Grasping his trident, he rose to his full height, then he shimmered, shrinking until he became the size of any fisherman in Constantinople, standing before him. "You must go now, child. But first, know that your mother has been returned from the Underworld."

Percy gasped. "My mother?"

"Even the Lord of Death pays his debts. You will find her at her home."

His heart pounded in his chest. His mother, that wondrous woman, he had left to the tender mercies of Hades, and he had indeed been merciful. So overcome with emotion, he nearly asked if this god, this divine being, would accompany him home to see her. As if Poseidon would deign to walk the streets of Constantinople, mingling amongst the mortals. And besides… if he had thought to visit her all these years, there was not much that would have prevented him from already doing so.

Poseidon’s eyes took on a little sadness, like clouds on the far off horizon. “When you return home, my son, there will be an important choice which you must make, and a parcel waiting for you there.”

“A parcel?”

“You will understand when you see it. This is my wisdom to you, Percy, that you must decide your own path. No one can choose it for you.”

He nodded, though he did not quite comprehend.

His face cleared, then. “Your mother is a queen among women,” he said, wistful for his former paramour. “I had not met such a mortal woman in quite some time. And yet, I do feel some… regret, child, that you were born. I have doomed you to a hero’s fate, and a hero’s fate is never a happy one.”

Percy looked away, hoping that his hurt did not show. “I--I do not mind, father.”

“Not yet, perhaps,” he said. “Yet still, ‘twas an unforgivable error on my part.”

Percy bowed, stiff and awkward. He could not bear it any longer, and he knew a dismissal when he heard one. “I shall take my leave of you, then.”

But he had not taken five steps when he heard his father call his name again. “Perseus.”

He turned.

There was a different kind of light in his eyes, now, a sort of fiery pride. “Do not misunderstand me, Perseus. You did very well. Whatever else you do, know that you are mine, a true son of the sea god.”

As he walked back through the city of the gods, towards the dome of St. Sophia, conversations ceased. The muses paused their revelry. Satyrs and naiads, gods and goddesses, and all matter of immortal beings turned towards me, their faces filled with respect and gratitude, and as he passed, they knelt, paying tribute to a hero.

#yeah that's right bitches i'm still here #marble timestamps #the marble king #my fic #especially if you're their kid

6 notes · View notes

umbry-fic · 3 years

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To Wish Upon a Lantern

Summary: In the midst of their journey, Lloyd and Colette visit a new town and decide to participate in their lantern festival.

Fandom: Tales of Symphonia Characters: Lloyd Irving, Colette Brunel, Original Character Relationships: Colette Brunel/Lloyd Irving Rating: G Word Count: 3266 Mirror Link: AO3 Original Post Date: 22/06/2021

Notes: Fluff fic with a little bit of angst! Written for @frayed-symphony's birthday!

~~~

“Look at these, Lloyd! They’re so pretty!” Colette exclaimed next to Lloyd. She was pointing out the tiny charms on display in the pop-up cart in the middle of the bustling marketplace. “I wonder what they are,” Colette mused.

“They kinda look like a chef’s hat to me,” Lloyd replied, leaning down to get a closer look at the charms. “You know, the one Professor Raine wore sometimes when trying to cook, just without the folded ridges? It’s even pure white in colour.”

The design resembled a cuboid with an open bottom from which a tassel protruded out, the individual strands all ramrod straight without a kink or tangle in sight. The top of the cuboid transitioned seamlessly into a pyramid-like shape, the same string that made up the tassel extending upwards out of the top of the pyramid, tied into a complicated system of knots. Trying to follow the string down its path made Lloyd’s head hurt. At the end of it all, the string formed a loop, perfect for hanging the charm up on furniture. Threaded on the string above and below the “chef’s hat” were two gems, sunlight reflecting off their polished surfaces and making them sparkle.

“I see what you’re saying.” Colette picked up one of the charms by the loop of string, pursing her lips as her fingers rubbed at the knot. It was a rather satisfying feeling. “But I don’t think a chef’s hat would be important enough to a town for it to be everywhere.”

“True.”

By everywhere, Colette truly meant everywhere. Lloyd had seen multiple variants of this charm at other stalls, some with different colours, some with and without the gems on the strings, some with even more complicated knot designs, some with words printed on the side, some without strings altogether and instead using clasps and hooks, perhaps to better attach the charm to clothing and bags. But it wasn’t just products in the marketplace. He’d seen it in murals painted on the walls of this town, and even walked past some children making a larger version.

“The details are incredible…” Lloyd muttered, feeling the material of the charm. It looked to be folded out of paper at first sight, but the texture wasn’t remotely like it. He wanted to ask the stall owner how he’d folded something so intricate and yet so small.

"Ah, young man, looking to buy one of the lantern charms?"

Speak of the devil! Lloyd nearly jumped out of his skin, gaze snapping up to find that the jovial, bearded stall owner was now right in front of him. The last Lloyd saw of him, he’d been engaged in a fervent discussion with another patron, and that had been just moments ago. How had such a large figure manoeuvred in front of him without any noise at all?!

“No, no! Just window shopping at the moment!” Lloyd quickly clarified, acutely aware of how light the sack of Gald in his pocket was.

“Lanterns? These are lanterns?” Colette interjected, head cocked and hands clasped before her chest. “I’ve never seen lanterns like these before…” When she heard the word “lantern”, she thought of fragile glass and cold metal grips, a flame burning with the faint whiff of kerosene, chasing away the foreboding darkness of winding caverns.

“Ah, I thought you might not be locals. I’ve never seen you around before.”

“Yeah, we’re just passing through. Never been to this town in Sylvarant before, so we thought why not?” Lloyd replied.

“It’s always nice to see travellers now that the Desians are gone,” the shopkeeper said with a hearty chuckle, his smile hidden by bushy black bristles. “To answer your question, young lady, these are indeed lanterns. It has been this town’s proud tradition to make these lanterns and hold an annual festival involving them, where we send them to the Goddess above. Though we’ve only been able to do so again with the Chosen's success. We’re actually holding our second one tonight!”

“A festival?” Colette squealed, clapping her hands together. If she weren’t in the middle of town and surrounded by dozens of other people who could clearly see her, Lloyd thought to himself with a smile, she certainly would have started jumping up and down on the balls of her feet like an excited child.

For that was precisely who she was allowed to be, now that she no longer had to labour under the title of Chosen. The child that had been buried for so long in favour of performing her duty could now come to the forefront. She could show her excitement over experiencing all the strange and delightful customs of each town they came across, whether it be Sylvaranti or Tethe'allan. And it was always so endearing to witness, the clear delight on her face, and it gave Lloyd even more motivation to continue this journey across the reunited world. Both to collect the Exspheres, and to let Colette experience everything this beautiful world had to offer, now that it was no longer denied from her.

“Yes. Everyone is encouraged to participate! All you need to do is purchase one of the lanterns, light it up, and release it into the sky! You can even write custom messages on the sides. Most people choose to write wishes, such that the Goddess can grant them.”

“That sounds wonderful.” Colette’s eyes were shining just as brightly as the gems on the cart. Lloyd was sure that she had built a vivid picture of the festival in her mind, what with her bright imagination honed from years of daydreaming as she sat within the cold walls of the Church of Martel, wanting desperately to escape but only able to do so in her head.

A festival sounded like a wonderful experience to him as well. All festivals were, events that exuded a magical aura as all types of people, strangers, friends, lovers and family alike, came together in one place just to celebrate and have a fun time. He hadn’t gotten to participate in that many, but he’d love to go to more.

"Lloyd, do you want to go?" Colette asked, nudging him in the side.

That was all it took for Lloyd's smile to slip into a small frown. Colette's terrible habit was rearing its ugly head again.

It had taken him a while to pick up on it, to learn to parse through what was innate to Colette’s personality and what was Chosen behaviour. But once he did, it was rather hard to ignore. The accursed mention of “Lloyd, do you want to…” had started to grate on his nerves - she’d done it with regards to the summer festival at Mizuho, and the newly revamped Altamiran theme park, and likely a thousand other times throughout all the years he’d known her that he hadn’t noticed. Asking was all fine and dandy, but only if she expressed her own desires first.

She always did this. Disguised her desires in the form of questions posed to others, too afraid to just do things for herself. She still thought she needed justification to let loose and just enjoy herself, despite her own happiness being justification enough.

Time to flip her question on its head.

"Do you want to go? To release a lantern?" he countered, eyes narrowing as he held her in a stare.

"Uh - uh, I -" Colette stuttered, fumbling at the unexpected turn of conversation, unable to look away from those intense russet eyes. "Well, we're low on Gald! And you did say you wanted to make it back to Iselia by next week, so if we stay a night -"

"That's not what I asked," he interrupted, taking hold of her hand. He didn't like being this forceful with her, but it was required. She needed to learn to ask for herself, and giving excuses was not the way. "I asked if you wanted to."

There was silence as Colette bowed her head, her hair hiding her face. It was but moments later that she raised it again, uncertainty painted across her face. "I… Would like to go... With you… And release a lantern together," she whispered haltingly, like it hurt to get the words out, shy blue eyes meeting his again. For her, it likely did, battling against her instinct to swallow the words down and the fear that there would be retribution, whether from invisible priests or the world at large.

There would be no retribution, not if he had anything to say about it. He squeezed her hand, giving her an affirming nod.

That's it. I’m so proud of you.

A small smile graced her face.

"Then it's settled!" Lloyd declared with gusto, turning back to the stall owner, who’d been watching the whole exchange in silence. “Uh, except the cost. How much is it?” He expected he’d have to haggle; they really didn’t have much Gald left. But no matter how, by hook or by crook, he would make this happen.

The stall owner burst into roaring laughter, slamming a hand on the cart. “For you two, free of charge!”

“What, really?” Lloyd blurted out, hardly able to believe his ears. Surely this was a deal that was too good to be true?

“Yes, really! Take it as payment for putting such a large smile on my face. Go down to the fields at sundown. I’ll meet the two of you there with a lantern. In return, spread the news of our festival to your friends! And if you choose to return next year, you can pay the full price.”

“Thank you so much, mister!” Colette said. “We’ll be sure to tell all our friends! I’m sure they’ll love the idea so much that they’ll all turn up next year!”

“Ha! I like the sound of that!”

Confirming the details of the meetup, Lloyd thanked the stall owner profusely before walking away hand-in-hand with Colette.

��He was very nice,” Colette muttered.

“That he was. So we shouldn’t waste the opportunity.”

Colette mumbled her agreement, that small smile still on her face, soothing Lloyd’s worry that he might have pushed her too far.

There was still the issue of lunch, though. His stomach was growling, and Colette must have been hungry from all the walking they’d done in the morning. But this time, he’d cut her some slack. He couldn’t expect change to occur immediately - it would take time, possibly years.

“Want to go get lunch at that place we saw down the road that sells dumplings? We’ve never tried it before, and Sheena said it was good.”

Receiving Colette’s enthusiastic agreement, (and spotting the relieved slump of her shoulders,) they set off, their fingers tightly locked together. And after lunch, there would be enough time to explore this town to the fullest.

~~~

Colette stood back on the grassy hill, watching the stall owner (whose name she still hadn’t learned), kneeling on the ground and carefully lighting a match. Lloyd stood slightly closer, observing with a keen eye. He was most likely trying to figure out the craftsmanship of the lantern; he’d been obsessed since he’d first seen the charms. She was more interested in the knot, and would likely be spending an afternoon at Dirk’s playing with string trying to recreate it. She didn’t think that would end very well, and a lot of untangling from Dirk and Lloyd’s end would be required, but it would be fun!

