#just a little unsettling to see mounted o their wall.

[awkwardmermaidhair]

I think humanoid creatures that specifically grow deer horns don’t keep their fallen antlers- I feel like it would be equivalent to keeping your toenail clippings, and that’s gross.

[scapegrace74-blog]

The Second First Christmas

A/N Despite the fact that I’m posting it after Boxing Day, this little fic is about Metric Jamie and Claire celebrating their first Christmas as a couple.  It is unadulterated fluff, and in keeping with the season of giving, I’m going to give this an Explicit rating.  You’re welcome.

With special thanks to @lady-o-ren, for Jamie’s gift idea!

All other parts of the Metric Universe are available on my AO3 page.

December 24, 2018, Spitalfields, London, England

Claire could hear her phone vibrating loudly on the metal shelf inside her duty locker.  Overcoming fatigue so severe it blurred her vision, she entered her combination and yanked open the door, thumbing the screen just before the call went to voicemail.

How did he do it?  Jamie had an uncanny, and frankly slightly unsettling, ability to guess her whereabouts, even remotely.  The past week he had found her in the massive Spitalfields Market merely on the hunch that she would be craving sushi after her Pilates class.  At one point she’d found his prescience disturbing, but now it soothed her.  Someone cared for her enough, knew her well enough, to plot the passage of her days on the virtual map of his mind.  And that someone was on the line.

“You’ve reached the voicemail for Claire Beauchamp’s circadian rhythm.  Press One if you’re a cortisol suppressant, Two if you’re an espresso machine, or Three if you’re Claire’s boyfriend, last seen in the flesh prior to the winter solstice.”

Jamie’s low rumbling chuckle filled her ear.

“Ye’re verra funny for a lass goin’ on twenty-four hours wi’out sleep, Sassenach. How was yer shift?”

Having worked most holidays in the A&E since graduating nursing school, Claire knew they went one of two ways: either complete bedlam, or utter boredom.  This one had been the latter, for which she was thankful.

“Surprisingly calm, but that means no lovely adrenaline to keep me awake.  I may sleepwalk into the Thames on my way home.  Are you at the station already?”

“Aye, jus’ starting my shift.  Can ye be at the main entrance of the hospital in five minutes?  I’ll call ye an Uber.”

“Jamie, that’s really not necessary.  I’m quite capable of walking...”

“Claire...” he interrupted, and needn’t say anything more.  They’d had numerous conversations and minor confrontations since becoming a couple over what Jamie termed her “wee addiction to self-sufficiency”.  She was trying to learn to accept help when it was offered, but it was an iterative process.

“Thank you.  I’d appreciate that.  Will I see you tomorrow morning before I go back on duty?”

Both Jamie and Claire were working extra hours over the holidays to offset the cost of refurnishing their flat.  Every minute spent together was therefore doubly precious.

“Aye, I’ll wake ye when I get in an’ we can celebrate our second first Christmas t’gether by tryin’ tae keep the other awake long enough tae open our presents.”

She smiled, but it morphed into a yawn.

“Get some rest, Sassenach.  And Claire,” he added in a serious tone, “t’would be a fine gift tae find ye in my bed, preferably naked, when I come home on Christmas morn.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she husked, suddenly much more awake.

***

There was a puff of cool air and then the Earth moved.  Straining to hold onto slumber, Claire rolled away from the disturbance, gripping the blanket beneath her chin.  A low chuckle preceded a solid warmth radiating along the entire length of her spine.  Something bristly abraded her shoulder and she flinched away.

“Has anyone told ye ye look like a wee hedgehog when ye sleep, Sassenach?”

“I’m fairly confident they haven’t,” she retorted, rolling onto her back and stretching before opening her eyes.  The room was mostly dark, but Jamie’s auburn curls glowed in the dim lamplight escaping their living room.  His bare shoulders were humid and pink from the shower.  “What time is it?” she asked.

“Gone four.  We have a few hours afore ye have tae be back at the A&E, aye?”

“Mmmm,” she hummed affirmatively, caught up in tracing the ligatures of Jamie’s upper arm.

“Good.  That should leave us jus’ enough time.”

“Just how many presents are we exchanging?” Claire laughed, mesmerized by the eager passage of Jamie’s eyes over her face.  The hand that wasn’t bracing his head aloft began a lazy exploration beneath the blankets, touching her naked skin so softly that it almost tickled.

“Only two.  An’ the first one’s already unwrapped.”

“How fortuitous,” she teased before leaning upwards to capture his waggish lips in a warm introductory kiss.  “Merry Christmas,” she murmured as they parted some time later.

“An’ tae ye as well, Sassenach.  Ye canna imagine how many times I thought of ye t’night, yer beautiful skin warm against my sheets.”  Jamie’s free hand was on the move again, firmer now along the contours of her body as it came alive to his touch.

“Slow night, then?” she gasped as his knuckle found her nipple, slackened with sleep.

“Painfully so.”

There was no further conversation for a time, mouths being employed far more enjoyably.  Four months of intimacy had bridged the span from friends to lovers, replacing hesitation with ardour.  They were still learning each other’s tells; when to lead and when to follow, how to ask and how to demand.  It was a giddy education for them both.  

Tonight, Jamie’s fatigue and drawn-out anticipation left him shaking with want, a sensation akin to sharing a bed with an earthquake.  His broad torso was outlined in the light from the door as he knelt between her thighs, lust pinwheeling like sparklers in his eyes.  Fortunately, condoms were no longer a necessity after they both produced clean blood tests and Claire had an IUD implanted.  So when he slid into her body, there was nothing but the needy clasp of flesh on flesh.  Her sigh of pleasure mingled with Jamie’s groan of relief as they began their dance.

“Yer breasts, mo nighean donn,” Jamie growled past the iron clench of his jaw.  She dragged her pupils down from the back of her eyelids to observe the twin objects in question, undulating in time to their meeting and parting.

“Touch them for me,” Jamie commanded.

Aware that her every movement was being minutely observed, she made a show of arching her ribs and running her hands first beside, then below, and finally between her breasts.

“Seadh, mo ghaol.” The words snuck unbidden between Jamie’s strained lips.  She didn’t have the Gaihldig, but his meaning was clear.  Go on.  So go on she did, dragging fingernails over the creased flesh of each areola before giving both nipples a sudden pinch.  Whatever tectonic fluctuations her actions caused, Jamie felt them, for he let out an ecstatic whimper.  A worried furrow now marred his brow.  Her fluent eyes read the desperation written on his face.  He didn’t have long, and he needed her to go before him.

Her right hand drifted down to where they were joined.  His cock was thoroughly coated in her moisture as it emerged from her body.  Wetting her fingertips, she began to trace the intricate geometry of self-pleasure against her flesh.  Breathy moans filled the air.  Jamie’s teeth were bared in a snarl of panicked concentration.  She wasn’t going to overtake him in the wire sprint to the finish, she realized.

“Do it, Jamie.”  His crazed glance snapped upward to meet her own certain one.  Doubt clouded the seascape of his irises.  “God, please,” she begged.  They’d spoken of it.  A fantasy.  A mental titillation not yet brought to life.

Resolution came just in time.  Slipping from her heat, he grasped himself and with two hard strokes erupted all over her skin with a hoarse cry, anointing the final acceleration of her fingers as she echoed his climax with a convulsion and a sob.

Minutes later, they lay side by side, still recovering their breath.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Claire warned.  “We still need to exchange gifts.”

“Greedy wee thing,” Jamie groaned, already halfway to slumber.

***

A shared shower and two cups of strong coffee later, they sat on their new sofa.  Claire’s carefully wrapped gift for Jamie lay on the coffee table before them.

“I can’t help but notice that there’s nothing under our tree for me, Fraser.”

“Och, ye mean ye expect me tae serve ye and give ye a wee present, Sassenach.  Ye truly are greedy,” he groused dramatically.  Standing, he extended his hand and confused, Claire allowed him to lead her towards her bedroom.  For a moment she considered that he might actually be taking her back to bed.  As he turned on the light she understood his intention.

As a lifelong wanderer, Claire could count on the fingers of one hand her precious material possessions.  Her mother’s emerald earrings.  Her father’s pocket watch.  A jade fish from the Cat Street night market in Hong Kong, a lucky talisman she carried in her pocket for every test and exam.  And a beautiful antique print of Persepolis left to her by her Uncle Lamb.  All but this last had survived their apartment fire unscathed, but the water and smoke damage to its parchment had been irreparable.  Or so she had believed.

“Jamie,” she gasped upon seeing the lithograph once again mounted in its frame on her wall.  “But... how?”

“Well, I willna bore ye with the details, but suffice it tae say that there’s an antiquarian o’er in Bermondsey who can work miracles.  There’s still a wee bit o’ smudging near the edges, but I reckon it adds to its character,” he explained.

“A palimpsest,” she said, taking his hand.  At his questioning look, she explained, “when one story is written overtop of an older one.  This print is a remembrance of my Uncle Lamb and his love for me.  And now, when I look at it, I’ll be reminded of your love as well.”

“Aye, just so,” he agreed.

***

Claire was unaccountably nervous as Jamie began to unwrap her gift.  She’d felt certain she’d picked just the right thing for him; personal without being sappy, meaningful without being extravagant.  But with eyes still misty from the thoughtfulness of his present to her, she was having doubts.

“Tis rather heavy,” Jamie observed as he lifted the rectangular package onto his lap.  His eyes were alight with childlike glee, which was a gift unto itself.

“A chess set!”  His smile was genuine, but Claire’s heart plummeted.  What kind of woman bought her lover a chess set?  She began to stammer.

“I... ummm... I thought you could invite your friend John over to play.  You mentioned missing the challenge, and ummm....” she broke off, floundering, but Jamie paid her no heed.  He was lifting each wooden piece from its velvet resting place, inspecting its shape with a look of utter fascination.

“Where did ye find this, Claire?” he asked at last.

“Oh, uhh, online, actually.  It’s from a store in Inverness, but of course I wasn’t able to...”

“It’s Culloden,” Jamie interrupted.

“Errr, yes.  I thought, you know, a chessboard is a tactical battlefield.  And with you being Scottish and your family’s Jacobite history...”

“Claire, this is the most amazing chess set I’ve e’er seen.   Look here.  See this wee knight?  Tis a Scotch Hussar.  An’ the white king is the Duke of Cumberland.”  Jamie’s finger traced the words and images carved on the plinth of each piece, going on and on about the clans represented by the tacksmen pawns and his own grandsire, Lord Lovat, symbolized by a tiny strawberry carved on the base of an ebony rook.  Claire’s ribs began to loosen their vice-grip on her lungs.  Maybe she hadn’t horribly miscalculated after all.

“Sassenach, thank ye.  Truly.   Tis a grand gift.”  The chess set had finally been set aside and they sat facing each other, hands gently caressing as the winter sun slowly warmed the room in tones of blush and grey.

“You’ve very welcome.  I’m so relieved that you like it,” she replied with candour.

“I love it.  But no’ half sae much as I love ye.”

“I love you too.”  It was only after the words had taken flight from her lips that she realized she had never said them aloud before.  Not to Jamie, whose sudden stillness indicated that he had heard her.  It was too late, then, to pluck her soaring words from the air and cage them once again inside her heart.  Too afraid to meet his gaze, she concentrated on smoothing her palms over the backs of his hands in a hypnotic rhythm. 

His response, when it came, was whispered into the secret stronghold they had built together.

“There’s naught on Earth tae compare wi’ the gift of yer heart, mo nighean donn.  I want ye tae ken that I shall treasure it, an’ ne’er give ye reason tae regret placing it with me for safekeeping.”

Jamie lifted her hands to his mouth and kissed them both sweetly.  Still looking down, she nodded her acceptance of his pledge, a single tear escaping from the tip of her nose.

It was well past sunrise by the time Claire rose from their bed a second time, kissing her sleeping lover goodbye before creeping out of their flat and into the gemstone light of a perfect Christmas morning.

[redemptionbaby]

Hi i was wondering if you could please do hc's of Low honor Arthur (and dutch if you're cool with it) who one day get really rough with a bad guy like they beat the shit out of him or something and their s/o sees this and is like 'holy shit that was hot,' and Arthur/Dutch notice and smut ensues ~ askhdhahgsh sorry if this is weird, you don't have to do this if you don't want to ❤❤❤

I’m not doing Dutch because I’m in one of my moods where I’m like mad at him for being a bitch lol also I ended up doing a Drabble sorry lmao.

