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ksqwildwest · 7 months

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This isn't Home

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Warning: pov descriptions of a character dissociating and generally having a bad bad time. Also, the word "consummation" comes up.

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He's looking at a door.

It's made from mahogany, if he remembers correctly. The grain is highlighted by the wine red stain. It's sanded smooth and sealed perfectly. The handle and lock were custom-made by someone in a city, so distant they spoke a different language entirely. The silver polished biweekly in the dead of night so as to not disturb the routine of the resident. If anything were to make a scratch in the door, there are at least ten spares made in the exact same way to replace it rather than let something as simple as a door have any imperfections.

When had he arrived at his bedroom door?

It felt like he should still be riding out of town. Lazarus slowly disappeared in the distance behind him. Swallowed up by the horizon. The dust cloud kicked up by the horse ever shifting in his vision as he can't bring himself to turn around until long after the town is gone. Burying his face in Phil's shoulder while his body trembled with silent sobs. The surroundings slowly changed from empty desert to dotted houses to crowded city streets.

When had he gotten off Phil's horse?

He couldn't remember entering the front gates. The slow, meandering trot up the long entrance trail. He does remember the way his stomach fluttered with nerves as Phil finally brought them to a stop. The way Phil had to practically drag him off the horses back. His legs barely avoid buckling under the immense pressure of - I'm back.

When had he approached the mansion?

The ivory pillars framing the front doors were polished a blindingly bright white. Two butlers stood in front of them, opening the doors in practiced, perfect sync. The entrance way was exactly as he remembered it to be. At least he assumed it was. He blinked and was walking down one of the many identical hallways in the mansion. Blink. Another identical hallway. Blink again. Why did they have so many identical hallways? Was it even a different hallway? Was he moving or standing still? He blinked. He was standing in the sitting room outside of his parents' office. His parents.

When had his parents seen him?

He had smoothly walked into the office, his hands clasped behind his back to hide their shaking. His mother's dark brown eyes seemed to swallow him whole. His father's toxic green eyes held an uncaring poison, burning into his skin. It was silent as Phil was dismissed with a flick of his mothers wrist. The silence continued to scream for a long, long time.

"Get him a change of clothes," His father ordered out to the room, "Something respectable for him to meet his wife in."

"Burn the rags once he's out of them," his mother commanded, "He'll give you any remaining rubbish from his bag after he's met his bride."

When had he changed clothes?

He'd been herded into a changing room in another blink. He trembled as he removed each piece of his outfit. First, the bright shirt that was overdue for a touch-up of color. Next, the fancy shoes that had become faded, stained, and well-loved. Then, the bright patterned socks that were gifted by Thompson shortly after his arrival in Lazarus. Lastly, the belt and pants, covered in sand and pet hair, folded neatly in the pile.

A pile immediately handed over to one of the three butlers in the room. There was no privacy when he left, and there would be less now. A different butler handed him an impeccably ironed suit. He doesn't remember getting into it. Or following one of the butlers out of the room. Down more mind-numbing hallways. Stopping in front of his door.

How long ago did he tell the butler he only needed a moment to collect himself before meeting his bride? The shadows had shifted from the windows. Did he really say that? Speaking sounds so hard, like there's not enough air to spare for it.

He turns to the butler and nods with a mechanical smile. His vision blurs for a moment as the door is opened.

His room had barely changed. The only new things were that his personal shelf of books had been removed, the bed had been changed to a bigger size, and the short and stocky mouse in a maroon dress standing by the balcony.

Ah. The Mus family. Old money. Their business based around the removal of pests and the selling of defenses against pests. Responsible for the introduction of pests into new regions whenever sales got too low for too long.

Oh, the mouse is saying something to the butlers. He really should try to listen to that. It takes a few seconds before the buzzing in his ears recedes enough to hear her shy voice.

"... disappear as much as you do. I'll call if he tries to leave. Please, I just want to get to know my fiancé in private."