Standing too close to the stall owner ran the risk of her accidentally starting a fire, and that would have horrific consequences on plains of short grass such as these, so she was going to keep a safe distance.

As agreed, she and Lloyd had met up with the stall owner at the rolling hills behind the town, though not before exploring every nook and cranny of the town, with its curving arches and winding, narrow streets, watching the children play games with toys she had never seen before and having the honour of joining in. The stall owner had been in the process of unfolding a compact square of an unknown material, unveiling a lantern that was half her height and fitting it with something that resembled a lamp without the glass covering. (How did that fit into a small square?) After which, he’d lent them brushes whose tips were drenched in dark red ink, asking them to write whatever they wanted on the side of the lantern.

Enraptured with the idea of granting wishes, she had written the first thing that had come to mind before she lost her courage to do so. Lloyd had smiled after seeing her wish, choosing not to write another and only adding his name under hers, causing her to giggle as she tried her best not to trip and dot him in ink.

The sun had still been peeking over the hill when they’d arrived here, but in the time it had taken to finish their preparations, it had sunk out of sight, leaving behind only a harsh pink that was quickly being chased away by sparkling stars.

“It’s done!” the stall owner called out, standing up while keeping a secure grip on the side of the lantern. The fire was contained inside the lantern, causing the sides to be lit up in gentle orange light and the tiny words to stick out in harsh red. She’d noticed that quite a lot of things in this town were red. Maybe it was an auspicious colour to them?

Colette ran over to join Lloyd, accepting the lantern from the stall owner so that she was holding one side and Lloyd was holding the other, standing across from her. She could feel the heat of the flame licking at her fingers, chasing away the chill of the night. The lantern was fighting to escape her hold, the surge of hot air doing its absolute best to propel it towards the heavens, where it belonged.

“You can let go at any time,” the stall owner clarified. “Once that’s done, you can sit here and watch your lantern for as long as you want! I’ll be joining my family and giving you two some alone time now.”

“Thank you, mister!” Colette called out after the diminishing silhouette of the stall owner, until he disappeared amongst the throng of others. It seemed like the entire town and then some had turned up for the festival, populating the plains with head upon head. Somehow, upon this one hill, they were the only two present, free to soak in each other’s company.

“On the count of 3?” Lloyd offered, drawing her attention back to him. The flickering flame of the lantern cast him in the same orange light, the tips of his hair catching most of it and rendering the strands an even lighter brown, the features of his face soft while his lower half was covered in twisting shadow. A truly magical sight.

“Okay.”

“1…”

“2…” she joined in.

“3!” they cheered together, throwing the lantern into the sky and angling their heads up to watch.

The lantern rose fast into the sky, wobbling a little in its journey but remaining steadfast. The weather was good today, with no hint of a raincloud and only a gentle breeze that would pose no problems. Theirs was one of the first lanterns, joining the dozen that had already made their way into the clear sky to play by the moon, darkness having fully fallen.

Feeling a tug on her sleeve, she found that Lloyd had settled himself on the grass and was gesturing for her to join him. She did just that, the two of them sitting in silence side-by-side for a few minutes as more and more people released their lanterns.

"Sorry if I was too hard on you in the morning," Lloyd whispered, finally breaking the silence as he pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.

"No, it was necessary," she replied, taking his hand and squeezing. "You were just trying to help me. Besides, you've more than made up for it today. And I know I need to start thinking about myself more. It's just… Hard.”

It was difficult, to push past the echoes of the priests in her mind, telling her that as Chosen she had to conduct herself with the utmost grace and not indulge in cravings. That accepting gifts from others were already pushing the line, not to mention asking for things. It wasn’t proper.

“I'm -"

"Stop right there," Lloyd interjected, pressing a finger against her lips, a slightly exasperated smile on his face. “No apologising for what isn’t your fault, remember?”

“Ah, right! I’m - Okay, I’m just going to stop talking,” Colette muttered with flushed cheeks, clapping her hand over her mouth as she let her head fall onto his shoulder. She’d gotten better, but whenever she fell back into one habit, she tended to fall into all of them at once.

At least she could stop herself now. And she wanted to shed those behaviours, not only for herself, but to stop seeing the sad frown on Lloyd’s face. He continued to blame himself for not catching on sooner, for unknowingly encouraging those habits, when it wasn’t his fault.

Lloyd chuckled, leaning his head on hers. “It’s alright. I know it’s not going to be easy, but all you need to do is take baby steps. And I’ll be here to help you.”

“I know you will.”

“Let’s just enjoy the view now, shall we?”

“Mm.”

Above them, there were a thousand pinpricks of light as the lanterns rose into the sky. So many and so dense that they seemed to outnumber the stars themselves, though she knew that was impossible. Or perhaps the lanterns were golden stars, each holding a precious wish that its owner hoped could come true with all their heart, prayed would reach the Goddess. It almost reminded her of gazing up at the grand chandelier adorned with candles that hung in the sanctum of the Church, but instead of a sight that filled her heart with melancholy, the sight before her now was a breathtaking and uplifting one, even if she knew there was no Goddess in the sky.

For surely, if this many people came together with a common dedication, a miracle could still occur to grant these wondrous wishes.

She could barely see their lantern now - it was both lost among the crowd and too high up, the words she’d written on it too far away to make out. But they were still held in her heart.

I wish that I can continue exploring this incredible world together with you.

Mayhap it was a selfish wish. It would have been more appropriate for the Chosen to wish for the good of the world. But she wasn’t the Chosen anymore. Besides, she was sure other people had made such a wish. And… If the wishes contained within all these lanterns were to come true, would the world not be a better, happier place? Would there not be a brighter tomorrow awaiting all of them?

“I’d like to come back next year,” she said, trying her best to push out the desires in her heart, to stop battling against guilt that she knew she should not need to feel. “Maybe with all of our friends?”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea.”

Maybe my wish will be different next year.

She snuggled closer into Lloyd’s warmth, enjoying the feel of his arms around her, both a comforting blanket and an impregnable shield.

I don’t think it will.

#fanfiction #tales of symphonia #colloyd #colette brunel #lloyd irving #one shot

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freyar0se · 3 years

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Greek Goddess of Wisdom and War

Athena, also referred to as Athene, is a very important goddess of many things. She is goddess of wisdom, courage, inspiration, civilization, law and justice, strategic warfare, mathematics, strength, strategy, the arts, crafts, and skill.

She is known most specifically for her strategic skill in warfare and is often portrayed as companion of heroes and is the patron goddess of heroic endeavour.

Athena was born from zeus after he experienced an enormous headache and she sprang fully grown and in armour from his forehead. She has no mother but one of the most commonly cited stories is that Zeus lay with Metis, the goddess of crafty thought and wisdom, and then swallowed her whole as he feared she will give birth to a child more powerful than him because of a prophecy – but she had already conceived.

She was Zeus’s favourite child.

She is referred to in poetry as “gray-eyed.”

The owl was her bird, and the olive tree was hers.

She turned the weaver Arachne into a spider after the mortal woman insulted Athena and the Olympian gods.

Hermes and Athena went to the aid of Perseus in his quest to slay medusa. Looking directly at medusa would turn any man to stone, so Athena provided Perseus with her polished shield. Using it, he was able to see Medusa as if looking in a mirror. Again, Athena guided his hand as he cut off Medusa’s head with his sword.

Greek Goddess of the Hunt, Forests and Hills, the Moon, Archery

Artemis is known as the goddess of the hunt and is one of the most respected of all the ancient Greek deities. It is thought that her name, and even the goddess herself, may even be pre-Greek. She was the daughter of zeus, king of the gods, and the Titans Leto and she has a twin brother, the god APOLLO.

Not only was Artemis the goddess of the hunt, she was also known as the goddess of wild animals, wilderness, childbirth and virginity. Also, she was protector of young children and was know to bring and relieve disease in women. In literature and art she was depicted as a huntress carrying a bow and arrow. Artemis ( like Athena ) was a virgin and drew the attention and interest of many gods and men. However, it was only her hunting companion, Orion, that won her heart. It is believed that Orion was accidentally killed either by Artemis herself or by Gaia, the primordial goddess of the earth. In one version of the stories of Adonis – who was a late addition to Greek mythology during the Hellenistic period – Artemis sent a wild boar to kill Adonis after he continued to boast that he was a far greater hunter than her.

Artemis was daughter of Zeus and Leto and twin sister of Apollo.

She was primarily a virgin huntress, goddess of wildlife and patroness of hunters.

The bear was sacred to her.

She guarded her virginity carefully. Actaeon and Orion tried to dishonor or rape her, but anyone who threatened her purity met with a violent end.

She was an important goddess in the lives of women, especially when it came to marriage and young creatures.

When one of her nymphs was seduced by Zeus, Artemis transformed her into a bear and then killed her.

She was sometimes associated with the goddess of the moon.

Artemis acted out in anger whenever her wishes were disobeyed, especially if anyone transgressed against the animals that were sacred to her.

She punished Agamemnon, for example, when he killed a stag in her sacred grove.

Artemis appealed to Zeus to grant her eternal virginity.

Apollo and Artemis teamed up to kill the children of Niobe. Niobe bragged that she had birthed more children than Leto (the mother of Apollo and Artemis). The twins then hunted her children and killed them with their bows and arrows.

Artemis was worshipped widely in Greece but only as a secondary deity.

A temple built in her honor became one of the “Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.”

At least two festivals were celebrated in her honor of Artemis: Brauronia and the festival of Artemis Orthia.

Homer referred to her as a mistress of wild animals.

Artemis spent most of her time roaming the forests with her nymphs. She was described as both hunting animals and protecting them.

She armed herself with a bow and arrows made by Hephaestus and Cyclops.

In art, Artemis is often accompanied by a stag or hunting dog.

She is the protector of chastity and a nurturer of the young.

Greek God of the Dead and King of the Underworld

Hades was the god of the underworld and the name eventually came to also describe the home of the dead as well. He was the oldest male child of Cronus and Rhea.

Hades and his brothers zeus and Poseidon defeated their father and the titans to end their reign, claiming rulership over the cosmos. They agreed to split their rule with Zeus becoming god of the skies, Poseidon god of the sea and Hades god of the underworld.

He was later known to the Greeks as Plouton, which the romans pluralized to Pluto. The god of the underworld was married to persephone, the daughter of Demeter, whom he obtained through deception after abducting her to the underworld and giving her the forbidden fruit pomegranate, forcing her to remain in the underworld with him for one third of each year.

Facts about Hades -

Hades is best known as the ruler of the underworld. It became his dominion after he and his brothers drew lots for their share of the universe.

According to Iliad, Hades’ dominion lies between secret places of the earth. According to the Odyssey, one must cross Ocean to get there.

Though Hades supervised the dead assigned to his realm, he was not one of its judges. Three demi-gods served that purpose instead.

Hades was depicted as stern and unyielding, unmoved by prayer and sacrifice.

Hades had a cap or helmet that made its wearer invisible.

His wife was Persephone, Demeter’s only daughter, whom he kidnapped and made his queen.

He was also called the God of Wealth or “the rich one” because he possessed the precious metals of the earth.