Low Honor Arthur

Arthur can barely hear his own thoughts as he beats his fists continually into the pulp that remains of his former opponents face. He had been worthy and respectable, at first, when he was able to dodge and actually land a few hits. But, before long, he got tired and sluggish, forcing Arthur to reduce him to the pile that lay before him. He relented, not wanting to keep you waiting.

Upon looking up, he was surprised. Surprised to find you gazing down where Arthur’s fists lay with blood-coated knuckles. He was delighted to see the heart-eyed look on your face, and the darling way your thighs twitched ever so slightly closed. You break out of your trance to notice his stare and you meet his eyes as a smirk starts forming on his face. He rises from his position on the ground, dusting the dirt from his pants while you hear the click of his spurs.

“Did you like that, rabbit?”

You turn to avoid his gaze and find him on you in an instant, grasping your hands and holding them in front of your chest, and he practically beams at the cute little gasp that escapes you. You nod tentatively, and he startles you further with a practically comedic release of tension as his shoulders relax and one of his arms drops to his side. His eyes seem to darken as he lets go of your hands and puts a light grip on his belt. Arthur flashes a toothy smile before practically lunging forward, gathering you up by the shoulders and under the knees.

He makes a dash for the nearest abandoned cabin, swooning at how he can feel the edges of your nails on his chest while you grip at his shirt tightly. As if he would ever drop such precious cargo.

Arthur doesn’t try to make a show of kicking open the old wooden door, unsettling some moss covered stones, but it ends up being rather theatric anyways. It always does with him. The door drifts shut after he carries you through the threshold, like a newly wedded couple in their new home. He feels just as excited, and you feel just as treasured.

Unromantically however, he sits you on the first empty flat space he can find, and that happens to be a kitchen table. Arthur admired the picture that you are for a moment, blushing and breathing a little intensely even though he was the one who did all the running. The rise and fall of your chest makes him feel like he can see your heart beating.

“Raise up your skirt, baby. I’ll take care of you.”

You do so, gladly but gently, and he immediately steps forward, his chest nearly pressing against yours as his hand starts palming and stroking at the fabric that separates his hand from your cunt. His gaze downwards towards you softens as he feels the pads of his fingers moisten instantly. Arthur palms at your clit harder, his discovery of your arousal fueling that special fire in his heart that burns only for you. You moan shakily, and he presses a soft kiss to your lips for a moment.

“How sweet. My sweet little rabbit, so needy, so perfect, just for me. Her big bad wolf. I’m just about ready to devour you, honey. You know how you get my blood pumpin’.”

You can feel the heat of his breath so closely, and his very words are spoken so warmly you can practically feel the flames from the fire in his belly licking at you. He wastes no time in ripping your undergarments irreparably, and you can hear the clink of his belt buckle as he pulls himself free and starts rubbing the weeping tip of his cock against your slit, applying a teasing pressure. He smiles warmly at the feeling of your hips squirming beneath his hand as you try to get closer to him. He laughs low, and moves his hand to cup your cheek in that tender way he knows makes you feel lovesick. He knows because it makes him feel the same way.

“ Now, now. Don’t get hasty. I always take care of you when you need me, don’t I?” You hitch your breath as the velvet head of his cock starts entering you, and he sighs dreamily, because when he’s inside you it feels like home. “And that’s because I need you too. Because I love you, rabbit. And I’m gonna make sure you never forget it.”

He gives you another kiss while he bottoms out, swallowing your moans and whines before he parts with a playful bite to your lower lip. Arthur starts thrusting, and he picks up the pace quick. Before you know it he’s pistoning his cock in and out of you, reveling in your cries as he feels the pulse of your walls stroke him. You can hear the wet slap echo in the quiet while the outlaw’s breath starts growing ragged. He pulls away slightly, grasping at your wrist and guiding your hand to the bottom of your stomach, where he rests his hand on top of yours.

“You feel this? This is place is just for me. Made for me. You’re where I belong. Always.”

Arthur places the calloused pad of his thumb against your clit, stroking and pressing, growling deeply as he feels your cunt clench around him as you gasp and breathe heavily through your orgasm. He follows, purring and cooing his love for you as he presses his hips as far into yours as they’ll go, pinning your squirming hips against the table as he fills you with his thick spend.

He collapses onto you, enough for you to feel the pressure of his body encompassing yours, but not enough for you to feel crushed by it. He rises after a few moments, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before leaning back to pull out, chuckling at the soft “ah” you let out when he finally leaves you. Parting is such sweet sorrow. Arthur presses two fingers to the cum beginning to drip from you, pushing it back in and bringing his fingers up to your lips. You part them slightly as he tells you to open while sleep begins to call you, and he massages your tongue gently while you suck.

He pulls them out after a short while, wet and shining with your saliva, tucking himself back into his pants. He takes your hand and helps you to rise, slowly and gently. He keeps his hold on your hand while he leads you out of the little house, helping you down the crumbling cobblestone stairs and mounting his horse.

Arthur lifts you under the arms for you to join him, and he smiles as you hug your arms around his waist and rest your cheek on the rawhide of the jacket on his back. He can already tell you’re going to start drooling as you close your eyes and he hears your breathing relax and deepen as he sets off towards camp. But he doesn’t mind. He never does.

[reluctantwrites]

Surprise Guests

@carverly this was just the sweetest prompt and I couldn’t resist! It got quite long though, so be forewarned! (Approx 3500 words, most under the cut)

When a bad bout of the flu swept through Skyhold, no one expected it to hit Cyrus so hard or so suddenly. What had begun with a simple case of the sniffles and drowsiness progressed rapidly throughout the day’s training.

Maybe it was just bad luck, in the end. Admittedly, that wouldn’t surprise Cyrus, given his track record. He had been feeling light headed when Hanin brought them out to the field for riding practice, but of course, he had said nothing. In the end, he’d probably spent a total of five minutes in the saddle before his vision began to blur, the pressure in his head mounting, the world darkening at the edges. It had been pure instinct that had driven him to tug on the reins, slowing his mount. At least, when he blacked out and tipped from the saddle, he had not been moving quickly.

Unfortunately, that did little to soften the fall.

The journey from the field to the infirmary had passed in something of a blur. Part of Cyrus was grateful for that, given what he had overheard from the healers when they thought he was asleep. Apparently, Hanin had carried his half-delirious ass across Skyhold. In that instance, being barely conscious had actually been a blessing. Otherwise, Cyrus might have outright died from the humiliation of it all.

Well, at least he had some time alone to lick his wounds. Nurse his pride. Do… whatever it was people did when stuck on bedrest.

Heaving a deep sigh, Cyrus winced as he shifted, trying to change position on the narrow bed. He had done a number on his left side, according to the healer that had been tending to him since he arrived. Turned out falling from the saddle, even when the horse was barely moving, wasn’t exactly a great move, healthwise. Cyrus had asked if that was her professional opinion, and naturally, he had yet to receive a second visit. He supposed that was fair. It wasn’t like he was going to keel over and die if he was left alone.

But still…

Hanin would come to see him. The fact that the abnormally large elf wasn’t already clanking down the corridor to darken his doorway was actually something of a surprise. Then again, no one knew he was conscious.

Then again, maybe he was kidding himself to think that even mattered.

It was fine. He didn’t need them, or anyone. He certainly didn’t give a shit when people walked past his room to visit someone else further down the hallway. So what? No one really wanted to visit someone in the infirmary, and Cyrus sure as shit didn’t want them there, congregating like it was some kind of pity-party.

It was fine.

Hanin did come to see him, about an hour after he woke. It had been a simple, sombre affair. The disappointment had practically radiated off him. It took everything Cyrus had to meet his eye and nod when Hanin moved on from the simple questions (How are you? Do you need anything? Are they treating you well?) to things that were a little more difficult to stomach (Why didn’t you say something? Do you realise how badly you could have been hurt? Did I do something to make you not trust me?). The last one sank to the pit of Cyrus’ stomach like a stone. All he’d been able to say in response was a feeble it’s not that.

He could tell from the look on Hanin’s face as he left that he didn’t believe him.

Just like that, Cyrus was alone again. At least, until a different healer came to see him. This one, an older man with a grey-flecked beard, asked him more questions he didn’t know how to answer; ones that were somehow even worse than what Hanin had subjected him to.

Would you classify what happened as an accident? “Yes.”

I see. Are you experiencing any disagreements or tensions with anyone who was present when you fell? “I… no? No more than usual. What is this?”

Protocol, for people who visit the infirmary multiple times in a short time-span. Is there anything you want to report about your Captain or squad? “What? No. They had nothing to do with it. This was my fault, okay? Lay off.”

Were you aware you were ill? “Yes. I just said it was my fault. Do you need me to repeat it again?”

Do you often place yourself at risk, rather than seek help? “I… no? Yes? I don’t fucking know. What’s with all this shit? Just let me rest. I’ll be fine if you stop interrogating me.”

Very well. Are you absolutely certain there is nothing you want to say? Your name will not be disclosed. “You know what? Sure. How about this: fuck off.”

Even after sleeping well into following day, Cyrus remained bothered by the conversation. So what if he’d gone to the infirmary a few times? It was for different shit, and it was nothing to do with Hanin or the Dawn Squad. Once had been because he cut his hand cleaning a knife in the kitchens. Another was when he’d tripped carrying a bunch of wood up to repairmen on the battlements and hit his head. The most recent one, sure, had been after Brenner, one of Reynolt’s asshole recruits, gut-punched him after an evening at the Rest. He would have let it go if it hadn’t left him with trouble breathing.

Then more Cyrus thought about it, the more he had to admit it probably looked suspicious.

But the idea that he was being mistreated by his own squad? By Hanin? It was ridiculous. Sure, they had their differences, but in the end, they were a team. When he was with them, he knew he didn’t have to spend all his energy watching his own back. It was the safest he’d ever felt. In truth, sitting alone in the infirmary made him more anxious than recovering in the barracks. After all, there was nothing stopping someone who had a bone to pick with him coming over for a ‘visit’.

While Cyrus mulled over that unsettling thought, there was a sudden knock at his door. He jolted, pre-emptively on edge, part of him convinced that Brenner would be waiting for him, grinning the way he had after he’d sunk his fist into his gut. But instead, Cyrus was greeted by an unexpected sight.

“Hey.” Ralon raised a hand in a half-wave as he stepped into the room. “Heard you were up. Figured I’d drop in after lunch. Check if the healers had strangled you yet.”

Recovering and snorting dryly, Cyrus rolled his eyes. “Kind of you. Well, I’m alive. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Ah well, can’t have everything, right?” Casually, Ralon snagged one of the stools by the wall and carried it over, settling with a sigh at the side of Cyrus’ narrow bed. “So… you all good?”

Cyrus arched a brow. “You really going to pretend Hanin didn’t tell you?”

“Alright, you got me.” Ralon grinned and spread his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Just wanted to hear it from you. Plenty can change overnight.”

Despite shaking his head and looking away, Cyrus had to admit, Ralon had a point. He hated when Ralon had a point. “I’m fine. Just… weak, I suppose. From the flu and shit.”

“Sure. The flu.” The Antivan winked conspiratorially. “Pretty nice to have an excuse for those noodle arms for once, huh?”

“Oh fuck off. Noodle arms. Could still strangle your stupid ass with them.” Sure, they were taking shots at each other, but there was surprisingly no venom in the exchange. That was… different. Ralon just laughed in reply, and Cyrus found himself slipping into a chuckle of his own, which inevitably descended into a coughing fit. “Fuck,” he rasped after a few painful spasms, reaching out to accept the cup of water Ralon had hastily poured for him. “T-Thanks.”

“Yeah, no problem. Can you imagine if you died on my watch? Hanin would kick my ass back to Antiva.” Smiling, Ralon leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “So, what? You’re not going to ask why I’m the one sitting here?”

Mid-drink, Cyrus just gave a small one-shouldered shrug, eyes watering, chest sore from coughing. “Figured Hanin told you to check on me,” he said eventually, resting the empty cup on his lap and clearing his throat. “I’m surprised he didn’t send the kid, though. He’s usually the one who draws the short straw.”

To Cyrus’ surprise, Ralon let out a sudden, weary sigh. “Okay. Look. How about you cut that shit out, yeah?” Slowly, he reached out, taking the cup from Cyrus’ lap and setting it back on the side table beside the pitcher. “No one sent me, and it’s not a chore.”

Cyrus frowned. “Then why ask me that shit in the first place?”

A slow smile spread across Ralon’s face. “It was clearly my unique and creative way of letting you know that the others are late. Like a bunch of assholes.”

