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philliamwrites · 3 years

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The Dawn Will Come [Chpt.4]

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Pairing: Dimitri x Reader, Claude x Reader, Edelgard x Reader, Yuri x Reader, Edelgard x Byleth, lots of minor pairings

Tags: #gn reader, # platonic love byleth & reader, #reader is a tactical unit, #angst, #slow burn, #subplots, #unreliable narrator, #pining, #remporary amnesia, #reluctant herp, #canon divergence, #lost twin au, #many chapters, #original content

Words: 7.7k

Summary: Waking up in a forest without any knowledge of your past and who you are, you join the house leaders of the Officers Academy to search for a way to return your memories. Unfortunately, the church has different plans for you, and Fate places you in the centre of a cruel game with deadly stakes. It certainly doesn’t help to fall in love with a house leader who is doomed to be your demise.

Notes: Chapter 3 | Chapter 5

Chapter 04: Demands of the Faithful

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope.

[Alfred, Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam A.H.H.]

“I’m glad you could make time,” Byleth says, carefully placing her fine cup on the small bottom plate. If she notices how uncomfortable you feel, sitting in the centre of the yard, drinking tea, she ignores it. “Let’s think together about what we want to teach during the mock battle.”

“This is a bad idea,” you say, nibbling on your cup. “A very bad idea.”

The late afternoon hours are quiet, but it certainly helps that the tea arrangement is tugged away in a far off corner in the courtyard, hidden behind tall hedges that allow privacy. The sweet smell of chamomile tea and strawberry pastry is a nice exchange from the usual savoury smells you’re used to in the cafeteria. All around you, the high, spiky roofs of the monastery’s towers stand out against the fiery, orange sky, throwing longer and longer shadows as the sun sets behind the mountains. The clouds are soft, pink cotton-candy, blushing at the warm touch of the sun.

“I think it’s a good idea,” Byleth continues, cutting through a piece of cake with her fork. “We’ve seen what the house leaders are capable of. It’s time to see what the rest of the students can do.”

“Don’t take me wrong. I think a mock battle will help them grow,” you agree. “I just don’t really understand why it’s me who has to lead the Blue Lions.”

“I think Professor Hanneman is not present at the day of the mission,” Byleth explains. “It seems on the last day of Lone Moon he always leaves the monastery for a private reason. And I assume Lady Rhea means to see the extent of your power.”

That’s what you expected as well. In the last couple of days you realised your power is a muscle, to be exercised daily, never to be pushed to the extreme. It was a strenuous task to try out how much is too much; where there’s still room. Under the keen eyes of Hanneman, you two practised day after day, trying to figure out how much your body can take before exhaustion sweeps over you and renders you immobile. Crests usually don’t have a limit; depending on their nature they grant a permament boost to the bearer’s abilities. Muttering under his breath, Hanneman had made quite a show to remind you what a curiosity the Crest of the Herald is. Like you wouldn’t know.

“Since we’re going to be on the field as well, you might want to get more practice with the sword,” Byleth proposes, and you groan. She has a way of being brutally honest, and so far no one’s been spared to get the brunt of it. “I’m not letting my students hold back. Not even against you.”

“You really are a voice of confidence, you know.” Shoulders drooping like someone took the wind from your sails, you throw your head back and drink the rest of your tea. Byleth’s expression doesn’t change, and you wonder why you even try being funny around her.

After clearing the table, Byleth accompanies you to your next lesson hall. It’s nice in theory, but her vigorous way of trying to drill sword techniques into your head on the way doesn’t hide her true agenda. Only slowly, you begin to realise that is maybe her way of caring for someone. Brutish in appearance, but once you look past the first impression of indifference, Byleth’s silent demeanour speaks louder than words.

Students linger in small groups in front of the class rooms, their exhausted faces from a full day of lessons and hard training visible in the way they carry their bodies. If you had a say in it, you’d cancel the evening lessons and let them rest; a reoccurring debate inside the faculty that doesn’t go anywhere. Byleth stops in front of the class room, surveying the students with a cool gaze, when suddenly Claude and Hilda jog towards you, and by “jogging” they decided Hilda to be the only one running while carrying Claude bridal style like he weighs nothing. As they pass you, Claude tips an invisible hat in your direction, calling “Hey, teach,” and then immediately “Bye, teach!” as they cross the courtyard.

Your gaze follows them. “What just happened.”

Byleth doesn’t even bother to look. “Claude and Hilda happened.”

Heavens, you don’t know if you’re able to handle them later.

After exchanging goodbyes with Byleth, you tackle the next forty minutes with a belly full of sweets and a mind occupied with worrying about everything you might do wrong next week. Forming two groups, you hand out two different manoeuvres you dug out of books, and present the task, “Work out the pros and cons of each battle tactic, and present them to the class. Explain where you would have done things differently, and why.”

Sylvain raises his hand.

“Yes, you can leave to bathroom breaks without asking me,” you say.

Sylvain drops his hand. Then raises it again.

“No, you can’t bring animals you find on your way back to your seat,” you say.

He drops his hand. Beside him, Ingrid fails to stifle a groan.

Twenty minutes later, the first group stands in front of the class. Mercedes’s steady hand draws the perfect copy of the manoeuvre on the chalk board while Annette recites every step flawlessly. They’re a powerful combination, and that’s only half owed to their friendship. Mercedes is soft; she’s the silk hiding the dagger that Annette’s sharp mind is. There’s strength in kindness, and both have honed this ability to a razor-sharp weapon. There’s still a pouch of unfinished cookies Mercedes has baked for you left in your room, something to keep in mind for the next tea hour with Byleth. Felix and Dedue don’t add much, and you’re a little afraid to ask, seeing how Felix’s eyes burn holes in the back of Dedue’s head. There’s been rumours going on about a dispute, but no details, and you gladly leave that sort of teacher-student business to Hanneman.