Pirithoüs, friend of Theseus, detrmined to have Persephone (the most carefully guarded lady in all the universe) as his bride. To this end, the two friends journeyed to the underworld, but Hades thwarted their plan. He invited them to sit on the Chair of Forgetfulness, which cause its occupant to forget everything. Hercules rescued Theseus , but the King of the Dead held Pirithous there for trying to steal his queen.

Cerberus was a three-headed dog who guarded his realm; the ferryman Charon was another one of the underworld’s attendees.

Though Hades is the King of the Dead, he should not be confused with Death itself, which is personified by Thanatos.

Cronus and Rhea were his parents.

Poseidon and Zeus were his brothers.

Hades rarely left the underworld. His presence was not welcomed by men or by gods.

Hades took pride in collecting “subjects” for his kingdom and was disinclined to let anyone leave.

His dominion was separated from the land of the living by the following rivers: Styx, Lethe, Acheron, Phlegethon, and Cocytus.

Hades employed the Furies, who were responsible for torturing the guilty.

Hades is described by some sources as the god of the earth’s fertility.

The narcissus and the cypress are sacred to him.

In his kingdom, Hades sat on a throne made of ebony and carried a scepter.

Hades was known for his involvement with Sisyphus, the man condemned to the underworld to forever roll a boulder uphill. According to legend, Hades allowed sisyphus to return to earth long enough to arrange his own funeral.

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letterboxd · 4 years

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Best of SXSW 2021.

From properly good Covid comedies to an epic folk-horror doc and an Indigenous feminist Western, the Letterboxd Festiville team reveals their ten best of SXSW Online.

We dug out old lanyards to wear around the house, and imagined ourselves queuing up the block from The Ritz (RIP). We dialled into screenings and panels, and did our level best to channel that manic “South By” energy from our living rooms.

The SXSW festival atmosphere was muted, and that’s to be expected. But the films themselves? Gems, so many gems, whether shot in a fortnight on the smell of an oily stimulus check, or painstakingly rotoscoped over seven years.

When we asked SXSW Film director Janet Pierson what she and her team were looking for this year, she told us: “We’re always looking for films that do a lot with little, that are ingenious, and pure talent, and discovery, and being surprised. We’re just looking for really good stories with good emotional resonance.” If there was one common denominator we noticed across this year’s SXSW picks, it was a smart, tender injection of comedy into stories about trauma, grief, unwanted pregnancy, chronic health conditions, homelessness, homophobia and, yes, Covid.

It’s hard to pick favorites, but here are the ten SXSW features and two short films we haven’t stopped thinking about, in no particular order.

Recovery Directed by Mallory Everton and Stephen Meek, written by Everton and Whitney Call

“Covid 19 is in charge now” might be the most hauntingly funny line in a SXSW film. In Recovery, two sisters set out on a haywire road trip to rescue their grandmother from her nursing home in the wake of a severe Covid 19 outbreak. There’s no random villain or threat, because isn’t being forced to exist during a pandemic enough of a threat in itself? If ever we were worried about “Covid comedies”, SXSW managed to flush out the good ones. (Read about the Festiville team’s other favorite Covid-inflected comedies, including an interview with the directors of I’m Fine (Thanks for Asking).)

Alex Marzona praises the “off-the-charts chemistry” between leads Mallory Everton and Whitney Call. Best friends since they were nine, the pair also wrote the film, with Everton co-directing with Stephen Meek. Every laugh comes from your gut and feels like something only the cast and crew would usually be privy to. “You can tell a lot of the content is improvised, which just attests to their talent,” writes Emma. Recovery doesn’t make you laugh awkwardly about how awful the last year has been—rather, it reminds you that even in such times there are still laughs to be had, trips to be taken, family worth uprooting everything for. Just make sure you’ve packed enough wet wipes for the road, and think long and hard about who should babysit your mice. —EK

The Spine of Night Written and directed by Morgan Galen King and Philip Gelatt

Don’t get too attached to any characters from its star-studded cast—nobody is safe (or fully-clothed) in The Spine of Night’s raw, ultra-violent and cynical world. Conjured over the last seven years, directors Philip Gelatt and Morgan Galen King’s rotoscoped epic recaptures the dazzling imagination and scope of their influences Ralph Bakshi and Heavy Metal. Approaching an anthology-style structure to explore how ‘absolute power corrupts absolutely’—a proverb more potent now than when Gelatt and King began their project—the film packs a franchise’s worth of ideas in its 90-minute runtime. Though the storytelling justifiably proves itself overly dense for some, it will find the audience it’s after, as other Letterboxd members have declared it “a rare treat” and “a breath of fresh air in the feature-length animation scene”. For sure, The Spine of Night can join Sundance premieres Flee and Cryptozoo in what’s already a compelling year for unique two-dimensional animation. —JM

Kambole Campbell caught up with Gelatt and King (who are also Letterboxd members!) during SXSW to talk about animation inspirations and rotoscoping techniques.

The Drover’s Wife: The Legend of Molly Johnson Written and directed by Leah Purcell

Snakes, steers and scoundrels beware! Writer-director-star Leah Purcell ably repurposes the Western genre for Aboriginal and female voices in The Drover’s Wife. Molly Johnson is a crack-shot anti-heroine for the ages, in this decolonized reimagining of a classic 1892 short story by Henry Lawson. And by reimagining, we mean a seismic shift in the narrative: Purcell has fleshed out a full story of a mother-of-four, pregnant with her fifth, a missing husband, predatory neighbors, a mysterious runaway and a young English couple on different paths to progress in this remote Southern land. Purcell first adapted this story for the stage, then as published fiction; she rightly takes the leading role in the screen version, too.

As a debut feature director, Purcell (Goa-Gunggari-Wakka Wakka Murri) already has a firm grip on the macabre and the menacing, not shying away from violence, but making very careful decisions about what needs to be depicted, given all that Molly Johnson and her family are subjected to. She also sneaks in mystic touches, and a hint of romance (local heartthrob Rob Collins can take us on a walk to where the Snowy widens to see blooming wildflowers anytime). Judging by early Letterboxd reviews, it’s not for everyone, but this is Australian colonization through an Indigenous feminist’s eyes, with a fierce, intersectional pay-off. “Extremely similar to a vast majority of the issues and themes explored in The Nightingale,” writes Claira. “I’m slowly realizing that my favorite type of Westerns are Australian.” —LK, GG

Swan Song Written and directed by Todd Stephens

Udo Kier is often the bridesmaid, rarely the bride. Now, after a lifetime of supporting roles ranging from vampires and villains to art-house muse, he finally gets to shine center-stage in Swan Song. Kier dazzles as a coiffure soothsayer in this lyrical pageant to the passage of queer times in backwater Sandusky, Ohio. “He is absolutely wonderful here,” writes Adrianna, “digging deep and pulling out a mesmerizing, deeply affecting and emotionally textured performance, proving that he’s an actor with much more range than people give him credit for.”

A strong supporting cast all have melancholy moments to shine, with Linda Evans (Dynasty), Michael Urie (Ugly Betty) and Jennifer Coolidge (Legally Blonde) along for the stroll. Surreal camp touches add joy (that chandelier, the needle drop!) but by the end, the tears roll (both of joy and sadness). Writer-director Todd Stephens ties up his Sandusky trilogy in this hometown homage, a career peak for both him and Kier. Robert Daniels puts it well, writing that Swan Song is “campy as hell, but it’s also a heartfelt LGBTQ story about lost lovers and friends, vibrant memories and the final passage of a colorful life.” —LK

Leo Koziol spoke with Todd Stephens and Udo Kier during SXSW about Grace Jones, David Bowie and dancing with yourself.

Islands Written and directed by Martin Edralin

Islands is a Mike Leigh-esque story that presents a Canadian Filipino immigrant family full of quirk and character, centered around Joshua, a reticent 50-year-old homebody son. The story drifts in and out of a deep well of sadness. Moments of lightness and familial love make the journey worthwhile. “A film so Filipino a main plot device is line-dancing,” writes Karl. “Islands is an incredibly empathetic film about what it’s like to feel unmoored from comfort. It’s distinctly Filipino and deals with the psychology of Asian culture in a way that feels both profound and oddly comforting.” In a year in which we’ve all been forced to physically slow down, Islands “shows us how slow life can be,” writes Justin, “and how important it is to be okay with that.” Rogelio Balagtas’s performance as Joshua—a first-time leading role—won him the SXSW Grand Jury Award for Breakthrough Performance. —LK

Ninjababy Directed by Yngvild Sve Flikke, written by Flikke with Johan Fasting and Inga H. Sætre

Ninjababy is as ridiculous as its title. When 23-year-old Rakel finds herself accidentally pregnant, scheduling an abortion is a no-brainer. But she’s way too far along, she’s informed, so she’s going to have to have the baby. The ensuing meltdown might have been heartbreaking if the film wasn’t so damn funny. Ninjababy draws on the comforting and familiar (“Lizzie McGuire if she was a pregnant young adult,” writes Nick), while mixing shock with originality (Erica Richards notices “a few aggressive and vulgar moments [but] somehow none of it seemed misplaced”).

An animated fetus in the style of Rakel’s own drawings appears to beg and shame Rakel into motherhood while she fights to hold onto her confidence that not wanting to be a mother doesn’t make her a bad person. Ninjababy’s greatest feat is its willingness to delve into that complication: yes, it’s righteous and feminist and 21st-century to claim your own body and life, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to turn away from something growing inside of you. It’s a comedy about shame, art, finding care in unlikely places—and there’s something in it for the gents, too. The titular ninjababy wouldn’t leave Rakel alone, and it’s unlikely to leave you either. Winner of the SXSW Global Audience Award. —SH

The Fallout Written and directed by Megan Park

Canadian actress Megan Park brought the youthful wisdom of her days on the teen drama series The Secret Life of the American Teenager to her first project behind the camera, and it paid off. Following the scattered after-effects of a school shooting, The Fallout may be the most acute, empathetic depiction of childhood trauma on screen in recent memory. “It sneaks up on you with its honesty and how it spends time with its lead, carried so beautifully by Jenna Ortega. Even the more conventional moments are poignant because of context,” writes Kevin L. Lee. Much of that “sneaky” honesty emerges as humor—despite the heavy premise, moments of hilarity hang on the edges of almost every scene. And Ortega’s portrayal of sweet-but-angsty Vada brings self-awareness to that humor, like when Vada’s avoidant, inappropriate jokes with her therapist reveal her desperation, but they garner genuine laughs nonetheless.

In this debut, Park shows an unmatched understanding of non-linear ways that young people process their pain. Sometimes kids try drugs! Sometimes they scream at their parents! But more often than not, they really do know what they want, who loves them, and how much time they need to grieve (see also: Jessie Barr’s Sophie Jones, starring her cousin Jessica Barr, out now on VOD and in theaters). The Fallout forsakes melodrama to embrace confusion, ambiguity and joy. Winner of both the SXSW Grand Jury and Audience Narrative Feature Awards, and the Brightcove Illumination Award. —SH

Ludi Directed by Edson Jean, written by Jean and Joshua Jean-Baptiste

When Ludi begins, it’s quiet and dreamy. The film’s opening moments conjure the simple pleasures of the titular character’s Haitian heritage: the music, the colors, the people. Ludi (Shein Monpremier) smiles to herself as she starts her morning with a tape recording her cousin mailed from Haiti to Miami, and listens as her family members laugh through their troubles before recording an upbeat tape of her own. But that’s where the dreaminess ends—Ludi is an overworked, underpaid nurse picking up every shift she possibly can in order to send money home. Writer-director Edson Jean fixates on the pains and consequences of Ludi’s relentless determination, which comes to a head when she moonlights as a private nurse for an old man who doesn’t want her there.