At that, Cyrus’ frown just deepened, confusion washing over his face. “Ralon, the fuck are you talking about?”

“He’s talking about us, Prickles!”

The sudden voice from the doorway snared Cyrus’ attention, his blue eyes snapping in the direction of the sound. And standing there, sure as shit, was Lyrene, Darren, and Connors. Lyrene winked as she strode into the room then paused and let out an appreciative whistle as she eyed the space. “Damn, Cyrus. You paying extra for the private room or something?”

At the suggestion, Cyrus felt his cheeks grow warm. “With what fucking coin, Lyrene?”

“Hanin probably scared the healers stiff, so they set you up in a nicest spot they had.” Ralon seemed delighted by the prospect, his eyes taking on that twinkling, mischievous look. “Well, that’s something to look forward to, I guess, if we ever faint on horseback.”

“I do love special treatment,” Lyrene agreed as she perched on the corner of Cyrus’ bed. “Sorry we’re late. Darren got distracted.”

At mention of the boy, Cyrus shifted and glanced across to where Darren was busying himself by the side-table, blocking what he was doing with his body. Cyrus was about to ask what the hell he was up to when the blond straightened, nodded, and stepped aside. There was a kind of quiet shyness to the moment as Darren revealed a small arrangement of flowers. They were all familiar; he must have picked them on the way to the infirmary.

“Before you say anything,” Darren said quickly as Cyrus opened his mouth to speak, “I just figured, you know… the infirmary’s kinda… well, it’s not the nicest place. I remember when I was here last, I missed going outside, and it’s warm enough now that flowers are blooming so…” The boy’s nerves got the better of him and he just gave the vase a sheepish look. “If you don’t like them, I can get rid of it.”

“No.” Cyrus’ voice was hoarser than usual. Luckily, he could blame it on the coughing fit. “They’re… fine. Just leave them, now that you’ve put them there.”

Anyone else might have been offended by such a begrudging response, but very few people knew Cyrus the way the Dawn Squad did. Darren’s face lit up with a smile so warm Cyrus felt like someone had brought a piece of the sun into the room. Maybe it was the stupid flowers, or the fact that everyone had come to see him, but he felt… good. Better than he should, at least, all things considered.

He had barely recovered when something was being pushed insistently into his hands. Turning his head, Cyrus cocked a curious eyebrow at Connors, surprised she had even bothered to come in the first place. “That is for rest,” she said, nodding to the small pouch. As Cyrus raised it to his nose and sniffed it tentatively, she continued. “Herbs. Brew them into a tea. I will have the healers bring you hot water when we leave.”

“You mean when we leaf?” Ralon grinned as the entire room descended into a chorus of pained groans. As Cyrus lacked the strength to do it himself, he was grateful when Lyrene reached over and swatted Ralon for the terrible pun.

“Anyway,” Darren said softly, settling down beside the bed, “I’m glad you’re not hurt. The Captain was really worried yesterday.” He hesitated, his words faltering, gaze sliding away. “We, um… all were.”

Cyrus watched Darren for a moment, and then relaxed into a tired half-smile. Reaching up, he ignored the pain in his arm as he roughly ruffled the kid’s mess of blond hair. “Yeah, well, I’m fine, alright? So stop worrying.”

“Oh, sure, we’ll stop worrying,” Lyrene drawled, crossing her arms and fixing Cyrus with a hard look, “when you stop giving us shit to worry about. You scared the crap out of us yesterday. What if you’d broken your neck?”

“Then I would have broken my neck.” Cyrus didn’t really know what to say. He wasn’t used to people calling him out on shit like that. “Guess I got lucky.”

“We all did.”

Cyrus turned, the sharpness of his expression melting away when he met Darren’s gaze and the kid smiled at him. “I’m serious,” he insisted, arms folded on the edge of the bed as he knelt beside it, “you scared us, but you're okay. That’s what matters. Just promise you’ll look after yourself. Please?”

Please? The room had descended into a strange, not quite awkward silence at the end of Darren’s request; a silence the rest of the squad let hang in the air until Cyrus was ready to break it.

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.” Cyrus cleared his throat, glancing away. “I’ll be more careful.” The silence returned, this time verging much closer to awkward. Trapped in the thick of it, Cyrus finally broke and groaned. “You’re not all going to sit there looking at me like that all afternoon, are you?”

Exchanging glances, the others laughed, the mood lifting as they rose from their various positions. Lyrene stretched, wandering towards the door. “Nah. Wouldn’t want to torture you, Prickles.” 

Ralon winked and reached out, grasping Cyrus comfortingly on the shoulder. “Rest up. It’s not the same without your constant bitching. I’m having too much fun.”

“Yeah, fuck you too,” Cyrus replied, but a flicker of a smile gave away his true feelings as the group bundled up and bustled back out, almost knocking over one of the roaming healers. After they left, Cyrus’ gaze lingered on the doorway, a strange warmth alight in his center of his chest. Slowly, his attention drifted across the room and came to rest on the small cup of flowers. Dandelions.

He never realised how much he liked dandelions.

Cyrus had dozed off after drinking Connors’ tea, which was not nearly as horrific as he had been expecting. Feeling warm and hazy, he sighed, grateful for the thick blanket draped over him and the soft fur pressed against his hand…

Brow twitching, Cyrus opened his eyes, blinking away the echoes of sleep. It fled him in a rush when he realised what was beside him.

“Hey, you...” he mumbled. His fever had worsened, it seemed. He was lucky to have gotten the sleep he did, thanks to Connors. “What’re you doing here, boy…?”

The mabari whined, nosing against his hand, his large brown eyes so heart-melting that Cyrus shifted as best he could to scratch him behind the ears. A second mabari was also in the room, settled by the foot of the bed. She gave off the air of being older and wiser than her needy counterpart, who panted happily at the attention, tilting his head into the scratches.

“How’d you two get in?” Cyrus asked foggily. He wasn’t expecting an answer, which made it even more shocking when he got one.

“With great difficulty, so ah, try not to make too much noise, please.”

For a second, Cyrus stared in shock at the mabari he was scratching. Then his gaze drifted up to the doorway. A blond man stood there, broad-shouldered and sporting about two day’s worth of stubble. Halfway in the corridor, his blue eyes flicked back and forth, keeping watch for any prowling healers. After a moment, he spared a glance over his shoulder and gave Cyrus a kind smile. “They missed you, yesterday. It’s hard to say no to those faces when they want something.”

“Trevelyan?” Cyrus shook his head to clear it, gritting his teeth as he tried to sit up. A flash of pain lanced up his left side and he gasped. He almost abandoned the motion but the mabari he’d been scratching put his front paws up on the bed, leaning forward. With his help, Cyrus was able to haul himself into a sitting position. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why would your dogs miss me?”

With a final nervous glance, Jaime turned his back on the corridor, leaning against the doorframe. The look he gave Cyrus was as soft as his voice when he spoke. “I know you come down to the stables to see them in the evening.” He raised a hand when Cyrus stiffened. “Easy. It’s alright. I’m glad you do. They like you so much they’ll wait there even when it’s cold out, and you’ve never let them down.” He smiled at that, his gaze endlessly fond as it shifted to the two mabari. “Justin and Helen are picky, but Maker knows they chose you. They were so upset last night that I had to bring them here today to prove you’re alright.”

Justin gave a soft bark of agreement, leaning forward to nose at Cyrus’ cheek. Despite his state, Cyrus laughed weakly, reaching up to scratch the large hound’s face. “You missed me, huh? Well, I missed you too… Justin and Helen.” As he said the names, he fired an accusing look at Jaime. “Really? Those were the ones you went with for a couple of dogs?”

Laughing, Jaime just shrugged. “It suited them. They’re as good as people to me.”

Thoughtfully, still scratching Justin’s cheek, Cyrus’s gaze lingered on the two mabari. Eventually, he let out a soft huff and nodded. 

“Yeah. Better than people.”

It was the following morning, when the worst of his fever broke, that Cyrus awoke to the smell of something warm, fresh, and delicious. Stirring, confused, he rolled onto his side and came almost face-to-face with what appeared to be a pie of some description. Filling spilled down slightly on one side, the pastry so overfilled with berries that it could barely contain itself. Baffled, Cyrus looked around, relieved when he found a note wedged under the pie dish.

Cyrus,

Captain Lavellan mentioned you would not be assisting me in the kitchens for evening clean-up due to illness. I hadn’t realised you were not well. I hope it is nothing too serious.

I visited this morning but you were fast asleep and I felt it best to let you be. But if there is a cure for anything, it is my famous wildberry pie! Do try to eat it while it’s still warm, dear – and not all at once. I know what you soldier-types are like when it comes to food!

You rest up and take care of yourself. Let me know when you are well enough to keep me company in the kitchen, and don’t you dare come back a moment sooner!

Druselle (your favourite cook)

Stunned, Cyrus stared at the note, then the pie, then the note again. He’d always thought Druselle just put up with him during clean-up duty. It was just one of his chores; it wasn’t like he wanted to be there. Sure, he never skipped out, but so what? It’s not like he’d done her some huge favour out of the goodness of his heart. He barely even spoke to her, most nights, content to work in silence and just get the job done.

Maybe that was what she liked about it.

It was strange. Of all the people who had visited him, there was just something about Druselle’s pie and letter. It was something so unexpected that it hit Cyrus like a falling tree, leaving him bone-weak in his bed, the piece of paper held limply between his fingers. He’d always assumed that people just… didn’t like him. That it didn’t matter what he did or didn’t do. It was like he carried some kind of mark that only other people could see, labeling him as undesirable. A thing to be avoided.

But Druselle, the cook who had probably shared two words with him over the last couple of months, had got up in the early hours of the morning, when the sky was still dark and the birds were fast asleep, to make him her famous wildberry pie.

Sniffling, Cyrus shivered and reached up, swiping at his eyes, careful not to get tears on the paper. A tremulous laugh rolled up the back of his throat and stuck there like a stone, choking off sound for a moment as he marveled at his own ridiculousness. There was nothing to cry about. It was just a pie.

But, as Cyrus reached out and broke off a piece of the crust, the pastry buttery and still warm to touch, he was forced to admit a fundamental truth.

It was so much more than that.

[waldeinsamkeitmamihlapinatapai]