The butlers remain standing in place.

He shouldn't be able to speak right now. His throat is tight and dry. His hands are trembling behind his back. His breaths are shallow and quick. But it's undoubtedly his voice, quiet yet smooth, that says, "As my future bride and therefore future head of this household, you are contracted to obey and fulfill her demands."

There's a new tenseness in the air as a single butler twitches, but none of them leave.

"His parents orders-" cuts in his fiancée, he really needs to learn her name before the vows- "are that Carl Jacobson is no longer allowed to be in a room with any exit that leads outside without being accompanied by at least one person." She sounds close to tears when she asks, "Do you not count me, his fiancée, as a person?"

The pressure in the room increases as the butlers avoid looking at them directly.

Karl thinks he could cry. The desire to have Jack and Mason by his side rears its head. Mason would have already started a brawl and been preening in victory by now. Probably with John John on his shoulder and that one brand of whiskey that he only ever drinks to celebrate. Jack would be laughing about the entire situation and making sexual jokes like- like-

"You're not going to be in here directly after the marriage." He says with startling clarity as hope lifts the weight on his lungs. Maybe he can get a little privacy, if only for a few moments. All eyes shift to him, and he can imagine Jack and Mason cheering him on as he continues with the most energy he's had all day.

"You're going to have to leave us alone together eventually. Might as well start now. I mean, I doubt you all are going to be here during the consummation."

He quirks his eyebrow as he says it, watching as the butlers process his words. As the seconds tick by, he covers his panic with a deadly glare. The one Thompson taught him. One of the butlers calmly marches out. Then another follows close behind, and soon enough, the final butler is shutting the door behind them.

Finally, he has a moment to bre-

Oh yah, Karl thinks as he finds himself getting shoved roughly yet quietly onto one of the lounge chairs farthest from the doors, I still don't know my fiancée's name.

"Carl," she starts with a serious tone, "while I appreciate you getting those butlers out of the room, I'm going to lay down some ground rules here, got it?"

He nods numbly, suddenly very scared for his immediate future as he realizes she's still gripping his arm. She'd been so quiet and shy. It was making his head spin how quickly she shifted. He didn't have the energy for a fight.

"Number one," she said in a tone so reminiscent of his mother; He almost misses the words, "I'm not here because I fancy you. I'm here because of my parents. I will do all the things in public that we need to do to convince people we tolerate each other, but behind these doors, I'm not consummating anything, got it?"

"Yep. Got i-"

"Number two," she continues on, "I have a secret lover who I plan on visiting, and you are going to have to come with me as cover. You will not breathe a word about it to anyone that we are more than business associates. Got it?"

"Mmhm."

"And number three," her eyes bore into him with an intensity he'd only ever seen in Thompsons eyes, "after our wedding, once the security has died down, I'm running away with my lover. You can help, or you can stay out of my way, got it?"

"... uh, yes, w-"

"Good," she releases her grip on his arm and settles onto the other side of the chair, careful not to crush her own tail, "any questions, Mr. Jacobson?"

"Umm, so. What's your name?"

Karl wasn't sure what emotions passed over his fiancées face in that moment, but he knew they weren't good.

"Nobody told me." He starts rambling, "I only learned I was getting married ... less than two days ago? And while I'm sure you're nice, I didn't choose this either. My parents found out where I was staying had no women in town, but I know they would have found any reason to drag me back ho- here. Back here. And, really, you're nice but i- I-"

"My name is Zoe Mus." She cuts him off with a look of pure relief dripping down her face. "And I was told you were returning from a business trip early due to threats on your life, and that's why the wedding is happening so quickly."

He really wishes he could be surprised by that, but his parents would never admit anything they did was anything less than perfection. If they did, it was always for a very good reason. Their child coming home after being gone for so long, wearing those clothes? To hide him from the assassins, of course. Any lashing out? Those that come close to death are always a bit jumpy and odd. It's not unheard of. If he runs? Kidnapped by those killers and ready to be ransomed for money, a reward to whoever catches him.