Ashton Kinley notes how the film “doesn’t overly dramatize or pull at false emotional strings to make its weight felt. The second half of the feature really allows all of that to shine, as the film becomes a tender and empathetic two-hander.” George’s (Alan Myles Heyman) resentment of his own aging body steps in as Ludi’s antagonist. Jean throws together jarring contrasts: George throwing Ludi out of the bathroom, followed by Ludi’s memories of home, followed by another lashing out, followed by a shared prayer. The tension is unsustainable. By interspersing the back-breaking predicament of a working-class immigrant with the sights and sounds of the Caribbean, Ludi elegantly, painfully reveals what the cost of a dream can be. —SH

Woodlands Dark and Days Bewitched: A History of Folk Horror Written and directed by Kier-La Janisse

Building on the folk horror resurgence of films like The Witch and Midsommar, Kier-La Janisse’s 193-minute documentary Woodlands Dark and Days Bewitched is a colossal, staggering undertaking that should school even the most seasoned of horror buffs. “Thorough is an understatement,” says Claira.

Combining a historian’s studied, holistic patience with a cinephile’s rabid, insatiable thirst, the film, through the course of six chapters, broadens textbook British definitions, draws trenchant socio-political and thematic connections, debunks myths and transports viewers to far-flung parts of the globe in a way that almost feels anthropological. As Jordan writes, “Three hours later and my mind is racing between philosophical questions about the state of hauntology we generationally entrap ourselves in, wanting to buy every single one of the 100+ films referenced here, and being just a bit in awe of Janisse’s truly breathless work.” An encyclopedic forest worth losing yourself in—get ready for those watchlists to balloon. Winner of the SXSW Midnighters Audience Award. —AY

Introducing, Selma Blair Directed by Rachel Fleit

There’ll likely be some level of hype when this intimate collaboration between actress Selma Blair and filmmaker Rachel Fleit comes out later in the year on Discovery+, and that’s okay, because that is Blair’s intention in sharing the details of her stem-cell transplant for multiple sclerosis. There’d be little point in going there if you are not prepared to really go there, and Introducing, Selma Blair is a tics-and-all journey not just into what life is like with a chronic condition, a young son, and a career that relies on one’s ability to keep a straight face. It’s also an examination of the scar tissue of childhood, the things we are told by our parents, the ideas we come to believe about ourselves. “I almost felt like I shouldn’t have such intimate access to some of the footage in this documentary,” writes Andy Yen. “Bravo to Selma for allowing the filmmakers to show some truly raw and soul-bearing videos about her battle with multiple sclerosis that make us feel as if we are as close to her as family.” —GG

Femme Directed by Sam H. Freeman and Ng Choon Ping

I May Destroy You fans, rejoice: Paapa Essiedu, who played Arabella’s fascinating best friend Kwame, takes center stage in Sam H. Freeman and Ng Choon Ping’s intoxicating short film Femme. It’s a simple premise—Jordan, a femme gay man, follows his drug dealer (Harris Dickinson, mastering the sexually repressed brusque young man like no one else) home to pick up some goods on a night out. Except, of course, it’s not that simple. The co-directors build a world of danger, tension and electricity, with lusciously lensed scenes that lose focus as the threat rises. Frankie calls it “hypnotizing and brutal and gorgeous” and we couldn’t agree more. A crime thriller wrestling with hyper-masculinity seen through the eyes of an LGBTQ+ character, with a sucker-punch ending to boot, the world needs more than twenty minutes of this story. —EK

Play It Safe Directed by Mitch Kalisa

If you (unwisely) thought that the vulnerable, progressive environment of drama school would be a safe space for Black students, Play It Safe confirms that even a liberal bunch of actors (and their teacher) are capable of being blind to their own egregiously racist microagressions. Mitch Kalisa’s excellent short film explores structural prejudice head-on, in an electric acting exercise that rests on where the kinetic, gritty 16mm camera is pointing at every pivotal turn. At first, we’re with Black drama student Jonathan Ajayi as he receives the assignment; then we are with the rest of the class, exactly where we need to be. “Literally in your face and absolutely breathtaking,” writes Nia. A deserving winner of the SXSW Grand Jury and Audience narrative shorts prizes. —GG

Follow the Festiville team on Letterboxd

#sxsw #south by southwest #sxsw 2021 #sxswonline #SXSW Film #janet pierson #film festival #letterboxd #letterboxd best

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warrioreowynofrohan · 4 years

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Fanfic for @tolkiengenweek!

Title: The Castaway

Works Referenced: The Lord of the Rings, The Silmarillion

Characters: Legolas, Gimli, Maglor

The small grey boat sat completed on the shoreline, and the last of the supplies were being packed for the next morning’s expected voyage, when Legolas and Gimli looked up from their preparations to see a stranger on the beach. From his deeply-lined face and greying hair, Gimli might at first glance have thought him a Man of Gondor, were it not for the keenness of the eyes.

Legolas’ hands went to his bow, and before Gimli could speak he had already notched an arrow and moved to stand between the stranger and the boat.

“Show your hands.”

The stranger held his hands out, palm up, and the right hand was curled and blackened to to second knuckle of the fingers, as though he had grasped a piece of metal new from the forge.

“Sit.”

The stranger sat in the sand, hands still held up in front of him.

Gimli at last found his voice. “Legolas, what are you doing? He is unarmed, he has offered us no threat, the Men of Minas Tirith assured us there were no evil things at the Mouths of Anduin - ”

“Evidently, the Men of Minas Tirith were mistaken.” Gimli had never heard such hate in Legolas’ voice, not even for Saruman or servants of the Enemy. “I will explain. For the present, believe me when I say that this is such a threat as we have not faced since the War, and seldom during it. Now -“ returning his attention to the stranger - “how and why are you here, and why now, and for what purpose?”

The stranger spoke slowly and softly, his eyes fixed on the sand.

“A fortnight ago I was far to the south of here. In a dream, I saw the Mouths of Anduin, and a small grey boat, and two companions at a distance. I thought it only a dream, but it returned in the same form four nights more, and on the morn of the fifth day I saw a great flock of gulls flying north. I thought it might be a sign, though I have had none such since we left Valinor, and I came north to meet it. And here I find you. Am I right in thinking,” - he paused - “that you mean to leave these shores?”

“Yes.”

“Then I have come to ask - to beg - for you to take me with you.”

*****

Legolas had sent the stranger a little ways up the beach, so that the camp lay between him and the ship, before he turned to talk with Gimli.

“How much do you remember of the tales of the Elder Days told at Rivendell? Or at Erebor?”

“I know the tales of Beren and Lúthien and the Great Jewel, of Túrin the Doomed, of Nargothrond and Gondolin and the war against the Dark Enemy.” He also knew of the war of Doriath and Tumunzahar, but he suspected that Erebor and the Forest of Greenleaves had differing accounts.

“And of Fëanor?”

“The maker of the Jewels. His grandson was the Ring-maker deceived by Sauron, and a great friend of Khazad-dûm and of Dúrin the Deathless. His sign was on the doors of Khazad-dûm.”

Legolas narrowed his lips. “Yes. That is what many would remember, in these days. Some tales are too dark to tell lightly to outsiders, and too ill to tell for pleasure. The Elves remember, but few others care to, beyond the lore-masters. For our times are happier, at least in that we know our enemies from our friends.

“When the Dark Enemy slew the Lights that were before the Sun and Moon, and stole the Great Jewels, Fëanor and his sons swore to reclaim the Jewels and to slay any that possessed them, or else be doomed to Darkness Everlasting. To leave the Blessed Realm swiftly, they slew the greater part of my kin that lived there and stole their ships. In the long years when the Dark Enemy held the jewels, they never attacked him in his fortress, but when Beren and Lúthien freed the Jewel, and their son ruled as King of Doriath - ” Legolas paused and threw a hard look at the stranger. “They destroyed Doriath and slaughtered its people. They killed the King and Queen and their young sons, and when the King’s daughter escaped, they slew near all that remained of her people. But she was saved by the Lord of the Seas, and with her husband Eärendil the Mariner brought the Jewel into the West, and sought and received the aid of the Powers against the Enemy.”

“And what has this to do with our visitor?”

“He is Maglor, the last son of Fëanor. For his crimes he is barred from returning to the Blessed Realm; but he appears to be attempting it.”

“He seemed to think he had a sign from the Powers that it might be permitted.”

“The Fëanorians are liars, thieves, and murderers all. I trust him no more than I would an orc. While he is here, we keep a watch through the night. Keep an eye on him - and keep an eye on the boat!” *****

Legolas took the first watch, and woke Gimli at three in the morning. Maglor did not appear to have moved all night, nor was he sleeping; he remained seated silently, gazing out to sea. After an hour of boredom - he might as well have been watching a statue - Gimli approached the elf and sat down beside him. At the least, it seemed right for him to have a chance to speak for himself.

Gimli gave a small bow before seating himself. “Gimli son of Gloin, of Erebor and Aglarond.”

“Maglor Fëanorian. But your companion has told you that, and more.”

“Do you dispute any of it?”

The elf gave a faint shudder. “No.”

Maglor seemed thin, even for an elf, and wearier than any elf Gimli had ever seen. “Have you eaten?”

“A few fish, on the journey north.”

“Did you eat yesterday?”

“No.”

Gimli left him briefly to rummage through a pack at the camp. Lembas, a final gift from Queen Arwen of Gondor before her departure. He brought back a wafer with a mug of water and handed it to the elf. Maglor ate it slowly and with difficulty, as though it were cram rather than the much more savoury bread of the elves.

While Maglor ate, Gimli pondered, and fragments of old lays and legends came together in his mind, forming connections and the beginnings of an idea for taking the measure of this uncommunicative stranger.

"Do you know the tale of the Quest of Erebor?"

Maglor shook his head, still chewing.

Gimli told the tale, not as it was told on days of festival or winter gatherings in Dale and Erebor - dwarves did not criticize their kings lightly, or to outsiders - but as it was told by dwarven elders to youths, when they were old enough to think and consider and understand. He told of Thorin's quest, for vengeance and for the treasure and kingdom of his forefathers; told of danger and daring and victory, of wrath and pride and dragon-sickness, of loss and of sorrow and renewal. And all the while he watched Maglor's expression closely.

He could read nothing clearly from the elf's face, though midway through the story he began tapping one finger lightly, as though keeping time with the rhythm of Gimli's account. They sat in silence for a time once the story was ended, Maglor staring abstractedly into the distance, until at last he said, "I envy your king." His weariness seemed only to increase. "He fought with valour, and died at peace and in honour. It is more than many achieve."

The elf reached for a mug of water, but his hand passed right through it. He tried again, and the same happened. On the third attempt, he managed to pick it up in a solid hand.

Gimli shivered. This was too wraith-like for his liking. “Are you some manner of ghost or spirit?”

“Not yet.” Gimli gave him a questioning glance. “Given enough time, the spirit wears through the body. I am nearly there. If I remain much longer in Middle-earth, form will fade away; I will hear and see, but not taste or smell or touch; live in the world, but not act upon it.”

Gimli could scarcely think of a worse fate than being alive but unable to touch, to shape, to craft, to work. He was glad Mahal had had the wisdom to grant his people mortality.

The question had drawn Maglor's attention back to the journey before them. "I am sure you have more right to the journey than me, but may I ask how you come to be travelling to Valinor? I had not heard that mortals were permitted."