Samantha, 2018. THE HOUND OF HEAVEN Francis Thompson I FLED Him, down the nights and down the days; I fled Him, down the arches of the years; I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways   Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears I hid from Him, and under running laughter.           Up vistaed hopes I sped;     And shot, precipitated, Adown Titanic glooms of chasmèd fears, From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.     But with unhurrying chase,           And unperturbèd pace, Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,     They beat—and a Voice beat     More instant than the Feet— ‘All things betray thee, who betrayest Me.’               I pleaded, outlaw-wise, By many a hearted casement, curtained red, Trellised with intertwining charities; (For, though I knew His love Who followèd,       Yet was I sore adread       Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside). But, if one little casement parted wide, The gust of His approach would clash it to. Fear wist not to evade, as Love wist to pursue. Across the margent of the world I fled,       And troubled the gold gateways of the stars, Smiting for shelter on their clangèd bars;       Fretted to dulcet jars And silvern chatter the pale ports o’ the moon. I said to Dawn: Be sudden—to Eve: Be soon;       With thy young skiey blossoms heap me over       From this tremendous Lover— Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see! I tempted all His servitors, but to find My own betrayal in their constancy,       In faith to Him their fickleness to me, Their traitorous trueness, and their loyal deceit. To all swift things for swiftness did I sue; Clung to the whistling mane of every wind.     But whether they swept, smoothly fleet,         The long savannahs of the blue;       Or whether, Thunder-driven,   They clanged his chariot ’thwart a heaven, Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o’ their feet:— Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue.           Still with unhurrying chase,     And unperturbèd pace,   Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,     Came on the following Feet,     And a Voice above their beat—         ‘Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me.’ I sought no more that after which I strayed In face of man or maid; But still within the little children’s eyes Seems something, something that replies,       They at least are for me, surely for me! I turned me to them very wistfully; But just as their young eyes grew sudden fair With dawning answers there, Their angel plucked them from me by the hair.       ‘Come then, ye other children, Nature’s—share With me’ (said I) ‘your delicate fellowship; Let me greet you lip to lip, Let me twine with you caresses,   Wantoning       With our Lady-Mother’s vagrant tresses,   Banqueting With her in her wind-walled palace, Underneath her azured daïs, Quaffing, as your taintless way is,         From a chalice Lucent-weeping out of the dayspring.’   So it was done: I in their delicate fellowship was one— Drew the bolt of Nature’s secrecies.       I knew all the swift importings On the wilful face of skies; I knew how the clouds arise Spumèd of the wild sea-snortings;   All that’s born or dies       Rose and drooped with; made them shapers Of mine own moods, or wailful or divine; With them joyed and was bereaven. I was heavy with the even, When she lit her glimmering tapers       Round the day’s dead sanctities. I laughed in the morning’s eyes. I triumphed and I saddened with all weather, Heaven and I wept together, And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine;       Against the red throb of its sunset-heart   I laid my own to beat,   And share commingling heat; But not by that, by that, was eased my human smart. In vain my tears were wet on Heaven’s grey cheek.       For ah! we know not what each other says, These things and I; in sound I speak— Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences. Nature, poor stepdame, cannot slake my drouth; Let her, if she would owe me,       Drop yon blue bosom-veil of sky, and show me The breasts o’ her tenderness: Never did any milk of hers once bless   My thirsting mouth.   Nigh and nigh draws the chase,         With unperturbèd pace, Deliberate speed, majestic instancy;   And past those noisèd Feet   A voice comes yet more fleet— ‘Lo! naught contents thee, who content’st not Me!’       Naked I wait Thy love’s uplifted stroke! My harness piece by piece Thou hast hewn from me,   And smitten me to my knee; I am defenceless utterly. I slept, methinks, and woke, And, slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep. In the rash lustihead of my young powers, I shook the pillaring hours And pulled my life upon me; grimed with smears, I stand amid the dust o’ the mounded years—       My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap. My days have crackled and gone up in smoke, Have puffed and burst as sun-starts on a stream. Yea, faileth now even dream The dreamer, and the lute the lutanist;       Even the linked fantasies, in whose blossomy twist I swung the earth a trinket at my wrist, Are yielding; cords of all too weak account For earth with heavy griefs so overplussed. Ah! is Thy love indeed       A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed, Suffering no flowers except its own to mount? Ah! must— Designer infinite!— Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it?       My freshness spent its wavering shower i’ the dust; And now my heart is as a broken fount, Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever From the dank thoughts that shiver Upon the sighful branches of my mind.       Such is; what is to be? The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind? I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds; Yet ever and anon a trumpet sounds From the hid battlements of Eternity;       Those shaken mists a space unsettle, then Round the half-glimpsèd turrets slowly wash again. But not ere him who summoneth I first have seen, enwound With glooming robes purpureal, cypress-crowned;       His name I know, and what his trumpet saith. Whether man’s heart or life it be which yields Thee harvest, must Thy harvest-fields Be dunged with rotten death?     Now of that long pursuit         Comes on at hand the bruit; That Voice is round me like a bursting sea:   ‘And is thy earth so marred,   Shattered in shard on shard? Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest Me!       Strange, piteous, futile thing! Wherefore should any set thee love apart? Seeing none but I makes much of naught’ (He said), ‘And human love needs human meriting: How hast thou merited—       Of all man’s clotted clay the dingiest clot? Alack, thou knowest not How little worthy of any love thou art! Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee, Save Me, save only Me?       All which I took from thee I did but take, Not for thy harms, But just that thou might’st seek it in My arms. All which thy child’s mistake Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home:       Rise, clasp My hand, and come!’ Halts by me that footfall: Is my gloom, after all, Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly? ‘Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,       I am He Whom thou seekest! Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me.’

[tiniest-hands-in-all-the-land]

Can you tell us about your Until Dawn au?

Gladly! It’s not anything spectacular, but it’s a fun idea totinker around with, anyways ^^

So it’s basically just Until Dawn with all the UD charactersreplaced with the Pokemon characters and a few changes to the storyto fit around the world of pokeani, with the character roles going asfollows:

Ash - Josh

Misty - Sam

Brock - Mike

May - Ashley/Chris (interchangeably, ‘cause in some instances I want her to be in Ashley’s position, and in others, Chris’s, for reasons I’ll get into in a bit)

Dawn - Jessica

Jessie - Emily

James - Matt

Meowth - Chris/Ashley (same thing as May)

Pikachu - technically serving both the positions of Hannah and Beth, but namely Hannah

and then the old flamethrower man dude can be like an older, rugged Officer Jenny who’s long since retired lol

Oh, I should probably mention that everyone is in their 20′s orolder at the time of this au. Also, since I came up with this aubefore I watched XY (and I never bothered with BW whoops),unfortunately those travel companions will not be there. So let’sjust say, for the convenience of the story, that they had otherarrangements and couldn’t make it

From here on out, this is gonna get super LONG, and super SPOILERYFOR UNTIL DAWN. So if you don’t know jack diddly about UD, and youdon’t want to be spoiled, I’d recommend holding off on reading thisfor now. So I’m gonna put the rest under a read more so I ain’tclogging up anyone’s dash with my dumb au

So basically, instead of a bunch of rowdy college kids staying upat a cabin to party and sex each other all day and all night, it’sgonna basically be like this:

Ash won a pokemon league and became a pokemon master (finally),and won a cabin on top of Mount Silver…? I think was the place Iwanted him at…?

ANYWAYS, he’s celebrating, all his friends are there (at leastthe ones I mentioned above), they’re all having a fun dandy time,and eventually Ash conks out from exhaustion. During this time, whoelse but Team Rocket decides to stick their noses where they don’tbelong in hopes of ‘congratulating’ Ash by means of stirringup trouble and capturing Pikachu. (they do mean well, and they areactually super happy for him, butchaknow–they’re kinda the mastersat fucking things up royally)

As they’re trying to make their epic getaway, though, thesnowstorm outside blows them way off course, and they end up droppingPikachu just before they crash into the trees. They’re all fine,Pikachu included, but Pikachu’s a far ways away from the cabin now,and has to try and make it back on his own, cause the others sure asfuck ain’t gonna find him in this weather

On the way, though, some monstrosity catches sight of him andchases him to the edge of a cliff. Pikachu ends up falling off (Withthe old Officer Jenny trying to save him and failing), but hesurvives the fall. Unfortunately, he has no way of letting the othersknow of his location, since he’s so far out and so far down intothe depths of the mountain, so he’s deemed missing by theauthorities

Fast forward a year, and suddenly Ash is inviting everyone (TeamRocket included) back up to the cabin to celebrate the memory of hismissing/probably dead best friend. Everyone is a bit unsettled goingback, but go anyways, if only just to try and help out Ash in any waythey can. 

A couple problems they notice through the night, though, are 1.Their pokeballs don’t seem to work (Ash claims that cell towersrecently put up on the mountain are messing with the technology) and2. There seems to be a certain bloodthirsty killer up on the mountainwith them :o

Throughout the night, the eight are eventually split up intopairs, partly because of their own volition, and partly because ofTeam Rocket being there and causing suspicion. For instance, Dawn haslike zero sympathy for the Trio and doesn’t want anything to dowith them, so Brock takes her up to the guest cabin. Jessie and Jamesgo out on their own (either exploring or James forgot a bag orsomething, I haven’t decided). Meowth doesn’t deem it necessaryto accompany them (the trip there wore him out, he claims–inreality, he’s just fucking lazy), so he sticks around with May,Misty, and Ash.

AND THAT’S WHEN SHIT GOES DOWN

Dawn and Brock are the first to be attacked, unbeknownst to theothers, and Dawn is presumed to be dead by Brock (shes fine tho) bythe time he reaches her. He then goes on a quest to find theperson(?) who hurt his friend to bring the great fist of JUSTICE downon them. The quest leads him through an abandoned pokemon hospitalwith a very shady past (which, admittedly, I haven’t put too muchthought into), and also delves into the mysterious transformation ofpokemon who have died into a very vicious and hostile ghost-typepokemon that has only ever been spotted on the mountain (and you cansee where this is going for a certain mouse pokemon who has beenmissing for over a year)

Back at the cabin, Misty takes a bath, and Ash, May, and Meowthplay with the spooky spirit board that tells them that Pikachu’sdisappearance was no accident, but was actually planned (which makesMeowth suuuuper uncomfortable and guilty). So Ash has anunderstandable reaction to this thing that he believes the other twohave made up in some attempt to make him feel better (?), and May andMeowth eventually get knocked the fuck out by Mr. Spooky Clown Man.

May wakes up a little later and finds that Ash and Meowth are bothmissing. After some searching, she finds them in a shed outside, bothtied to a wall with a buzzsaw aimed right at them. Mr. Spooky ClownMan comes over the intercom and tells May that she can only save oneof them from being ripped in two. So she’s sobbing cause shedoesn’t want to have to make this decision, Meowth’s sobbingbecause he knows that he ain’t the one she’s gonna choose, andAsh is sobbing because LOLL WHOOPS EVEN THOUGH MAY CHOOSES TO SAVEASH, SHE ENDS UP SAVING MEOWTH BECAUSE THE BUZZSAW SAYS SO

So uh. May’s super traumatized and heartbroken about watchingone of her best friends getting killed. But. She’s also growing ateensy bit suspicious of Meowth, seeing as how she distinctly choseto save Ash instead of him, and how Jessie and Jamesare conveniently away from the area during theattack and show up conveniently after said attack.So in her mind, she comes up with this elaborate hypothetical schemethat she believes the Rockets are planning, and tries to take theinitiative in stopping said plans by keeping Meowth along with herwhile she tells Jessie and James to go find help (under the guisethat she’s keeping Meowth with her as insurance that they don’tgo ditching everyone).

Jessie and James go on a little adventure over the mountains afterdiscovering that their balloon has mysteriously been torn to shredsand all the fuel has been mysteriously emptied out. After discoveringthat the cable car house leading up to the cabin is in shambles, thetwo come across a radio tower. They manage to get a hold of somehelp, but that’s when the tower decides to suddenly keel over andtrap them in the mines, oh fun!! In the mines, Jessie is holding onfor dear life to the rail of the tower, and James tries to pull herup, but can’t reach her. He asks if she trusts him, and that hebelieves he will have a better chance at reaching her from the ledgebehind her. She hesitantly says yes, and allows him to jump, but thejump is the last bit of force needed to send the tower tumbling tothe abyss, Jessie along with it. YOU CAN IMAGINE HOW FUCKINGDISTRAUGHT JAMES IS.

Jessie’s fine tho. Turns out she got caught in the wires duringthe fall, and manages to make it to safety afterwards. Then she goeson a spectacular, fun filled adventure through the mines discovering bits and pieces asto what happened to Pikachu after he went missing, and also runninginto Rugged Ol’ Jenny.

May keeps her suspicions to herself until the very end of the Mr.Spooky Clown Man escapades, where they’re both put into anotherdeath trap, and Meowth ends up being the one with the gun. Then itall comes out, and you can imagine how pleased Meowth is to hear thatthe only reason May separated him from his friends and quite possiblygot both of his friends killed during this horrific night was becausethat she thought they devised this whole thing.

THEEENN THE TRUTH COMES OUT, AND MR.SPOOKY CLOWN MAN IS ACTUALLY ASH, WHO’S APPARENTLY LOST HIS SHITAFTER LOSING PIKACHU. SO UM. HE’S FUCKING PISSED AT TEAM ROCKET FORTAKING PIKACHU AND PROBABLY GETTING HIM KILLED. AND HE’S ALSO FUCKINGPISSED THAT HIS FRIENDS DID PRETTY MUCH NOTHING TO HELP PIKACHU.

IT’S DURING THIS TIME THAT MISTY ANDBROCK MEET UP WITH EACH OTHER, THEN MEET UP WITH THOSE THREE.

YOU CAN IMAGINE HOW FINE AND DANDYEVERYONE IS TO HEAR THAT THEY’VE JUST BEEN THROUGH THE WORST NIGHT OFTHEIR LIVES JUST FOR A STUPID PRANK THAT ASH DECIDES TO PULL ON THEMIN A SICK FORM OF REVENGE.

Anyhoo, Brock breaks the news thatDawn’s fucking dead (supposedly), he and Misty decide that Ash is notallowed to be on his two feet for the rest of the night until helparrives, and Meowth decides, ‘fuck you guys, you’re all awful, immago find my friends’

During which time, Jessie manages tomake it back to the cabin after being attacked by the Hostile GhostPokemon, and Rugged Ol’ Jenny is not far behind, quite literallycarrying Meowth back with her, cause 'nah you’re not allowed to beout on your own at this time of night—dontcha know there bemonsters?’

Annnnnnnnnnd the rest of the storybasically pans out just like how Until Dawn pans out.