He's really not getting out of this.

Well. At least he can make sure Zoe and her lover can be happy. He can even cover their tracks for them when they leave.

"You can call me Karl Jacob." He smiles wobbly at her confused expression. "I spell it with a k, not a c."

"Karl," she says with a thick layer of amusement in her voice as she moves a tray with wine and cheese onto the table next to them, "I'm sorry for grabbing you earlier. I made some in the moment assumptions, and I'm glad to see they were wrong." She pours them both a glass of wine and grabs half of the cheddar slices off the platter.

"Now, Mr. Jacob," Zoe declares as they settle back in the chair, "why don't you tell me about yourself and the town you were staying at? How life threatening was it really?"

Karl laughs. He truly fully laughs as the stress of everything gets a little bit lighter at the prospect of being able to share the stories of Lazarus with someone.

"Well, which townsfolk should I start with? The bandits, the cannibal, or the demon?"

He smiles, even as his heart aches for all the people he'll never see again.

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Misery loves company! Welcome to our newest character, Zoe Mus!

I hope you enjoyed this next chapter of the story! Things are really looking bad, but at least Karl has a new friend to keep him company! In the next chapter, we get to check in with our two lovable bandits! I'm sure they're having a great time right now! :D

I know I said I'd try for a more consistent tone, but shifting between past and present tense is how I write panicking and dissociation! I'll figure it out eventually.

Please send in asks about Zoe Mus and their lover, Fionn Flynn, a fox baker! Anything you can think of!

#tales from the smp #tftsmp #tftsmp wild west #karl jacobs #writings from lazarus #zoe mus #the jacobsons

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thorough-witness-enjoyer · 2 months

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I love it when Destiny takes time to show the smaller moments of the universe.

Eido nerding out over preserving culture, people celebrating the Festival of the Lost, baking cookies when the temperature drops, Zavala knitting, Osiris and Saint being tender, random guardians and their friends that we might never get another lore entry on, guardians who we get a handful of lore entries for their shenanigans, conversations about beliefs between characters we know and love, and so, so much more.

In the face of tremendous loss and pain, there are always moments of unconquerable joy and love, even if they are brief. Love can be found in every tale, every crevice, and every event in Destiny despite despairing circumstances and it wins. Maybe not immediately, maybe long after the lovers have perished to their situations, but it always triumphs. It’s seeds always burst through an inhospitable soil to grow into the shade others will lay under, resting their heads upon a person they would propagate a whole forest for.

It is the small moments like finding unlikely companions, enjoying a deeply brewed tea, or collecting candy on holidays that keeps people fighting for the ability to experience such delights.

Destiny is about a universe of people who will choose to survive and endure no matter the cost. It is the assuring sight of different species of children playing in the streets of the Last City that people will suffer time and time again to protect. It is the thought that there will always be a precious experience in life awaiting in the future that makes people want to even keep the very POSSIBILITY of suffering.

Eris has saved the universe to bring justice to her fireteam, protect humanity, and save the ones she loves like Ikora, Mara, and Drifter. That is enough.

Misraaks has helped us in our endeavors to protect Sol for his people and Eido, to see them prosper and grow. That is enough.

Some guardians may fight just to bring in enough glimmer to enjoy a drink at a tavern. That is enough.

Some people right after the Collapse may have continued on because they didn’t know what else to do, they didn’t know why they had it in their spirit to continue on upon a charred Earth. That is enough.

These are all enough to warrant the continuation of a universe that allows for these possibilities. These are enough and more to fight for with bleeding callouses and busted knuckles.

It is moments so fleeting and small that leave such an impression on us that we will fight against odds so enduring and large. We fight for justice, for hope, for good food, for the smell of blossoms in Spring.

We will do it over and over again for it is our right to determine our fates, no matter the indifference we receive from the universe itself and no matter the wants of those who equate the small to be inconsequential.

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