"There have been a few exceptions. I am not one of them, and cannot say I have been invited, as such. But Legolas is my dearest friend; the sea calls him, and I will not leave him, not so long as I have life. And even if mortals die swifter in Farthest West, as some say, still it would be worth many years of life to see the Lady Galadriel again."

Maglor started at the name. "You know her?"

"Aye; and count it one of the greatest fortunes of my life that have had the chance. Fairest and kindest and wisest of all whom I have known, with a dwarf's love for beauty and craftsmanship. Greatness without pride, and power without corruption. She cast down Dol Guldur in the war, where the old king Thrain was murdered; I wish I could have been there to see it!"

"Did she!" For the first time a smile flickered around Maglor's mouth. "She would have enjoyed that. I am glad one of us had victories, in the end."

"You know her?"

"Cousin Altáriel? We were never close. It has been long ages since I last saw her. But there is something to be said for shared exile, of a sort; the two in Middle-earth, since the Great War. I had not known she had been permitted to return. That is hopeful, at least; though our cases cannot be said to be alike."

Gimli's head was swimming. "Cousin?"

"Well - after a fashion. You have heard of my father," - with a rueful look - "and his half-brother, Galadriel's father, is king of the Noldor in the Blessed Realm."

It was exceedingly strange to think of the Lady as the child of someone still living, much less as the child of a king rather than a ruler in her own right. Gimli forced his thoughts back to relevant questions.

"You swore an oath to regain the Jewels. That Jewel, by the old legends." He gestured at the greying horizon. "Do you still intend to pursue it, if you return to Valinor?"

"I cannot." The elf's eyes went to his blighted hand. "I could not hold it, if I did. Nor would I seek to. I have lost all right to it. Let those that hold it keep it." His voice sank below a whisper. "As weregild, at least."

*****

"You spoke to him?" Legolas asked incredulously.

"You never forbade me to do so."

"I told you that he was dangerous! I told you that he could not be trusted! I would think the implication was obvious!"

"Well, whatever he was in the past, I cannot think he is dangerous now. He is old, and he is tired, and and he is sorry."

"And you can understand him this well from one night's conversation! When you had not even heard of him before yesterday!"

"It is more than I would have understood otherwise. Why are you so afraid of me speaking to him? Or hearing and seeing some account of him other than your own? You did not mention that he was close kin to the Lady Galadriel!"

"If you think she would wish to see him again, you are mistaken. Very much the reverse. The people he murdered were her kinsfolk as well as mine. And if you would trust him over me so readily, that should give reason enough for why it is perilous to speak with him unwarily. Do you remember what Gandalf said to us of Saruman at Orthanc? Beware his voice. Not all power is in weapons."

"He is an elf like you, not a wizard - "

"He is not like me. In powers I am no more like him than the innkeeper in Bree is like Aragorn - or rather, like Ar-Pharazon! The elves of the First Age had strange powers, and yes, some of them were equal or greater in power than the wizards we have known. You will remember that Felagund himself fought alone against Sauron. This elf is known about all for the power of his music and his voice, and I have no wish to test it!"

"I assure you that I am not enchanted! It is not as though Saruman had any effect on me, beyond annoyance at his lies. Even if you were right about him, why would Maglor be any different?"

"Saruman was seeking to daunt us; and you are too brave and too stubborn for that. But he got to Fangorn in the end, and Fangorn is no fool; and convinced him not through threats or temptations, but through pity. The kinslayer knows he has nothing to offer you or threaten you with, but if he can play upon compassion and seek to drive you to distrust me - "

"He did not. He denied nothing that you said, and he did not mention Galadriel until I had done so. Is it so impossible that he is sincere?"

"You do not understand the Fëanorians. Even grief and regret can be deceptive. Of all Maglor's works, the most famed is the one he wrote of the First Kinslaying, a song of sorrow and regrets. It did not hold him back from slaying kin a second time, or a third, or making war against the Valar themselves. So his protestations of regret can mean little now. Whether he is dissembling, or whether he means them truly, they have never stopped him before."

"He is dying. Or what passes for it among elves. Can you ask me to go to the West and tell the Lady Galadriel that I abandoned her kinsman to die?"

"He has more than earned it."

"So had Gollum. So had Saruman, when Gandalf and the Lady Galadriel both offered him mercy. Legolas, you say you fear I am bewitched, but it is you who do not sound like yourself. You hate him so bitterly, you would leave him to die, for deed committed ten generations or more before my grandsires, in a past so distant it is scarcely memory?"

Legolas went taut, and his eyes flashed with rage. "The memories of mortals are short! His deeds live in the memory of my father, and my mother, and their fathers and mothers, who dwelt in Doriath when he attacked it and lost friends and family and home to his and his brothers' blades! No one is asking you to show pity for Azog! No one is asking you to invite Smaug into your family's home and last refuge!"

The words hit Gimli as a blow. He had to admit that he would never have spoken to another dwarf as he had spoken to Legolas. Dwarves had fought long and bitter wars over the death of their kings; not only against Smaug, but against the Orcs of Khazad-dûm and the cold-drakes of the north. And though Dúrin’s folk had never warred among themselves, other dwarven lineages had had long and bitter clan-wars over generations. If he had tried to tell another dwarf it was his duty save a bitter personal enemy, when there was blood between them, the conversation would quickly have come to ax-blows.

His opinion of the aged elf had not altered, and he had no wish to leave him behind; but it was not Gimli’s choice to make.

“You are right. I cannot understand what he has done to your people, and to your family. I have no quarrel with him, and so I have have not the right to pardon him. You are my friend; I trust your judgement and your wisdom; and the choice rightfully belongs to you. Whatever you choose, I will go with you.”

*****

Legolas spent the afternoon in thought.

What were his reasons for refusing passage to Maglor? Certainly, Legolas hated the elf, but that alone was merely a sentiment, not a reason to condemn another person to death.

He is a murderer, and a threat, and his pretences to remorse cannot be trusted. He has killed, and repented; and killed, and repented; and killed, and repented; and so his repentance is meaningless. Should we bring danger and evil again into the one place in Eä free of it?

Even if all that was true, Maglor was only one elf. Could he reasonably be said to pose a danger to the Powers? If they considered him a threat, was there anything to stop them taking him prisoner immediately upon arrival? Even among the elves, Galadriel by herself was at least his equal, and there were likely others in the Blessed Realm as powerful as she or more so.

That argument, then, was weak.

He is barred from the Blessed Realm. He has chosen his own fate, and his own doom, and the scars on his hand proclaim it plainly. He cannot enter; and if we attempt to bring him, we may never find the path, or even be destroyed as the Númenoreans were when they defied the Powers’ judgements.

This argument was stronger. The judgement was not Legolas’, but that of the Valar, and one that Maglor had fully earned. Even the attempt to bring Gimli, a mortal and not a ring-bearer, depended on the Valars’ leniency; why try their patience further, for one to whom he owed nothing?

But did he know that Maglor was forbidden to return? Maglor felt he had been given a sign.

Maglor has proved time and time again that he cannot not be trusted. He might easily be lying, or deceiving himself.

But if he was not...

If he was not, Legolas was choosing to judge where the Valar had granted mercy.

There was no way to know. Either choice could be in error: to pardon where they had judged, or to judge where they had pardoned.

Legolas was not Galadriel, or one of the Elves of old. He had not spoken with the Valar; he knew of them only through distant and hazy legends.

And through their emissary. Mithrandir, who had urged pity for Gollum, pity that had saved them all. Who had offered mercy to Saruman, a traitor and orc-breeder far worse than Maglor. There could be little doubt what Mithrandir would have chosen.

And if there was risk to the choice, to Legolas and Gimli themselves, what of that? To abandon him to death for the sake of guarding their own lives was fear masquerading as justice.

It was cowardice.

So the second argument, too, failed.

But were either of these the true reason for Legolas’ refusal?

I am returning to Elvenhome, to all the generations of elves since the world began. I am returning to my kin, and perhaps my ancestors, and to all the people of Doriath. I cannot do so in the company of Maglor Fëanorian and a dwarf!

Legolas would be living among the elves of Eressëa and Aman, for the rest of his life. If he did this, he would alienate them from the start, and destroy the chances of his people ever accepting Gimli. It could scarcely offend more if it had been calculated to do so; it could not appear but as a deliberate insult, to arrive with the greatest enemies of Doriath by his side.

They were not the same. They had nothing in common. There was no more reason for anyone to blame Gimli for the actions of other dwarves two Ages ago than there was to blame Legolas for the deeds of Fëanor. But the appearance of the thing could not help but have an effect; could not help but drawn connections; could not help but estrange him and Gimli alike from Legolas’ home and kin.

That was the true reason in his heart.

And acknowledged, it sounded ugly. Was he truly willing to condemn a person to death, or worse, merely to protect his own reputation? If he was too timid to bear disapproval or hostility for Maglor’s sake, would he also be too timid to bear it on Gimli’s account?

It was unacceptable.

*****

In the evening, he spoke with Maglor.

“How can I have any assurance that you will not again bring violence to the Blessed Realm? If your oath still binds you, are you not a danger? And if it can be broken, what possible excuse could you give for not breaking it far sooner?”

Maglor answered the question as if he had been expecting it, but unsteadily, wavering from meeting Legolas’ eyes, to closing his own, to looking away at the sand or the sea. “We swore to pursue the Jewels, and we swore ourselves to the Darkness if we kept it not, and in keeping it we more than earned the Darkness. If I am condemned, I am condemned; more in the keeping than in the breaking; but I will pursue it no longer.”

“Why do you seek to return now, after so long? If you wished to seek pardon, surely there were others you could have asked, far earlier - at Mithlond, or at Imladris -”

Maglor gave a sharp shake of his head.

“You may as well call it cowardice, on both counts. I stayed away for long ages, for fear and for shame, of seeing any that I had known or letting them see what I had made of myself. I think I would have preferred death to mercy, but for fear, being in no hurry to meet the Darkness. And so I waited, and waited, and now I am out of time, and fear fading more than death or judgement. I cannot stay here, forever, to the end of the world, without any hope of asking mercy, without any chance of saying that I am sorry -”

“What do you expect, if you do return?”

“I do not know. I scarcely care. Let the Valar do with me as they will.”

It was difficult to disagree with Gimli’s reading of the old elf. More than anything, he seemed unutterably weary.

He is not harmless. He has killed hundreds, by his sword; thousands, by his commands.

And he is willing to answer for it.

And Legolas’ decision had, really, already been made.

“Come with us, then. We depart in the morning.”

Author’s Notes

I wrote this in a very fragmentary manner and I can’t say I’m entirely happy with it. But it’s going to nag at my mind until I post it, so it’s going up in its current state.

There are two main reasons I wanted to write this.

First, I wanted Maglor to be able to return to Valinor, and I felt it important that he be held answerable for his actions by someone affected by them. It’s something he chose not to do during all his years of exile - he could have turned himself in, to Círdan, to Thranduil, to Celeborn and Galadriel, and he didn’t, and by this point there are very few people left who would qualify. Legolas didn’t directly experience the Kinslayings, but his father and grandfather were Doriathrin so there’s a definite connection nonetheless. I think that Gimli’s conclusion, that Gimli has no right to grant mercy to Maglor because he has no grievance against him, is correct; pardon needs to be given by the wronged, or by someone with authority to judge.