SORRY THIS WAS SO LONG. I JUST NEEDEDTO PUT IN MY CHANGES IN ORDER FOR EVERYTHING TO MAKE SENSE. BUT YEAH.THAT’S MY DUMB UNTIL DAWN AU.

I partly reallllllly wanna write itout, but also—that would require writing out and reworking thebackstory  of the penitentiary/mines. And also somehow incorporatinga sense of choice in the story. Which I don’t think I have the skillto do lol

I have some ideas about possibleoutcomes, such as what it’s like if a character dies, if some die butnot others, if no one dies, or the emotional and eventual impact ofsaid deaths (for example, if Brock shoots Jessie after discoveringthat she has been bitten by Hostile Ghost Pokemon, Meowth will be soovercome with shock and grief and anger that he’ll lose allsensibility and rational thought, which will eventually lead to hisown demise at the hands of a Hostile Ghost Pokemon mimicking James’svoice; versus if Brock doesn’t shoot her, and both Rockets are justsuper livid and untrusting of the twerps for the rest of the nightand Meowth has enough sense to make good decisions about suspiciousJames-sounding monstrosities), but I won’t put y'all through any moreof that lol

While I don’t plan on having this beingsuper shippy, I plan to have mentions/small discussions ofPokeshipping pining (possibly, haven’t decided whether I want thisone or not), Lustshipping, Contestshipping, Appealshipping,Rocketshipping pining, and Krazyshipping pining (lol whoops)

I also have a couple other au’s withinthe au, one of which Meowth takes the position of Beth and fallsalong with Pikachu at the beginning, and another where Pikachu iswith the group and someone completely different falls. But both ofthose au’s are very underdeveloped; this is the only one I’ve put any real thought into lol

but yeah. I think I’ve said all I cansay about this. It’s a dumb idea, but I think putting charactersthrough horrible situations is a great way to explore their psycheand toy around with what kind of decisions they might make instrenuous situations. Or at least I like to tell myself that in orderto justify myself for putting my favorite characters through absolutehell and back.

[kusunogatari-a]

[ What Is Lost ] [ @despairinghxpe ] [ Uchiha Itachi, Uchiha Fugaku, Suigin Ryū, Fubuki ] [ Death mention ] [ Verse: River Runs Deep ]

So desperate is his household, they latch onto the old wives' tale with fervor.

He doesn't quite believe it himself. Neither, he suspects, does his father. His mother, however, is the most faithful of their family. As soon as the whisper of a rumor meets her ears, she begs her husband to search for the supposed miracle in the mist.

And after the diagnosis is given...the man finds himself willing to humor her.

After all...there's little else to hope for.

It lies far to the northeast, miles from any civilized road or respite. Alone, father and son make the trek – slow going, on account of the younger's condition. More than once, his father nearly turns them around, too shaken by the sight of his son as they struggle.

And yet, despite his misgivings...Itachi insists they continue.

So Fugaku obeys.

There is nearly no path to speak of. They wander through trees and grasses, rocks and roots before finally finding a break in the peaks. Once they crest it, both pause and take in the view.

A valley, crowned with frothing waterfalls, meets their gaze. A winding ribbon of silver – a river – lays along its spine. And just visible through the trees are homes – just specks from their distance.

Neither would ever admit it aloud...but the sight itself nearly births the same faith Mikoto so desperately clings to.

The descent is unsteady, just as arduous as the way up. But both soon pass beneath a weathered torī gate...and with it, feel a kind of finality in their bones.

But it's quickly overshadowed by a wariness as an old woman stands in their path.

“...she awaits you.”

Both men turn to one another, clearly unsettled.

“...only the boy.”

“You expect me to leave my son, alone?”

“It is as she commands. This is a path he must walk alone.”

Fugaku draws Itachi aside. “...I can't just leave you here.”

“Afraid I'll die without you?”

A flinch, but no retort.

“...we both know I either find my cure here, or my death. You know the way back.” Itachi gives a wry smile. “...what do I have left to lose...?”

“I never should have let your mother talk me into this...it's madness. Gods care little about human lives, if they exist to care at all.”

“It makes her feel better. At least she'll know she did all she could.”

His father's jaw sets. “...you're sure?”

“At this point, it matters little to me.”

“...very well. Be careful.”

Itachi makes no promises.

Dead men walking have little reason to fear pain.

He watches his father go, knowing how hard each step must be. But once he fades from view, Itachi turns to the woman. “...what now?”

“We see the shrine. You must introduce yourself...and give your offering.”

“Offering?”

“Patience, child – we have a long walk ahead of us. And much to tell.”

Grated ever so slightly by her condescending language, Itachi acquiesces. They pass through the village, all eyes watching the stranger in their midst.

“Suigin-sama watches over this valley and its people. She has been its guardian since before man wandered into the vale. A mighty kami is she...should she find you worthy, she will give you whatever aid she deems fit.”

Still unconvinced, the Uchiha gives no reply, watching his surroundings carefully.

...funny. He hasn't coughed since they passed through the gate...

His guide continues on, telling him of the goddess and her love for her humans. Of the blessings of medicinal flora within the valley; the longevity of its people; and how she herself often wanders the roads at night, purifying the air with camphor's smoke.

“We must ascend to the peak. There, you will give your offering.”

“I...did not bring anything.”

“She cares little for things, young man.” The old woman mounts the first step, carved into the cliff face. “To Suigin-sama, a proper offering is of the heart, or of healing.” Eyeing him, she nods. “...your hair will do.”

“My...?”

“A piece of yourself. To show your disconnect from the worldly.”

Uncertainly, he follows in silence. Ten minutes, twenty, thirty...and finally they reach the steppe.

A shrine – clearly as old as the village itself, if not older – rests to their left. And to their right, a cavern engraved with the kami's name. The air is thin and cool, snow clearly visible a short ways further up the peak.

Everywhere, shide and shimenawa litter the trees and structure, prayers left behind for the spirit to consider. Offerings of all kinds crowd the shrine's front. Versed by his mother, he cleanses his hands without a thought.

“There...you will find a knife of silver.”

“And if I refuse?”

“...unwise.”

Itachi sighs. In truth, it matters little – he's teetering on the brink of death. What is hair to a dead man?

Approaching the temple, he watches it warily. He may not be a man of faith...but nor is he a fool. As the woman predicted, a silver knife glints. Lithe fingers pluck it from its resting place, gathering the tail behind his head. The blade settles just above the tie that binds it...and with a flick of his wrist, severs the lengths in a single swipe.

Almost immediately, he feels...lighter.

“Leave it there. Replace the blade. And make your wish.”

Staring at the inky tresses, Itachi does as ordered, feeling the choppy lengths against his jaw. For a moment, he sits in awkward silence.

...O-Suigin-sama...if you truly exist to listen...I ask you spare my life in the face of illness. If only for the peace of my family, who cling to me. Please...spare them their grief.

From behind him, a breeze that reeks of camphor smoke billows, stealing at the lengths of his hair. The feeling of eyes upon his spine beget a turn...but he sees no one but the woman.

“...she has heard you. Now...she must decide. Come. There is more to do.”

The descent leaves the ill man shaken, nearing his breaking point. But she leads him to a small waterfall, and points. “Disrobe, and purify yourself.”

“I'll catch my death!”

“Suigin-sama will protect you. But first, you must cleanse yourself of impurities.”

...surely she's mad, he thinks to himself, but obeys. At the very least, it will make for a laugh when he finally submits to death. The pool at the fall's base bites at his feet, and numbness is nearly immediate.

It's going to kill me...!

But something drives him forward, and hands cup beneath the downpour. After a brief pause, he takes a breath and plunges his head into the water.

It feels like ice clawing down his back, every muscle tensing as his nerves scream in protest. Mouth clear as the water parts atop his scalp, he gasps for breath, eyes wide and staring at his palms.

Despite everything, it's the most alive he's felt in months...years. Suddenly he's aware of every inch of his body as it alights with icy fire. He's so very aware of how...alive he is.

And within him, it births a desperation – an instinct long-buried beneath his apathy and acceptance of death.

I...I want to live...!

Eventually, something tells him to recede, and he does so, scrambling for his clothes.

“...follow me.”

Hands shaking as he struggles to pull cloth against wet skin, Itachi has little choice but to follow. Already, the sparse daylight that peeks over the valley walls recedes. Lanterns are lit along the pathway, and she shows him to a room.

“Rest here. By morning...we will know her choice.”

To his surprise, a meal is brought, but given without company. He's left to his quarters – little more than a barren bedroom – as evening slips to night. Restless, he paces the floor, even as the lantern light dies.

And then, an eerie silence settles over the village.

Brought to stillness, he finds his eyes drawn to a window. Condensation gathers along the panes, a palm smoothing away the blur.

It's then he sees her.

At first, she's little more than a vague figure in the fog. But she treads along the path, geta and tabi socks peeking out beneath her kimono's hem. Along the fabric, silver fibers catch the light of her smoldering camphor branch, illuminating the woven mountains and mist upon it. Pale hands hold the incense aloft, the smoke blending with the fog that seems to billow from her form.

Locks of unruly white tumble down her back like river rapids, a draconic mask across her face. But even so, he can see that the branched horns drawn back over her head grow from her skull, not her visage.

He watches her approach, frozen in place. For a moment, he thinks she will simply pass him by.

But she pauses beyond his window, and a slow turn tilts her mask to peer at him.

Behind it, mirror-like eyes catch the moonlight, flashing silver as she beholds him.

They stare.

He can't know how much time passes as she appears to look right through him. As though unclothed, he feels bare before her, as though searching his very soul to reach her verdict.

And then, at last...she bows her head to him.

Itachi releases a breath he hasn't realized he's holding, staggering back from the window as she continues her route. His heart hammers in his chest – the same desperate fluttering from the waterfall.

...I want to live!

Unsure what else to do, he sits along his proffered bed, and somehow finds himself waking the following morning, no memory of falling asleep. The ceiling holds his gaze for uncounted minutes before he finds the strength to stand. A hand opens his door, and a shimmer draws his gaze to the road. Something catches the light, and as he plucks it between his fingers, he finds himself reminded of a fish scale.

“A token of fortune.”

He nearly leaps from his skin, turning to see the old woman. A knowing smile pulls her lips, deepening her wrinkles. “She has agreed. Keep this, young man – take it to Iwao. He will fasten it for you.”

“Fasten...?”

“Those lucky enough to find a scale of the goddess keep them on their person – they bring good luck, and good health. Most fashion them into a necklace, or a bangle. Iwao has done this for many.” A pointing finger guides him, and Itachi – still caught in a fog of disbelief – does as asked.

“Fortune upon you,” is the man's reply, offering the scale fastened in a silver ring, slung upon a cord of black. “Take care not to lose it.”

Slipping it over his head, Itachi holds the flash of silver in his palm.

Even now...he feels doubt. Surely someone is simply goading these people – holding them in superstition. Anyone can wear a mask, don false horns, leave carved shells akin to scales in the street.

...and yet...

“What now?”

“Wait for nightfall. When the sun sinks beyond the western horizon, bring yourself to the river. She will find you.”

With little else to do, Itachi explores the village as sunlight lingers. Waterwheels creak in the river's banks, a handful of children laughing in the distance. It feels like a piece of lost time – a sliver of an era long gone by, lost to the tide of the modernization he knows so well. It's...strange. Almost unwelcome.

And yet the quiet – true quiet, without the hum of electricity; the rumble of cars, or trains; or ringing of phones – brings a melancholy peace to him.

So he listens. Until the sun begins to set.

It's then a kind of nervousness finds him. This all began as a last token effort to bring his mother peace. But now, he's not sure what to think – torn between his acceptance of death...and a strange dare to wonder if something beyond his knowing is at work here.

He believed in kami, once upon a time. But with age came a stoic reason – a logic that said such creatures could not exist. When he fell ill, he never prayed. That was his mother's solution. Instead, that same cold logic gave him somber acceptance. What medicine could not cure, he would not waste time trying to fight.

There's no such thing as magic.

And yet...in this place...he can almost swear he feels it crawling on his skin.

With little left to lose...he leaves his room as darkness falls, following the path to the river's edge.

The mist has cleared, moonlight bathing the river's surface. Here, just before the falls at the end of the valley, the water is deeper, calmer.

Like a mirror.

Like those eyes...

Standing along the muddy shore, he waits. And waits. And when he's nearly ready to turn back...he pauses.

Reflected against the water, the moon begins to ripple. Then, like a ribbon, a serpentine form rises from the depths.