Second, Legolas is, of all the Fellowship, the one who never faces any real trials and temptations during The Lord of the Rings. (Even Gimli has to vie with his terror of the Paths of the Dead.) The Ring is no temptation to him - he has no desire for power or glory or greatness. Neither battle nor the spirits of the Dead nor the road to Mordor seem to daunt him. So I wanted to create a story where he has to face temptation and overcome it and do a certain amount of soul-searching. And, as is the case with many people who haven’t had to face great trials, the strongest temptation is towards condemnation of those who have faced temptation and have failed.

So I’ve tried to balance those two somewhat conflicting ideas, the legitimacy of judgement and the moral necessity of mercy.

#tolkiengenweek #fanfic #legolas #gimli #maglor #the silmarillion #the lord of the rings #tolkien

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volunaryroom3 · 3 years

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CHAPTER 4

My keys rattled in the door as it locked it behind me. It clicked shut and I rested my head on the door, hair tangling over my ears. Thank fuck that was over. Being a slave to the wage crushes your soul, some more days than others.

Now I was home. My sanctuary. A place where I was safe from the anger of the public, complexity of the world and could batten down the hatches with my favourite human before I had to once more put on my armour and head back into battle.

“What are you doing” said Jamie from the kitchen, who could see me resting my head on the front door, sighing in my zombie like state.

“I don’t know” I muttered into the wood. I straightened my back and walked through the to living room, kicking my shoes off and flinging myself onto a chair.

I took my socks off a wriggled my toes above the carpet. There’s something about bare feet that’s so rebellious. Being completely naked, free from the constraint of polyblend, gives you the pleasure of freedom but is also attractive and conventional. Feet were meant to be covered. They can be ugly, toes utterly offensive and fragile so they must be protected and hidden. For them to be naked feels so audacious, to feel carpet fibres beneath was so unruly and these small rebellions got me through the day.

“Here” said Jamie, entering the room and grabbing my naked big toe as he walked past and placed a mug on the table.

“Is that for me?” I said perking up.

“Well I don’t drink tea” he answered, not looking but gesturing with one hand and scrolling through his phone with the other.

“Okay, what do you want?” I asked, raising one eyebrow and looking at him with a wry smile.

“Just drink it” he said laughing.

We both looked at each other and smiled and I felt my heart skip a beat.

There had been a lot of heartache but then there was Jamie.

In my life there have been many boys, many girls, many people and subsequently much loss and sorrow.

My last boyfriend cheated on me. One minute he was one the phone telling me he loved me and the next he was snapped in an incriminating photo with someone else.

It was early morning when I saw the photograph online. I hadn’t been able to sleep, i was scrolling through my phone under the sheets when I saw his hand on her thigh, my eyes widening in the glow of the screen. A series of incidents flashed in my head; the missed calls, his phone vibrating accompanied by shifty glances, disappearing from the room to take a phone calls, whispering in secrecy, always carefully placing his phone face down on the cabinet, me touching my hand on his and him recoiling, leaving me cold. All these images flickering, falling on top each other like dominos until the last one dropped- he’s cheating on me.

My confrontation was subtle. “It looks like you’re having a good time haha I miss you” I text hoping my agony and urgency would feed through the phone.

No reply. Message read. No reply.

Hours passed as I laid in bed staring at the ceiling until the light of dawn rolled over the walls, White noise humming in my ears.

I went to work that day and I smiled, drank tea and did my job but I wasn’t there. I was on a autopilot. I was trapped in my mind, those images flittering past, unable to escape like a slideshow I could not take my eyes off. The pieces of a puzzle were falling into place, my head putting them together and I was lost in my thoughts, nipping and clawing at me through the day. My stomach tight and head spinning.

That evening I was staring into the TV set, blind to the screen and still arguing with myself. I was paranoid. Yes I was paranoid. This isn’t real. The words all muddling together and stacking on top of each other until it just became noise.

Suddenly a text.

“I’m sorry”

My world crashed around me. I felt my hands tightly grip onto each other and my tears fall in slow motion.

“Why?” I cried softy.

A numbness fell over my entire body and I collapsed onto the sofa, my tears running down the tip of my nose and staining the cushion.

After a while the numbness wore off and was replaced by pain. A sharp slice from neck to stomach not visible to the naked eyes but real to my nervous system. I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. I was just an exposed nerve; open with excruciating pain.

Weeks passed and I was still spiralling into oblivion. I was in trouble at work for mistakes and absence. I was worrying my family and friends but even that wasn’t enough to stop me slipping into the black hole. The dark pit of depression is all consuming and once you are stuck in the tar, you sink further down, you gasp for air until there’s no return.

“What a bastard” everyone said

“What a loser. His loss!” They chanted

And they were right of course. However this did not help me. I loved him. Somehow he subconsciously became my whole world and now I was lost. Lost and isolated in my loneliness but I knew I had to stop. This wasn’t healthy behaviour.

Grief has a timescale. Death can be a lifetime but the breakdown of a relationship? You are limited. You have the get on with it. You have to bare your teeth and show the world how strong you are. You have to prove to others that you are leaving it behind and if you aren’t moving on? You are weak and you can’t show weakness. You can’t be the one to lose.

So I moved on. I washed, I put clothes on and pushed myself back into life. I had an amazing few months embarking on journeys and weekends away by reconnecting with my lost friends. I immersed myself in live music, healing my soul with the beauty of beats and sound with pilgrimages to gigs and festivals. Wild, drunk nights in the sun building hundreds of memories to last a lifetime. The evidence consisted of a mosaic of Polaroids pinned around my desk: my favourite a muddy photo of me grinning ear to ear, hands in the air which screamed look at me! I’m living life!

When I talked to people I laughed. When I looked at people I smiled.

But every night I still cried in the shower.

Later I found out the girl that in the photo was his ex. They have a child together now. In the end it was all for the best but that still doesn’t stop that painful twinge whenever it crosses my mind.

Every time you are hurt a part of your heart breaks and creates a gap. Tiny shards splinter off and disintegrate into tears. You heal, you recover and you fight but there’s now a hole there that will never close up.

Once I am hurt, I am hurt forever.

He wasn’t the first but he was the last one who took a sledgehammer to my heart and shattered the remaining pieces. With the fragments I had left I swore I would never do it again, that I wouldn’t open up because I could cope, the pain would kill me. From then on I lived my life as half a person. Content but never allowing myself to fully feel. I was comfortable in my solitude but always empty.

That was until I met Jamie.

After lounging around the living room for a while I heard my stomach rumble.

“I’ll make tea” I said stretching. I got up and padded through to the kitchen.

I laughed as I heard him yelling at the tv. I know the match was on and I loved how passionate he was; the same amount he showed about everything in his life, including me.

I opened the cupboards and reached for the pan on the top shelf. I stood on my tiptoes, unbalanced and stretching, my fingers fumbling on the tip of the handle. Just as I felt my hand grip the handle they all came crashing down. Metal clanged onto the worktop, thundered to the floor and onto my bare feet.

I didn’t even make a noise, I just bit my lip and fell to the floor.

“What’s happening?” Yelled Jamie running into the room, seeing me rolling around on the kitchen floor.

“Ow! Sorry” I laughed but still grimacing in pain.

“You’re an idiot” he laughed

“I know”” I said rubbing my toes and frowning.

“It’s not funny” he snapped, his tone angrier than before. “I keep telling you to be careful. You’re so stupid. We were having such a nice time and now you’ve done this’

For a moment he stood over me, towering and serious with disappointment. I felt so small looking up at him and feeling shame wash over me.

“I’m really sorry, its been a long day”” I replied, looking at my feet in remorse.

He helped me up and marched me back to the living room in silence. I sat down on the sofa, raising my injured foot and resting it on the table. Jamie sat down on the other side, his attention brought back to the match.

I’ve always been clumsy. Bruises, broken bones and bangs peppered my childhood memories followed by reckless behaviour as an adult. He was right I needed to be more careful. He was only stern because he cared.

I turned my head towards him but he was still fixed on the tv, unwavering and stoic. I looked down at my feet and felt tears well up in my eyes.

There hadn’t been any trauma, no life changes and nothing worthy to make me unhappy but recently I’d started to feel a weight press down on me. My head had began to feel heavy as tiny bits of stress had started to drip on me and one by one it was building up. I was starting to feel cold and disconnected. Sometimes I’d suddenly freeze in time, stare at the wall, feeling like I was floating away until a friendly face asked if I was okay and brought me back down to earth. I was finding it hard to fall asleep and sometimes I was waking up with a bolt in the night, sweating after a bad dream and then worrying about insignificant things until my alarm called me to work. The other day it rained and I didn’t feel it. I saw the rain fall and land on my face but I didn’t sense it dripping down and onto my collar. I couldn’t feel anything anymore.

It was just a few bad days and I was being dramatic.

I sucked the tears back into my eyes and reached for the cold cup of tea on the table.

Things will get better soon.

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elderbwrry · 5 years

Text

Jaskier has long hair and Geralt is o b s e s s e d. That’s pretty much it.

Wordcount: 5420

Rating: Pt.s 1 & 2 are general audiences, Pt. 3 is explicit so read with discretion.

Pt. 1

Geralt came trudging into town by the main road, pocket heavy with the reward of a job well done. The weather was a drudgy, overcast grey, but mercifully dry, and the promise of a night at an inn and a nice stable for Roach had him in relatively positive spirits. After day or two of rest and decent meals, and some new shoes for Roach, they could be off again.

The inn he dismounted in front of seemed suitably underpopulated, away from the town centre, but not so far that every traveller on the road would be staying there; it was usually better for him to stay at places such as this, happy for custom, even the strange kind, with fewer people for him to scare away. It looked clean and well-kept, and when he lead Roach round to the stables, she snorted and stepped into a pen eagerly.

“I'm glad you like it,” Geralt rumbled, patting her flank and heading in to find the owner.

The place was dry and warm when he stepped inside, a few patrons scattered around and the tuneful strums of a minstrel's lute somewhere just out of sight. The barkeep seemed wary of him, but was polite, naming a reasonable price for the room and board, which Geralt could respect. He was glad; Roach would have been grumpy if he'd had to move her after she had already gotten comfortable.

He retrieved his bags, lugging them up to his room before spending a little time removing Roach's saddle and brushing her down some. There was food waiting for him when he returned inside again, and he found an agreeable corner from which he could see the door and keep himself in shadow. The ale was good, the meat was good, and he felt himself start to unwind. Perhaps this spring would be fruitful.

So rapt by his meal was he, that he barely noticed as the minstrel struck up a new chord until they were well into a familiar song.

“...Where are beasts that stalk, and bite and scratch,

And live below the water,

He wades along the marshy banks...”

His ears piqued. That was definitely Jaskier's song – the bard had certainly bitched enough about how if he was going to get new boots he may as well get a song out of it at the same time – but at a glance, that person wasn't Jaskier. Geralt turned back to his food, wondering if he should say something. It wasn't as if he knew how musicians shared their work with each other, or who could use what. Then again, Jaskier had feuded with other bards before because they'd stolen his music.

Geralt huffed out a small laugh at the memory of one notable altercation away from which Geralt had to physically carry him. Idiot, he thought fondly.

Still, perhaps he should do something.

He turned to fix the singer with a glower, thinking that he could catch them after the inevitable discomfort of amber eyes burning out of the shadows had driven them to stop. However, when he looked at the singer properly, he did a double take. The minstrel really did look like Jaskier, except... the man had long hair curling just past his shoulders.

His locks were luscious and thick, practically that of a fairytale princess. As opposed to the somewhat mousy brown Geralt remembered on Jaskier's head, the man in front of him now wore a cascading crown of highlighted and chocolatey fronds. A strand slipped in front of his eyes and he gently flicked his head to move it away again, not pausing his song.

Geralt frowned and took a deep sniff of the air. That was Jaskier's smell; there was the lemon oil of the lute that by now had ingrained its way into the crevices of his fingers and the polishing handkerchief he always carried – the scrappy one, not the one for giving to ladies. There was the smell of the lavender soap he was so fond of. There was also the darker, more masculine scent of sandalwood sitting just under it, and of course the man's natural scent under that still.

The bard flashed Geralt a smile, giving him the sense that he had been noticed early on in his arrival, and that Jaskier was amused Geralt hadn't noticed him back. Truth be told, Geralt was surprised as well. Usually he was much better at taking stock of his surroundings. It was just so unexpected, he had dismissed the possibility out of hand, it being enough to know that there was a minstrel there without identifying exactly which one it was.

He turned back to the table. He hadn't seen Jaskier in... how long now? He stretched his fingers out in front of him where his wrists rested on the table, counting the months, boring his eyes into them as if they would give him the answer. He'd spent the most recent winter at Kaer Morhen, but he'd parted ways with Jaskier in mid summer some time, not long enough for Jaskier's hair to have grown that long. Unless... that had been the summer before? His mind reeled; the passage of time sometimes escaped him, having spent so many seasons going to so many different places and climes, but he had hoped he was better at taking stock of things than this.

The bard finished up his song with a long, sustained note, after which there were some words of praise and the metallic sound of a coin being flicked through the air and caught. “Thank you, everyone. Yes, I may find it in me to perform again a little later, but for now I am parched,” Jaskier said with his familiar lilt, and the next second, he plopped himself down in the chair opposite Geralt, absolutely beaming. “Oh, Geralt, it's wonderful to see you! Where have you been hiding yourself all this time?” he exclaimed.

As Geralt meet his eyes, he felts a pang of guilt in his gut. How had he not noticed how long he had gone without seeing Jaskier? And how could he possibly begin to make it up to him? “South,” he grunted out eloquently. Fuck. He could kick himself.

“Perfect, you shall have to regale me with tales of your exploits. Thank you, my good sir,” Jaskier accepted the ale the barkeep brought to their table, unbothered. The barkeep still looked wary, although this time Geralt sensed it was about the bard rather than himself. Geralt nodded at him by way of reassurance that he wasn't being bothered, although perhaps the man just had a face like that.

“I've certainly had an interesting time,” Jaskier began, taking a swig of his drink and plunging into the story of some festival or other where his honour was insulted or something. Geralt tried to pay attention, he really did, but his gaze kept being drawn back to the hair. It was just so bountiful, and... strange on Jaskier's face. Not wrong, per se, but unusual and new and... lovely. Quite unprompted, he wondered what it would be like to touch it.

Suddenly, Geralt realised Jaskier was looking at him expectantly. “What?” he asked, hoping it didn't come out too blunt.

“Are you alright Geralt? I don't think you caught a word I just said.” there was a little doubt on the bard's face.

Fuck, he cursed inwardly. He'd spent an inordinately long time without seeing his friend, and there he was, immediately being standoffish. “I apologise. I'm just,” his eyes flicked up to the little fringe Jaskier had cultivated. “Tired from the journey.” He tried for a smile, and it appeared to put Jaskier at ease. Geralt appreciated that Jaskier could read his stunted expressions so well.

“I should have known. Just back from killing something, I suppose? You certainly smell like it. And without me? The scandal!”

Perfect, Jaskier was straight back to complaining about his cleanliness.

Jaskier glanced around at the place. “I think I've travailed all the entertainment venues this particular outpost has to offer. When do you set out again?”

Geralt raised a brow.

“Well you can't just avoid me for a year and a half and then expect me not to join you again immediately. This is a long time coming, mister, I have ballads to write and there is no better ballad fodder than one white-haired witcher.” Jaskier stabbed a finger at him, but there was no attack behind his tone. Geralt wasn't sure there was a joke either, so he suspected things were exactly as Jaskier said they were; he'd run out of new material.

Unsure how he felt about the flippancy with which Jaskier had announced their renewed partnership, Geralt broke the eye contact he'd been holding, finding his focus back on the ends of Jaskier's hair.

“Anyway so I'm joining you.”

“Hmm.”

“Ah yes, there's that enthusiasm I remember.”

Pt.2

It has been a month of Jaskier being back on the road with Geralt. A month of hell.

Geralt had never considered himself particularly attracted to any one type of person or style. He could recognise it if someone was attractive, but usually anyone willing to share his bed was either deluded or had been paid, and he wasn't really around anyone enough for a relationship to present itself, so it wouldn't be an issue in the first place. As for Jaskier, of course Geralt had noticed he was attractive – his slim waist, carefree attitude and sparkling eyes would have taken care of that even if the bard wasn't always sending men and women swooning everywhere he went – but it had never occupied his thoughts quite so presently as it was now.

It's that damn hair, Geralt thought, slapping the boot he was polishing down harder than he intended.

Because the hair, Jaskier's hair, had been the bane of Geralt's existence. The man was always playing with it or tossing it or pulling it back and it was distracting, not least because of the smells it wafted every time it moved, but also because it was just gorgeous.

He was familiar with long hair, having it himself, and he supposed enjoyed the way it fell on others; the long tresses of the paid women he would spend nights with when money was easy, the firelight on Renfri's curls, the sleek cascade of Yennefer's as she worked her magic. Yennefer's, especially, he had previously thought to be entirely captivating, but nothing had prepared him for the way Jaskier's was occupying his thoughts.

At that moment, the bard was scratching around the clearing for herbs. They'd stopped for the evening, plopped down their bags and Jaskier had immediately stretched, arms pushing upwards and hair stretching down between his shoulder blades so sweetly. Then, he'd busied himself with laying out his things, thoroughly oblivious to how the golden light of the closing afternoon filtered through it like honey, and cast his face in gentle shadow.

It was at that point that Geralt had turned away, trying to ignore it all, but haunted by images in his own head of the way Jaskier's hair fell across his pillow when he was asleep, or how messy it looked in the morning, and how it would feel twined around his fingers-

He looked up again. This was no good.

Jaskier had stood up again, twirling a flower between his forefingers. A strand of hair slipped in front of his eyes, and he huffed and tried to flick it away. Then, he seemed to think better, letting the flower fall and searching in one of his pockets. A second later, he drew out a small strip of leather.

No, Geralt thought, eyes fixed, no, don't do that. It was as if watching a catastrophe unfold slowly in front of him, thoroughly unable to do anything about it.

Jaskier was gathering his hair up into a messy bun, catching up the stray pieces as they fell out from between his skilled fingers, raking it all up and back before tying it in place with the strip. By the gods, it tempted Geralt. It made his fingers twitch and tingle. It was a kind of loss of control that he was unfamiliar with.

Task completed, Jaskier picked up the flower again and examined it, oblivious to Geralt's turmoil. “Geralt, I think this is wild garlic. What do you think?” He turned, offering out the flower towards Geralt and started, met with what was probably a too-intense expression. “Oh no, have I picked up something poisonous?” His face fell. “Gods, I just hope it doesn't itch again. I can't stand the rash.”

“It's garlic,” Geralt grunted out, “you'll be fine.” Then, “Why did you grow your hair out?”

Jaskier stops for a second, frowning and doing that little move of his where he pulls his head back, like a bird. “I don't know. Felt like it, I guess. There's a bit of a style going around at the moment. And... do you remember Valdo Marx?”

“Never met him,” Geralt replied flatly, although Jaskier certainly mentioned him enough that it was a moot point.

Jaskier ignored him. “He cut his hair short and I did not fancy hearing about how similar we looked.” He shrugged, looking down at his flower again. Then, he smiled cheekily. “Why, do you like it?”

“Hmm,” Geralt replied, finally breaking his gaze and starting the work of polishing his other boot.

“You do! Why Geralt, I'm flattered.” There was the sound of plants being ripped from their stems, and next thing Geralt knew, Jaskier was hopping over to him and laying his hands down on his shoulders.

“What are you doing?” he asked, trying to put a touch of warning into his voice.

“No need to be so grumpy. I'm going to plait your hair,” the bard said, forcibly turning Geralt's head to face forward. If Geralt wasn't used to Jaskier's antics, he would be taken aback by the audacity.

“Jaskier,” he protested instead of stopping him.

“I've picked up some skills,” Jaskier informed him, “I spent the winter with some very lovely ladies and we did braid trains.”

“What?” he asked, but couldn't resist humming in pleasure when Jaskier took out the leather tie without pulling his hair at all.

“Braid trains. You know, you sit in a line and do the hair of the person in front of you.” Jaskier got to work, making sure to loosen Geralt's hair up before methodically pulling it back. It made his scalp crawl, but pleasantly, and he was forcing himself not to shudder with the sensation. This appeared to be yet another winning quality he hadn't known about hair. “So technically, I was there to teach the Lord's daughter music, but she spent most of the time trying to set me up with her older sister. Right little matchmaker, that one.” Jaskier prattled on as he went. “There,” he concluded, and the patch of his warmth from just behind Geralt was gone in a second. “It would have looked better with columbine, but needs must.”

Geralt's hands immediately flew to his head, feeling the way the plait criss-crossed from the crown all the way down to where it finished between his shoulders.

“Here,” Jaskier was offering him a small round mirror that he had just retrieved from his bag.

Taking a look at himself, Geralt realised it actually looked quite nice – somewhat feminine though it was – tightly woven strands except for two Jaskier had left twirling down from just by his cheekbones. There were garlic flowers woven in, a few of which he could catch when he angled the mirror just right, not the prettiest flower, but matched well in terms of colour; white like his hair but with that ever so slightly blueish tinge that he didn't know if Jaskier could even see with his human eyes. He hadn't ever imagined this kind of thing would suit him, but...

“You like it?” Jaskier asked with all the atmosphere of a cook just after serving dinner, breaking Geralt out of his reverie.

“Hmm,” was all he could find to say, and Jaskier nodded, a small, genuine smile taking up residence on his face as he went back to foraging.

Geralt watched him for a minute more, the descending sun still gently lighting Jaskier's movements gold, disappointment sitting low in his chest that with hands built for fighting, he couldn't return the favour.

Pt.3 - explicit!

Jaskier was killing it. The entire tavern was spellbound as he told his ballads and sung his songs and then performed them all again when they inevitably asked him to – not that he was refusing. He'd just sung the damned coin song for the third time, and probably would again before the night was over. The light cast all around the place from seemingly nowhere was orange and warm though it was well into the night, giving the room an otherworldly glow. There was a particular confluence of alcohol and something else that just meant that the place was in love with him.

Geralt, however, was just tired. It had been a difficult day of chopping things up, the nest he had been sent to deal with having been significantly larger than he'd expected. He'd had a few drinks himself, but he still smelled vaguely of monster guts and he had no desire to stay for much longer around such a rowdy group of humans. Besides, the air was thick enough with alcoholic fumes that he was probably halfway drunk already.

He stood, turning to wish Jaskier a good night, or at least signal that he was going to turn in, but the bard was far too entrenched, a maiden practically on each arm, leaving only enough space for him to strum the lute. Instead, he just squeezed through the heavily populated tavern to the staircase to the rooms above.