His heart stops.

Dripping, the kami faces him, mirror-eyes staring, unblinking. Without his notice, she approaches the bank, clawed feet digging into the mud. And still, she stares, bowing her head to his.

In spite of the disbelief, and perhaps the fear...Itachi raises his hands to cup the creature's jaw. Touch, to prove that what he sees is tangible.

Is real.

And then, in an instant, serpent flickers to woman. The same mask stares, cut through by the same eyes.

He drops his hands as though burned, half a step staggered back.

Silence for a moment, and then a hand reaching to grasp the mask's hem at her chin. A tug removes it back over the crown of her head, revealing the pale, human face beneath.

“...S...Suigin-sama...?”

A nod.

Itachi hesitates, still not convinced he's not dreaming. “...you...” A pause. “...you can...heal me...?”

“...yes...”

Her tone is soft, somber, like the toll of low bells.

“I thought you lost, human. Though it beat within your chest, your heart was already dead...faded to an acceptance of a fate you had yet to fall to.”

Her words seem to pierce right through him.

And still, she stares. Unblinking.

“...but it has awoken. First, you cut your ties...and put your fate in my hands. Then, you begged my help...not for your sake, but the sake of those who would lose you. I felt a thrum, then, of life. That last hope...a hope that would rekindle. The prayer awoke your soul.

“You then felt the blood of the earth upon your skin – cold, and biting. It awoke your flesh. Together, both halves of your whole had been reborn. Only now can I attend you...and save what has not yet been lost. I cannot help those who sleep within their ignorance...who dream to ignore their reality. Life is a gift – one that lives only as you do. Until you regained sight of your potential...you were beyond my reach. Yet...even now...”

The kami steps forward, daring to close the space between you. “...even now, you doubt. But not out of ignorance...but of fear.”

“...fear...?”

“Acceptance of this truth will rend all truth you know in twain. To believe this, now, will throw your mind into doubt. You do not wish to release this hold...do you?”

He can't answer.

“...humans take comfort in what they know. And yet...they know so little. So many simply refuse to see. They blind themselves out of fear. For if they accept the presence of that which they cannot reason...they feel lost.”

Her head tilts, and hands as cold as ice whisper against his cheeks. “...the truths humans give themselves make them feel strong. In the face of the unknown...they are weak. But I cannot help those who cling to their false truths.”

Silence.

He can feel she expects a reply – acceptance. And she's right – he feels fear. If kami exist...if magic is real...then all he's ever known is suddenly...different. It makes him feel...unsteady.

A swallow. ...this...is real. To affirm, he lays hands atop her own. Feels her form. ...I see her. Feel her. Hell, he could smell her – the same camphor scent from before. ...if I can trust myself – my senses – then...I have nothing to fear.

Her lips curl, though he says nothing aloud. “...come.” Her hands move to take his own, pulling him toward the water.

He follows.

To his surprise, the water feels...warm. But whether it truly is, or is simply a trick of her doing, he can't know. She leads him to the rivers mouth, where rapids rise. Nestling among them, she gives him one last pull, settling his back to her chest. Delicate fingers weave through what remains of his hair, twirling the strands among them.

Pulled by the river's current, the scale of silver floats above his chest.

“...lie still. I will do the rest.”

Already, a drowsy peace settles over him, feeling to be on the brink of sleep. For a moment, he wonders if he's simply...dying. Is this...her means to help me? To simply end my suffering...?

But the thought goes unanswered, fading to a silent black.

If it's a matter of hours, or days...he can't be sure. But what Itachi knows next is the cushion of his futon, and the same ceiling above his head.

...did...?

Sitting up, he finds his body fatigued...but not the weary lull of illness. It's an exhaustion born of effort, not of weakness. Bowing his head over his lap, he stretches his spine...and feels the slither of hair falling over his shoulders.

Glancing to each side, a hand weaves through the locks, just as long as they'd been when he'd arrived. For a moment, he wonders if everything was simply...a dream.

But as he sits up, a shock of cold presses to the skin of his chest, and a draw of a cord reveals a shimmer of silver.

“Awake at last.”

Turning to his guide, Itachi's brow furrows. “...what happened?”

“She took you, until you were whole. It was she who brought you here.” The woman's chin declines to her chest. “...and now, you must take your leave.”

“But -?”

“You are not of these lands, outsider. Your purpose lies beyond these walls. You have been given your second chance...and now you must make use of it. But know this...” She raises a wagging finger. “...once you do...you will not return, the path forever lost to you. Your wish has been granted...you can take no more...unless you give in return.”

The man's brow furrows. “...it's that simple?”

“If you wish it to be. Ask yourself...is it?”

Moving his gaze, Itachi thinks. It's true – he's tired, and yet...already he can feel a strength within himself he's not known for...how long has it been? Since he felt whole?

...and yet...

In his mind, images play of the woman – her ghostly visage, and the cold of her hands. The same cold that clawed down his back. Part of him still feels as though every moment since the gate has been a dream.

A curiosity burns in him. About all he's missed, lost in the fog of a world that has chosen to forgotten the magic of places like these. He thought such a revelation would bring him fear...and it does. The unknown is like a dark night beyond his doorway, hands empty of any guiding light. But that same fear is mirrored by an eagerness to learn. Always, he's been a bright child. It began as curiosity, but was later sated with what logic told him.

This is something he once knew, and has forgotten...and yet, can know again.

“...and if I stay?”

“It is your choice. You were drawn here, and it is here you may linger until you feel a wholeness to your soul. If you feel something is still missing...” A wry smile. “...then perhaps, your journey is not yet over, young man.”

With that, she slinks away in the same silence that brought her here.

Indecision tears him. Already he longs for home – no...for his family. And yet...the woman is right. There's something he's yet to find here.

Something he needs.

Sighing, he rises, still thinking. ...if I can send word...let them know I'm all right...I can be content. But I cannot leave them wondering, unknowing. It would be cruel to make them worry.

Tracking down the woman of his own accord is nearly impossible. He starts to wonder if she, too, is more spirit than human. But he finally plucks up the courage to ask a stranger if a message can be sent.

“Pray to the goddess, and she will hear you. So too, then, will those you seek hear all you wish to say.”

The answer is enigmatic, but he has little choice. For the second time, he ascends to the shrine, pausing. ...must I offer something else...?

“Take an ema, and write your wish. Suigin-sama will see to it. You may give a gift if you so choose...but it is not necessary.”

In spite of himself, Itachi gives a soft laugh. “You could have told me before I came up here. I was looking everywhere for you.”

“It is good to know those around you. There is nothing to fear from those who live here. Best you learn that now, young man.”

Turning, his brow furrows at the empty courtyard. But a coarse cry draws his eyes to a tree, where a snowy owl peers at him, golden eyes almost teasing.

“...fair enough.”

Ink brushes along the wooden slate, and once it dries, he hangs it among the rest. For a moment, he glances to the rest of them, wondering just how many the dragon kami has answered.

“...you remain.”

Stiffening, Itachi stills before turning. “Y...yes.”

She peers at him, visage clear of her mask. “...you are...unfinished...?”

“Your, ah...friend suggested that I stay. In a rather...roundabout way.”

Suigin blinks, and then laughs like a bell chime. As she does, the avian flutters to her shoulder. “...I see. Fubuki is an old, dear friend of mine...since my river was small. She often tends to our strangers. But never before has she, too, revealed her true self to a human.”

She beholds him, curiosity in her eyes. “...you are an...uncommon case, Uchiha Itachi. It is rare outsiders find us...rarer still that any linger. Tell me...what else do you seek?”

The man hesitates. “...in truth...I don't yet know. But I feel I will know it when I find it.”

“...half an answer, but...the other half, you have yet to find. Very well...” The kami smiles. “...may you find what you lack. Until then, you are a welcomed guest. Should you need me, you need only ask. Consider yourself among the humans I guard, until you again take your leave.”

“...thank you.”

In a blink, it's not a woman, but a dragon that bows her head to him. Already airborne, Fubuki screeches, diving as the kami weaves into the mist like a ribbon.

Oddly calm, Itachi stares after them, unsure what to feel. A small thrumming in his chest echoes within the empty space. Something is still missing.

He just hopes he'll find it...whatever it is.

     .w.;;; I have NO idea where this came from. To be fair, it’s a general idea I’ve had for quite some time, but uh...it just never happened until now? I was listening to this and I just...got a really quick snippet of the hair scene, and the river scene, and I was like welp...I gotta do it now xD      I wrote a oneshot of this verse a LONG time ago, with another mun’s muse that’s no longer written. I then repurposed it for someone else when I moved all my drabbles here. So it’s not one I’ve gotten to write much of. In short, it’s Ryū’s kami verse - you can read the summary here if you really want to.      But uh...yeah. I ALMOST finished it last night, and then I got too tired...and memey x’’D But I managed to patch up the end (which isn’t really an end though) today.      ...I guess it’s the pacing that bugs me? Granted, it’s a rather big idea for a oneshot, so some parts were a bit rushed...and even so it’s still eight pages in my writing program. But I don’t really do longer projects anymore because my attention span sucks. So this is my compromise x’’D      ...anyway...that’s about it. I dunno if it’s any good, and it’s kinda weird because this is like...a modern/Shintō verse, but...eh. Hopefully it’s at least entertaining - I’d have no peace until I wrote it lol      ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[crane-dance]

A Gerry Keay Poem

If you change the he’s to she’s, Francis Thompson’s poem “The Hound of Heaven” is 

I fled Him, down the nights and down the days; I fled Him, down the arches of the years; I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways      Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears I hid from Him, and under running laughter.           Up vistaed hopes, I sped;           And shot, precipitated, Adown Titanic glooms of chasmèd fears,      From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.           But with unhurrying chase,           And unperturbèd pace, Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,           They beat—and a Voice beat           More instant than the Feet— "All things betray thee, who betrayest Me."

          I pleaded, out law-wise, By many a hearted casement, curtained red,      Trellised with intertwining charities (For, though I knew His love Who followèd,           Yet was I sore adread Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside); But, if one little casement parted wide,     The gust of His approach would clash it to.     Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue. Across the margent of the world I fled,     And troubled the gold gateways of the stars,     Smiting for shelter on their clangèd bars;         Fretted to dulcet jars And silvern chatter the pale ports o' the moon. I said to dawn: Be sudden; to eve: Be soon—     With thy young skyey blossoms heap me over         From this tremendous Lover! Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see!     I tempted all His servitors, but to find My own betrayal in their constancy, In faith to Him their fickleness to me,     Their traitorous trueness, and their loyal deceit. To all swift things for swiftness did I sue;     Clung to the whistling mane of every wind.         But whether they swept, smoothly fleet,     The long savannahs of the blue;         Or whether, Thunder-driven,     They clanged His chariot 'thwart a heaven Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o' their feet:—     Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue.         Still with unhurrying chase,         And unperturbèd pace, Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,         Came on the following Feet,         And a Voice above their beat— "Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me."

I sought no more that after which I strayed In face of man or maid; But still within the little children's eyes Seems something, something that replies, They at least are for me, surely for me! I turned me to them very wistfully; But just as their young eyes grew sudden fair With dawning answers there, Their angel plucked them from me by the hair.

Come then, ye other children, Nature's—share With me" (said I) "your delicate fellowship; Let me greet you lip to lip, Let me twine with you caresses, Wantoning With our Lady-Mother's vagrant tresses, Banqueting With her in her wind-walled palace, Underneath her azured daïs, Quaffing, as your taintless way is, From a chalice Lucent-weeping out of the dayspring." So it was done; I in their delicate fellowship was one— Drew the bolt of Nature's secrecies. I knew all the swift importings On the wilful face of skies; I knew how the clouds arise, Spumèd of the wild sea-snortings; All that's born or dies Rose and drooped with; made them shapers Of mine own moods, or wailful or divine— With them joyed and was bereaven. I was heavy with the even, When she lit her glimmering tapers Round the day's dead sanctities. I laughed in the morning's eyes. I triumphed and I saddened with all weather, Heaven and I wept together, And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine; Against the red throb of its sunset-heart I laid my own to beat, And share commingling heat; But not by that, by that, was eased my human smart. In vain my tears were wet on Heaven's grey cheek. For ah! we know not what each other says, These things and I; in sound I speak— Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences. Nature, poor stepdame, cannot slake by drouth; Let her, if she would owe me, Drop yon blue bosom-veil of sky, and show me The breasts o' her tenderness: Never did any milk of hers once bless My thirsting mouth. Nigh and nigh draws the chase, With unperturbèd pace, Deliberate speed, majestic instancy, And past those noisèd Feet A Voice comes yet more fleet— "Lo! naught contents thee, who content'st not Me."

Naked I wait Thy love's uplifted stroke! My harness piece by piece Thou hast hewn from me, And smitten me to my knee; I am defenceless utterly. I slept, methinks, and woke, And, slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep. In the rash lustihead of my young powers, I shook the pillaring hours And pulled my life upon me; grimed with smears, I stand amid the dust o' the mounded years— My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap. My days have crackled and gone up in smoke, Have puffed and burst as sun-starts on a stream. Yea, faileth now even dream The dreamer, and the lute the lutanist; Even the linked fantasies, in whose blossomy twist I swung the earth a trinket at my wrist, Are yielding; cords of all too weak account For earth, with heavy griefs so overplussed. Ah! is Thy love indeed A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed, Suffering no flowers except its own to mount? Ah! must— Designer infinite!— Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it? My freshness spent its wavering shower i' the dust; And now my heart is as a broken fount, Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever From the dank thoughts that shiver Upon the sighful branches of my mind. Such is; what is to be? The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind? I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds; Yet ever and anon a trumpet sounds From the hid battlements of Eternity: Those shaken mists a space unsettle, then Round the half-glimpsèd turrets slowly wash again; But not ere Him who summoneth I first have seen, enwound And now my heart is as a broken fount, Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever From the dank thoughts that shiver With glooming robes purpureal, cypress-crowned; His name I know, and what his trumpet saith. Whether man's heart or life it be which yields Thee harvest, must Thy harvest fields Be dunged with rotten death?

Now of that long pursuit Comes on at hand the bruit; That Voice is round me like a bursting sea: "And is thy earth so marred, Shattered in shard on shard? Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest Me! Strange, piteous, futile thing, Wherefore should any set thee love apart? Seeing none but I makes much of naught" (He said), "And human love needs human meriting: How hast thou merited— Of all man's clotted clay the dingiest clot? Alack, thou knowest not How little worthy of any love thou art! Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee, Save Me, save only Me? All which I took from thee I did but take, Not for thy harms, But just that thou might'st seek it in My arms. All which thy child's mistake Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home: Rise, clasp My hand, and come." Halts by me that footfall: Is my gloom, after all, Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly? "Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest, I am He Whom thou seekest! Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me."

[sending-the-message]

Scarecrow by famousleonard

One day when I was very, very young, a cockroach the size of a cat skittered around the corner from the hallway into the living room where I was playing, sending me running, shrieking in horror. I cowered in my room, sweating and weeping in fright as I heard the thing bound up the steps and push its way through my door, which in my haste I had neglected to shut properly. The rest is a nightmarish fever dream of strange colors and looming shapes, clawing and crushing. Through it all I was dimly aware of my parents’ voices, raised in concern and mounting alarm until darkness came and I knew no more.

It had been the cat, my mother had told me, red-eyed and weeping, when I finally regained my senses, sweating and bleary-eyed in bed twenty hours later. Trips to the hospital and various tests and gentle questions followed. “Hyperphantasia,” they called it. Spontaneous hallucinations. I quickly discovered that I could induce them at will. People would look up at the clouds and imagine they saw dragons, or faces. I could actually see them, could actually conjure the image up in front of my eyes as real and as vivid as my hands in front of my face. I can look at a hanging light and cause it to appear as a flying saucer, can see a refrigerator morph into an upright coffin. The effect lasts as long as I will it to. I’ve sat for hours watching naked statues in a museum writhe and beckon to me. That first incident with the cat was an outlier, but occasionally -- very, very occasionally -- an image has come upon me unbidden.

This strange gift gave rise to my greatest talent. I could draw, paint, or sculpt the most fantastical images with ease because I could literally see them before me, however bizarre or whimsical or frightening. By the age of eight my work had been featured in national art journals and my proud parents rested easy in the knowledge that this talent would see me through my life. They even ended up getting another cat.

And it was indeed my art that took me through grade school, high school and on into college. It was just as well -- I had little interest in, and in any case no real talent for, anything else. I was well aware of how good I was, and looked upon my peers in my art classes with a combination of pity and disdain as I effortlessly outshone them. I graduated with high honors and full-ride scholarship offers from all of the country’s top art schools.

On a cool September day my parents drove me up to the school and helped me unpack and set up my dorm room. They lingered. My mom fought back tears, my dad told me to call if I needed anything and finally they were gone. I exhaled and sat on the narrow bed I had claimed by the window, looking up and behind me at the paintings and drawings I had hung on the wall above it. The bed against the opposite wall stood bare.

My roommate arrived later that afternoon and introduced himself as Mark. We discussed schedules and it seemed we would have a class together, starting later in the week. He busied himself as we talked, unpacking his single suitcase and setting up his side of the room sparsely, fastidiously. I was vaguely irritated he made no comment on my artwork.

He showed me his later that week. After the painting class we had together, Mark pulled me aside and told me he wanted to show me something he had been working on. I smiled obligingly and pretended to be interested. People often wanted my approval after seeing my work, even though (or perhaps because) I so rarely gave it. We walked a short way down the hall and he unlocked the door of a small, shared studio, really just a large closet. In one corner stood an easel covered with a heavy canvas tarp, stained with oil paints. Mark crossed the room in one stride to stand beside the easel and lifted the tarp off.

My breath caught in my throat and my blood froze. The painting depicted the depths of a nighttime forest, the moon-dappled trees and grass rendered in deep greens and blues. A shadowy figure stood in a shallow pool of water amidst the trees in a strange, vaguely hunched pose, and an odd shadow nearby indicated the presence of another unseen person or thing, completely obscured by the massive trunk of a tree. My mouth gaped and my eyes wandered in disbelief and horror over the canvas. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. In comparison, all my drawings and paintings were an obscene joke, a mockery. A burning hatred filled my chest and I turned slowly towards Mark, watching his face crumble and melt, his eyes burst from their sockets. The bones of his hands crunched and snapped back in on themselves as an anguished, despairing howl ripped apart the universe.

“It’s very nice,” I said, smiling. Mark exhaled and a broad smile spread across his face as he relaxed. “Thanks so much, that really means a lot,” he said. “I just picked up painting this past summer and discovered that I really liked it. Before that I had actually been planning on majoring in music but have been thinking about pursuing this instead.” I assured him he had nothing to worry about and complimented him again on his work, after which we left the building. He was on his way back to our dorm but I muttered some excuse and headed off in a different direction.

The next day I destroyed all of the paintings and drawings I had brought with me, and threw out my pencils, paints and brushes, which I watched burst into a ghostly blue flame as I hurled trash bag after trash bag of the remains into a dumpster behind our dorm. I dropped all of my drawing and painting classes and decided to throw myself completely into sculpture. Over the following weeks I worked at a frenzied pace, churning out decadent and macabre forms in clay, in stone, in found materials cobbled together into bizarre diseased-looking figures with flailing appendages and odd face-like protrusions. Broken steel rods exploded out of pristinely polished porcelain forms like cancerous parasites. I was breathless, delirious, and surrounded by the visions I conjured in a dark and ever-changing world.

I descended from my ecstasy around the second week in November, having left behind painting for good and having produced a prodigious quantity of work. Mark had grace enough to refrain from asking about or mentioning the paintings missing from my wall. My professors had weeks ago conceded I had already more than fulfilled the requirements of their classes and were content to let me work on what I pleased. Having emerged from the passion of the past weeks, I found myself in a calmer, more level-headed frame of mind, and thought about trying a more lighthearted endeavor.

With the leaves turning and Thanksgiving approaching, I thought it might be fun to create a scarecrow to display in the center of campus. I proposed the idea to the necessary parties and after the inevitable buck-passing I was given an enthusiastic endorsement to go ahead with the project. They even had a maintenance man set up a wooden platform with a metal frame and hooks for me to mount the thing on.

Most of the materials I would be able to find around campus or salvage from vintage stores in the town nearby but the one thing I couldn’t readily get was straw, so I rush ordered a large quantity of it from a store online. It was scheduled to arrive a few days before Thanksgiving, which was later than I would have liked, as many of the students on campus would have already left for the holiday, but it couldn’t be helped. In the meantime I set about gathering the rest of the items I’d need.

On the Monday of Thanksgiving week, I ran into Mark as I was heading off campus into town to pick up a pair of gloves for the scarecrow’s hands. He greeted me warmly and said he was heading back to the dorm to take a nap and was then going home for the holiday. He’d probably be gone by the time I got back so if I didn’t see him, have a good holiday and say hi to my family for him, et cetera. I nodded and smiled and told him I would.

I got back to the dorm later than I expected. In a stroke of bad luck, most of the stores in town were either sold out of gloves or closed early and I had to try several places before I found a suitable pair and now it was getting dark. Mark would surely be gone by now, and I’d have the room blissfully to myself, which would give me plenty of space to work on my project, a welcome change from the cramped, closet-like shared studios I normally had to tolerate. The hallways of the building were deserted - almost all the students who remained on campus were out at a Thanksgiving dinner and dance in the student center, which was apparently one of the social highlights of the year here.

I opened the door to the room and stopped short in surprise and a bit of disappointment. In the evening gloom, I saw Mark lying on his side on the bed, apparently having overslept. But there was something strange about the shape of the figure on the bed, and a chill went up my spine as I realized it didn’t look like Mark at all. I flicked on the light and sucked in a breath. On the bed, lying on its side, was a figure made of straw, wearing old, baggy jeans, a plaid woolen shirt, hiking boots, and a wide-brimmed hat atop a pumpkin head. A scarecrow.

I closed the door behind me slowly and walked over to the bed, bemused, absent-mindedly dropping the gloves to the floor. From this angle, I couldn’t see the scarecrow’s face, so I reached down and gently turned it onto its back. I inhaled sharply. Its head was a jack-o-lantern, with a carved mouth, twisted into a sneer of cruel malevolence. But the most unsettling part was the eyes. A pair of shriveled, rotten apples had been shoved into jagged eye sockets, giving the thing a monstrous, bug-eyed, haunted appearance. I shuddered. But after a couple seconds my disquiet began to give way to rage as I realized what Mark had done. He had made a scarecrow just to show that he could do this better than me as well. And it was better than mine would have been. The thing on the bed was truly, sublimely terrifying. My fists clenched. All of Mark’s modesty and ignorance of his own genius had been an act. All of his seemingly ingenuous goodwill towards me and obliviousness toward the resentment and jealousy I had felt had been feigned. He must have been laughing to himself inwardly when we had spoken earlier, when, smiling, he had told me to give his regards to my family. He had gone home and left me to wander into the town, none the wiser, knowing what I would find when I got back to my room.

Of course he had noticed when I had taken my work down off the wall. And he had been secretly reveling in the torment he had caused me. And this thing on the bed was his masterstroke, a silent, haughty assertion that there was no refuge for me, that there was nothing I could do better than him. And he had waited all these weeks to let me know. He had let me throw myself heart and soul into a new passion so that when he revealed himself to me, I would have that much further to fall.

Hot tears of rage and despair clouded by vision and I shook with fury. I staggered over to my desk and opened a drawer of tools. I wiped the tears from my eyes and pulled out a hammer. Whirling on my heel, I strode back over to the bed and with a brutal swing brought down the hammer on the scarecrow’s pumpkin head, directly above the grotesque, shriveled eyes. The blow produced a satisfying thunk, oddly coinciding with a low, brief howl of wind from outside. I shivered. There was a large, cracked dent in the pumpkin where I had hit it. I took several deep breaths and started to calm down and think. Looking over the scarecrow, I began to wonder if I actually could improve upon Mark’s work. The awful thing was already monstrous, to be sure, but all the horror of the thing really came from the expression on its face. The rest of it was fairly normal, if that’s a word that can even be applied to a scarecrow.

I reached down and lifted one of the scarecrow’s gloved hands (Mark had even gotten gloves already, as he let me wander off to town like a fool on my quest to find a pair). It was oddly heavy, the straw packed into it tightly. I pulled at it but it seemed firmly attached to the arm. I tried holding the flannel-sleeved arm in one hand and pulling at the glove with all my might but still the thing wouldn’t budge. Standing, I walked back over to my closet and pulled out a lever-style paper cutter that I had sometimes used to cut up paper or cloth for my work. I lifted the blade and lay the scarecrow’s arm across the base, lining up the wrist. I grasped the blade’s handle, took a breath, and pushed down with all my might, putting my whole weight behind it, and somehow ended up on the floor with the scarecrow on top of me. I must have come down on the thing at an odd angle because the paper cutter was on the floor next to us and I was confused and disoriented, trying to extricate myself from the tangled limbs of the scarecrow on top of me as the wind shrieked piercingly outside. I offhandedly mused at how quickly this windstorm had risen; it had been mildly breezy out when I had come back to the campus.