Their room – he only ever shared with Jaskier now, there was no point in even pandering to privacy – was two flights up, thankfully far from the ruckus the bard was causing on the ground. He lit some candles, casting the room in a gentle light which was kind on his tired eyes. When he went to take off shirt, however, he caught a whiff of exactly what he still smelled like, leaving no other option but to have some kind of bath.

Making his way down to the kitchen, it was clear everyone was far too busy to do it for him, so he silently got down to the task of hauling water up the stairs and into the tub situated in the small adjoining room to his. It didn't take too long, and tired as he was, the simple process of lifting and climbing and pouring and repeating set his mind at ease some.

He hadn't bothered to warm the water beforehand, instead casting a quick spell when everything was ready. He stripped off and lowered himself in the water, letting out a low moan at the warmth soothing his aching muscles. He got to work scrubbing the dirt off himself with soap, raking his fingers through his hair and rinsing until he was happy, before finally putting the bar down and reclining in the steam. Ah, the perks of magic.

Geralt couldn't be sure how long he'd been sitting there when Jaskier burst through the door into the room, drunk, hair all over the place, like it had had fingers run through it. Fingers that weren't his. “Geralt?” he said, plopping down the lute on the bed and looking confused when he didn't immediately catch sight of Geralt through the open adjoining door. “Oh, There you are,” he closed the door behind him over-carefully, before approaching.

On the whole, this wasn't entirely unusual; they shared spaces with each other like this a lot, and Jaskier had more than once taken forcing Geralt to have a bath into his own hands. They didn't bother with privacy. Jaskier had also been drunk before, and Geralt was no stranger to the traces the bard's adoring fans left on his person after one of his performances. It just so happened that this time it was tousled hair that had Geralt's fingers twitching.

“Oh, tonight was wonderful, truly one of my best performances,” the bard fumbled just a little over the word, waving a hand to dismiss the slip. “In fact, I should write about it...” He hummed a short melody and muttered a line about golden light.

Jaskier began removing his clothes, getting ready for bed, Geralt thought, until he was removed of that illusion by a hairy leg plunging into the water next to him as a fully naked Jaskier got in the tub. Water sloshed over the sides when he settled in, and Geralt had to hurriedly cross his legs in order to make room for him.

“This is rather toasty,” Jaskier commented, reaching for the soap and beginning to lather up his hands. “Since when do you take a bath without prompting?”

“Since when do you join me?” Geralt replied. His tone was more accusatory than he'd intended, and Jaskier pouted.

“Come now, there's no point in wasting good water.”

“Hmm.”

“We should stop somewhere with a proper bathing room,” Jaskier informed him, spreading suds over his body. Geralt did not fail to notice how the very tips of his hair reached the water and dipped under only to emerge again plastered to his chest. “I need a deep clean one of these days.”

“Do you want me to..?” It was out of Geralt's mouth before he even knew what he was offering, but his traitorous hand had already gestured to Jaskier's head.

The bard paused, mouth drawing into a thoughtful little circle. “My hair?”

Geralt nodded.

Jaskier looked at the soap in his hand, then back towards Geralt. “Yeah, why not?” he muttered, before turning in the bath – sending more water cascading over the sides, of course – and shuffling up until he was sitting between Geralt's spread thighs, back to chest.

Geralt cursed internally. The water was warm, but Jaskier's skin was like a firebrand when his side brushed against Geralt's leg. He wasn't leaning back yet, but should he do so, Geralt would be forced to embrace him in order to do anything at all with his hands.

“Here's the soap,” Jaskier said, passing the bar back over his shoulder, but let it slip from his fingers just as Geralt reached up to retrieve it.

“Shit,” he hissed, peering into the water and descended to groping around, as the low light from the few candles flickering around them illuminated nothing. He finally found it, certain he had accidentally touched Jaskier's butt more than a few times. Worse still, his dick was getting... interested in proceedings.

To distract himself, Geralt got down to business, reaching for a cup that had been left on the side. He filled it with water and dumped it over Jaskier's head, causing him to splutter and elbow Geralt's knee. “Hey!” he protested, to which Geralt smiled, making sure to pour it more carefully.

Eventually, Jaskier's hair was wet enough that Geralt could start working soap through it and teasing out the knots. He hit a few snags, but he was careful – more careful than he ever was with himself – until eventually he had cleaned all of it. But he couldn't quite bring himself to stop touching it.

This was the hair that had been haunting him for months now, calling to him; here it was, wound through his fingers. This close, it was just as rich of a chestnut brown as it looked from far away. Some of it was straightened out, weighed down by the water in it, but other bits were curling a little as they dried, delightfully happy ringlets. He could feel also that Jaskier took very good care of it, something he knew from their travels anyway, but now he held the evidence.

Then, entirely separate, was the experience of being so close to a wet, naked Jaskier. For starters, the man was not nearly as tipsy as he was pretending to be, as Geralt could tell from his smell. He was warm, pleasantly relaxed and content, but it was due to the influence of something other than alcohol. Geralt could smell... longing, with just a hint of lust.

The revelation caused him to pause where he had been gently massaging Jaskier's scalp.

“No, don't stop,” Jaskier complained, leaning his head back into Geralt's hands. “That was really nice.”

Instead, Geralt picked up the cup again to begin the process of rinsing Jaskier's hair, but found himself unwilling to inundate Jaskier as he had before, lest he get soap in his eyes. He placed a hand on Jaskier's shoulder, guiding his back to lie across his chest. “Lay your head back,” he rumbled, and Jaskier glanced at him for only a second before complying, closing his eyes as he settled down into the curve of Geralt's arm.

Geralt let out a small exhale, gently placing his hand over Jaskier's eyes now to protect them from the water, and beneath him Jaskier drew a surprised breath, but did not stiffen or withdraw. Continuing his gentle actions, Geralt emptied two cups over Jaskier's hairline, rising out the soap.

When he lowered his hands, it was as he'd thought it would be before, with one arm wrapped around Jaskier's side, and the other resting on his stomach. When Jaskier didn't move away, he took up the soap again as an excuse to let his hands wander, over his chest, over his collarbones, down his stomach and then lower.

Still Jaskier didn't pull away. When Geralt checked, he was biting his lip.

“May I?” Geralt asked lowly, circling his finger over the part of Jaskier's hip that led down to his groin.

Jaskier nodded.

Forgoing any pretence of cleaning, Geralt dipped his hand further into the water and wrapped it around Jaskier's cock, which he found to be just as hard as his own. He stroked it a few times, absently lamenting that it was hidden beneath the water level, but far more interested in the sounds he was drawing from the bard, who was just melting into him, letting out little hums of assent and plaintive sighs when Geralt changed speed. It was funny though, he would have thought the bard would be more vocal.

“Mmm, Geralt,” Jaskier muttered, as if on cue.

Geralt hummed in a questioning tone, bringing his hand down to the base of Jaskier's cock and squeezing.

Jaskier whined. “Faster. Touch me, Geralt.”

“Hmm,” Geralt replied, bringing the movements of his hand back up to their previous speed and beyond. With his other hand, he pulled Jaskier so he was flush against his body – all of his body – before he lifted it up to thumb across one of Jaskier's nipples. That had the bard squirming in delightful ways, pushing his chest forward and his ass back, a breathless gasp escaping his lips.

“I've wanted this for – ungh, so long,” Jaskier forced out as Geralt continued to move his hand, swiping over the head of Jaskier's cock every few lengths. Jaskier's hand had found its way to Geralt's thigh, and was gripping it tightly. Words spilled out of Jaskier's mouth now as he climbed higher – Geralt could smell the beginnings of desperation on his skin – praises passing his lips unhindered – “Gods, Geralt, your hands,” – and Geralt hardly wanted to let Jaskier come, just so he could continue to hear them; but when Jaskier uttered a breathy, “Please”, he had no choice but to twist his wrist just so, and then Jaskier was coming, throwing his head back over Geralt's shoulder with a groan, breathing heavily.

Geralt stroked him through it, but removed his hand when he felt Jaskier might become uncomfortable. They sat like that for a long moment, and Geralt felt suitably uninhibited that he twirled his fingers through the thinner, drying ends of Jaskier's hair where it had fallen in front of his chest from his movements. Predictably, it didn't take too long before Jaskier spoke.

“I haven't come that hard from someone's hand since I was a teenager.” He shifted around to face Geralt better, a cheeky grin on his face, but with the movement realised that Geralt was still hard, his eyes dropping to get a look. “Do you need some help with that, Geralt?”

Jaskier placed his hands on Geralt's abdomen, and something about the pose put Geralt in mind of a nymph or a mermaid, his hair draped over him in a wild way that made him look more supernatural than human. The light of the candles glinted against his wet skin, but the twinkle in his eyes was all his, and Geralt was so captivated that he barely noticed the assenting rumble that rose up from his throat.

The bard leaned further and further forward, sliding his hands further and further downward, and the moment Jaskier finally touched him was the same moment he brought their lips together.

Geralt was already achingly hard, but Jaskier insisted on teasing him with light touches, following the initial deep kiss with several smaller ones, trailing his way along his jaw and nipping at his neck. The feeling was driving Geralt crazy – he wanted Jaskier's lips back on his, he wanted to get lost in the pleasure of his hands and the passion of his touch and the warmth of his kiss. A little growl escaped his throat as Jaskier traced the dip of his neck with his tongue, and he tightened his hold on Jaskier's hips. The bard wasn't far away, but he wasn't close enough.

All at once, he couldn't help himself, his hands flew up to twine in Jaskier's hair, manoeuvring him back down to kiss him again, biting his lips and growling as Jaskier's grip tightened. The bard groaned out a soft “Yes,” and returned the kiss fiercely, moving his hand faster. Geralt was getting closer, and, losing himself somewhat to pleasure, he tugged on Jaskier's hair until his head fell back, giving Geralt unrestricted access to his neck.

The pale column of Jaskier's neck had been much obscured to him these past months, and he relished its reveal – the return of the mole just behind his ear, the subtle line of muscle climbing from his shoulders, the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed – Geralt attacked it all with teeth and tongue.

Jaskier, for his part, only moved his hand faster, giving out lusty sounds and encouragements that only drove Geralt further and further over the edge until, with one last stroke from base to tip pleasure coursed through him.

Geralt came with a growl, his grip loosening as blue eyes turned down to fix him with a fascinated gaze. Under scrutiny, he tried to keep his breathing even, dropping his head forward to breathe into the bard's shoulder.

Jaskier's fingers were playing delightfully over his chest as he came back down, tracing a long scar that crossed over his shoulder before moving onto the next. With the tail end of the high still washing over him, Geralt barely had time to wonder if he had potentially wrecked his relationship with Jaskier when he spoke up.

“What changed?”

Geralt frowned, finally raising his eyes to look up at the vision still kneeling over his lap.

“All these years and you could have done this any time you wanted. You've certainly looked me over enough times.”

Well, it was certainly true Geralt had cast glances in Jaskier's direction a few times in their travels – after all, the bard was not unattractive, and he liked him very well – he just hadn't been motivated to take action until...

“Your hair,” Geralt said.

“My hair?” Jaskier frowned in return. “You're saying my hair was what tipped the scale?”

Geralt shrugged.

“Well then. I should have grown it out ages ago.” Jaskier shook his head with an incredulous laugh. “We'll be taking advantage of it more I suppose?” Geralt grinned. “If you'd like.”

Jaskier widened his eyes comically. “My dear witcher, how dare you even doubt.”

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