The scarecrow was very heavy. I found myself struggling to get out from under it and finally got it back into the bed somehow. I was panting, and my face and hands were sticky with sweat. My left forearm and eye were sore, and rolling up my sleeve, I saw a quickly darkening bruise forming. Looking back at the scarecrow, I saw that there was now another dent in its head next to the first one, and the hammer was in my right hand, though I had no recollection of having picked it up again. The paper cutter lay on the floor against the bed, and the scarecrow’s hand lay next to it. Straw protruded limply from the wrist and bits of broken straw littered the floor nearby. I set down the hammer and adjusted the scarecrow slightly on the bed, and even more bits of loose straw poured out from the wrist. It was making a mess and would already be a hassle to clean up so I pulled the shirt sleeve over the wrist and tied it tightly. That seemed to do the trick, and I stepped back to survey my work so far and consider my next step as the keening wind blew outside.

In a flash of inspiration, I grabbed the severed hand and attempted to stuff it, wrist-first, into the twisted mouth of the pumpkin. The narrow sneer formed an awkward shape, but the mouth and carved teeth cracked and yielded to my shoving eventually, and the hand held firm in the crumbled, ruined hole.

The irritating shrieking of the wind seemed to have died down to a continuous, low muffled moan by this point which left me free to concentrate. Inspiration now came quickly and I set about my work almost automatically, losing myself in that delirium I knew and loved so well.

First, I took the other arm and bent it into an agonized spiral around the scarecrow’s neck, so that it stuck out at a tortured angle from the opposite site of the pumpkin head, fingers splayed out. This took a fair amount of time and brute force -- so tightly packed was the straw that it resisted all but the most determined efforts at reshaping. At one point during this endeavor I slipped and fell on the straw covering the floor, which stuck to my sweat-covered skin. Cursing, I vowed to be more careful and threw down my blanket on the floor to cover up the treacherous bits.

I now set to work on the still-attached hand which I had twisted up to the side of the scarecrow’s head. I pulled a razor-sharp paring knife out of my drawer of tools and began slicing down the fingers of the gloved hand, fanning the right and left sides of each finger off into thin strips which I left attached. The wind was starting to rise in pitch again and, in frustration, I grabbed the hammer again and whacked the pumpkin in the head a third time, after which the wind again decreased in pitch and volume. Setting back to work, I took up the paper cutter once more and carefully sliced off the tip of each finger on the hand, revealing the straw inside. From the tip of each finger I then began to carefully pull individual strands of straw so that they stuck out through the tip and hung limply to one side or another. A couple of these I extracted completely, and used them to bind the others together loosely. Stepping back to regard what I had accomplished, I was pleased with my work. The hand was now a strange, grisly, fan-like appendage formed of the pared fingers of the glove and copious strands of straw. The effect was macabrely humorous -- the scarecrow appeared to be fanning itself awkwardly with its own hand, as its other hand protruded from its mouth like time-frozen vomit.

I was immensely pleased, and completely exhausted, but something was still missing. Then my eyes met the eyes of the scarecrow and I knew what I had to do. I reached out to pluck the rotten apples from the eye sockets but, as I was coming to expect from this strangely robust construct, they were firmly entrenched. Not wanting to destroy them completely, I retrieved a chisel from my drawer and carefully worked them free. I tossed the shriveled things in my hands absent-mindedly as I considered where to put them. Finally it hit me. At the tip of each of the remnants of the stubby fingers of the fan hand, right in the center, was a jagged protrusion of exceptionally densely packed straw. With some effort, I managed to skewer each apple to the end of one of these protrusions, and then sat back down in satisfaction. It was done. I looked at the clock on my desk, breathing heavily with fatigue, and saw that it was almost time for the event in the student center to be let out. There would be no better opportunity to showcase my work before a large number of people until after Thanksgiving break, as everyone would be passing through the center of campus, where the platform and frame for the scarecrow had been prepared.

Gathering my strength, I lifted the heavy figure -- God, was it heavy! -- onto my shoulders and made my way out the door, edging my way past one of Mark’s suitcases. As I made my way down the hallway, one of the elevators dinged and a girl who lived on the floor got out. Her eyes instantly widened in horror and she screamed before darting into the adjacent stairwell. I smiled as her footsteps echoed down the stairs. What a triumph! The scarecrow was surely my finest work, and the fact that I had turned my seeming defeat into victory made it all the sweeter.

I shuffled into the elevator, hitting the buttons with my elbow, and waited as it descended to the ground floor. I smirked with pride as the security guard saw me and stifled a scream before lunging for his phone.

I proceeded outside, shuffling under my burden towards the platform in the center of campus. As I went, I noticed students beginning to emerge from the student center. I would be just in time. As I drew closer to the platform and the students approaching from the opposite side, people started to stop and stare, squinting and leaning forward to make out what I was carrying through the shadows of the nighttime gloom. As I passed through a patch of bright light formed by one of the few lamps on campus, I heard screams, shouts, shrieks of outrage, and the light of raised cellphones blinked across the gathering crowd like fireflies.

Finally I reached the platform and staggered up the steps onto it. With my foot, I pressed the switch for the lamps that had been set up to illuminate the installation. The sudden light coincided with a surge of screams and cries of horror and revulsion from the gathered crowd, and with a mighty heave I thrust the scarecrow onto the sharp hooks of the frame, crucifying the thing in place. The force my my effort caused the severed hand to dislodge from the mouth and fall to the ground. The howling wind of before exploded into existence again, and a cry high and long and inhuman joined that of the crowd, an anguished, despairing wail.

I sat down at last, utterly depleted. The sweat matted my hair and stung my eyes and I wiped it away with my sleeve as I looked in tired glory at the effect of my masterwork upon the crowd. Smiling serenely, I turned and looked back again at my handiwork, at the magnificent travesty hanging taut upon the metal frame. In the flashing red and blue lights, it looked almost alive.

[364poems-blog]

Hound of Heaven

“I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;  I fled Him, down the arches of the years; I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways    Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears I hid from Him, and under running laughter.      Up vistaed hopes I sped;      And shot, precipitated, Adown Titanic glooms of chasmèd fears,  From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.”

I first read these lines in Daphne Du Maurier’s gothic novel “Rebecca”. In the book, she used these lines to describe the tortured hero, Maxim. The lines are arresting; they stayed with me for a long time till I found and read the poem, by Francis Thompson in its entirety.

We may want to escape and run away from it all we want; but Divine Grace follows us, unwearyingly till we surrender ourselves, body and soul. This should be the most comforting thought of all, but it terrifies us all the same.

I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;  I fled Him, down the arches of the years; I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways    Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears I hid from Him, and under running laughter.      Up vistaed hopes I sped;      And shot, precipitated, Adown Titanic glooms of chasmèd fears,  From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.      But with unhurrying chase,      And unperturbèd pace, Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,      They beat—and a Voice beat      More instant than the Feet— ‘All things betray thee, who betrayest Me.’          I pleaded, outlaw-wise, By many a hearted casement, curtained red,  Trellised with intertwining charities; (For, though I knew His love Who followèd,        Yet was I sore adread Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside). But, if one little casement parted wide,  The gust of His approach would clash it to.  Fear wist not to evade, as Love wist to pursue. Across the margent of the world I fled,  And troubled the gold gateways of the stars,  Smiting for shelter on their clangèd bars;        Fretted to dulcet jars And silvern chatter the pale ports o’ the moon. I said to Dawn: Be sudden—to Eve: Be soon;  With thy young skiey blossoms heap me over        From this tremendous Lover— Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see!  I tempted all His servitors, but to find My own betrayal in their constancy, In faith to Him their fickleness to me,  Their traitorous trueness, and their loyal deceit. To all swift things for swiftness did I sue;  Clung to the whistling mane of every wind.      But whether they swept, smoothly fleet,    The long savannahs of the blue;        Or whether, Thunder-driven,    They clanged his chariot ’thwart a heaven, Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o’ their feet:  Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue.      Still with unhurrying chase,      And unperturbèd pace,    Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,      Came on the following Feet,      And a Voice above their beat—    ‘Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me.’ I sought no more that after which I strayed  In face of man or maid; But still within the little children’s eyes  Seems something, something that replies, They at least are for me, surely for me! I turned me to them very wistfully; But just as their young eyes grew sudden fair  With dawning answers there, Their angel plucked them from me by the hair. ‘Come then, ye other children, Nature’s—share With me’ (said I) ‘your delicate fellowship;  Let me greet you lip to lip,  Let me twine with you caresses,    Wantoning  With our Lady-Mother’s vagrant tresses,    Banqueting  With her in her wind-walled palace,  Underneath her azured daïs,  Quaffing, as your taintless way is,    From a chalice Lucent-weeping out of the dayspring.’    So it was done: I in their delicate fellowship was one— Drew the bolt of Nature’s secrecies.  I knew all the swift importings  On the wilful face of skies;  I knew how the clouds arise  Spumèd of the wild sea-snortings;    All that’s born or dies  Rose and drooped with; made them shapers Of mine own moods, or wailful or divine;  With them joyed and was bereaven.  I was heavy with the even,  When she lit her glimmering tapers  Round the day’s dead sanctities.  I laughed in the morning’s eyes. I triumphed and I saddened with all weather,  Heaven and I wept together, And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine; Against the red throb of its sunset-heart    I laid my own to beat,    And share commingling heat; But not by that, by that, was eased my human smart. In vain my tears were wet on Heaven’s grey cheek. For ah! we know not what each other says,  These things and I; in sound I speak— Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences. Nature, poor stepdame, cannot slake my drouth;  Let her, if she would owe me, Drop yon blue bosom-veil of sky, and show me  The breasts o’ her tenderness: Never did any milk of hers once bless    My thirsting mouth.    Nigh and nigh draws the chase,    With unperturbèd pace,  Deliberate speed, majestic instancy;    And past those noisèd Feet    A voice comes yet more fleet—  ‘Lo! naught contents thee, who content’st not Me!’ Naked I wait Thy love’s uplifted stroke! My harness piece by piece Thou hast hewn from me,    And smitten me to my knee;  I am defenceless utterly.  I slept, methinks, and woke, And, slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep. In the rash lustihead of my young powers,  I shook the pillaring hours And pulled my life upon me; grimed with smears, I stand amid the dust o’ the mounded years— My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap. My days have crackled and gone up in smoke, Have puffed and burst as sun-starts on a stream.  Yea, faileth now even dream The dreamer, and the lute the lutanist;  Even the linked fantasies, in whose blossomy twist I swung the earth a trinket at my wrist, Are yielding; cords of all too weak account For earth with heavy griefs so overplussed.  Ah! is Thy love indeed A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed, Suffering no flowers except its own to mount?  Ah! must—  Designer infinite!— Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it? My freshness spent its wavering shower i’ the dust; And now my heart is as a broken fount, Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever  From the dank thoughts that shiver Upon the sighful branches of my mind.  Such is; what is to be? The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind? I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds; Yet ever and anon a trumpet sounds From the hid battlements of Eternity; Those shaken mists a space unsettle, then Round the half-glimpsèd turrets slowly wash again.  But not ere him who summoneth  I first have seen, enwound With glooming robes purpureal, cypress-crowned; His name I know, and what his trumpet saith. Whether man’s heart or life it be which yields  Thee harvest, must Thy harvest-fields  Be dunged with rotten death?      Now of that long pursuit    Comes on at hand the bruit;  That Voice is round me like a bursting sea:    ‘And is thy earth so marred,    Shattered in shard on shard?  Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest Me!  Strange, piteous, futile thing! Wherefore should any set thee love apart? Seeing none but I makes much of naught’ (He said), ‘And human love needs human meriting:  How hast thou merited— Of all man’s clotted clay the dingiest clot?  Alack, thou knowest not How little worthy of any love thou art! Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee,  Save Me, save only Me? All which I took from thee I did but take,  Not for thy harms, But just that thou might’st seek it in My arms.  All which thy child’s mistake Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home:  Rise, clasp My hand, and come!’  Halts by me that footfall:  Is my gloom, after all, Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly?  ‘Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,  I am He Whom thou seekest! Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me.’

Jan 20, 2017