The remaining students do their job almost just as good. But the thought of children being so confident in ways of war and killing leaves a painful twinge in your chest. You wonder what will become of them all in a few years, what battles they will win. What battles they will lose—this fear lingers at the edges of your consciousness like an ever-present shadow. To push it away, you try to refocus on the task at hand.

“Look at the battalions you have,” you advise, tapping a finger against the cool surface of the board. It comes away white with chalk, leaving a white smudge on your robe as you wipe it off. “Where are they placed?”

Ashe clears his throat. “Two Lance Soldiers, that’s Infantry. One Magic Squadron, also Infantry. The latter is stationed far northeast on that island. Two Pegasus Corpses, which are Flying Types. We put them behind the mountains to ambush the enemies on their way to one of our Infantries.”

“A good idea in theory,” you acknowledge, and don’t miss how Ashe exhales in relief. “And where are you enemies?”

“They’re facing our Infantry and the Squadron,” Dimitri steps in now. “The Flying Unit engage from the back. After their victory, Infantry and Flying close the last opposite unite off on the bridge, and join the Magic Squadron in fighting.”

“Okay, okay,” you nod. “And now look at the terrain of this last unit you want to take on from the front and back. The one on the bridge moving towards the Squadron.”

The room is quiet for a minute, and then a silent “Oh” from Ashe.

“Yes. Oh. The Magic Squadron moves slower through the woods. You’ll lose them. And one of the Lance units is probably the next to go.” You draw sharp lines across the board with red chalk, changing the battalion’s movements. One goes across the whole board, crossing out the word Sea. “Wouldn’t it be smarter to have your Pegasus Companies move this way across the water, join the Magic Squadron and then close in from the right to join the Infantries?”

“But Herald.” Ingrid raises her hand, but doesn’t wait for you to pick her. “If Infantry and Flying take out the first enemy, we’ll still win. The remaining unit will be trapped on the island without a possibility to retreat. Wouldn’t it be wiser to sacrifice the Magic Squadron just for that?”

“I agree with Ingrid,” says Sylvain. He’s sitting on a desk, and swings his legs back and forth. “With or without them, we won the battle, and that’s what matters.”

You turn back to scan the manoeuvre one more time. They’re right—blocking the enemy’s escape routes off proves a solid guarantee to win, and yet you’ve somewhat hoped they wouldn’t settle on this option. There’s a bitter taste in your mouth, turning your lips upside down as if you’ve bitten into a lemon.

“Sometimes, you don’t want to win the battle,” you start slowly, the thought blossoming from a dark place deep inside you. “Sometimes you want as many as possible to live.” Which is easier said than done, and no one in the room agrees on your statement because they know just as much that such a choice isn’t always granted. Before the silence stretches on too long, you quickly add, “I guess it is more important to know there is no right or wrong answer. You make decisions later on that will either grant you victory or death, and you will have to live with those decisions.”

Unanimous murmur sounds from the students, a topic nobody wants to dwell on too long, and you grant them that wish; this precious little time they’re still allowed to be children and make mistakes before responsibilities catch up to them. The rest of the lesson flies past without disturbances, and when the bells announce the break, they jump from their seats and scurry outside.

“Don’t forget there’s going to be a test after the mock battle,” you call after them, knowing they’ll forget anyway and then boycott. The Lions are finally done with lessons, but there is the Deer House who have the misfortune to attend the last period of the day. As you prepare their unit of instruction on different terrains, Dimitri approaches you, his expression a mixture between confidence and tension.

“Herald.” He stops in front of your desk, shoulders squared into a declaration of deference. “I have prepared instructions on everyone’s weaknesses and strengths. Please, do consider to take a look. Since one of the rules is that only six units will be stationed on the field, I hope this will make your decision easier who to choose.” Placing the papers with outmost care on your table, Dimitri hesitates a moment before continuing, “What you said earlier … truth be told, I think the same. To limit the loss of lives as much as possible should be a priority to a leader as well. To hear that from someone like you … I was quite glad.”

“Someone like me,” you repeat, but you’re more surprised to feel your fingers itch to take the papers and get a first read on everyone. After going through similar notes from Linhardt, you’re now excited to learn more about your proteges, and with luck someone from the Golden Deer students might provide you with a first survey as well.

“Someone responsible for tactics and strategy,” Dimitri quickly clarifies. “Someone tasked with bringing absolute victory.” He gives you a look that is somehow both caressing and calculating at the same time. “I understand that those sometimes compete with one’s own beliefs regarding the value of life. One’s conscience is as much of a weapon as a sharpened blade. If it breaks, what use is there to a person.”

“Those are … some mature thoughts.” You don’t know where this observation goes. Of course he is mature, he has to be as the successor of a noble lineage. “For someone your age.” You press your mouth into a thin line, cursing your inability to think of a better response. But Dimitri simply smiles—a smile that is like a light suddenly being turned on in every room of a dark house.

“Oh, but I do not want to bore you with such matters. I just wanted to add, I really do look forward to have you on our side during the mock battle.” He gives a little courtesy bow. “Let us discuss the details on the day before the mission. A good evening to you, Herald.”

Dimitri leaves with a little bounce to his step. It’s probably better he’s in high spirits, even though you aren’t sure what exactly made him happy. It would be a real shame to extinguish his excitement by being an utter failure during the battle, so you make sure to read whatever he managed to put together about his classmates as soon as possible. There’s still some minutes left before the first Deer students will enter. Exhaustion lulls you into resting your eyes, and the moment your head is cradled in your arms, you doze off.

It’s the third time you have this dream after joining the Officer’s Academy, though calling it a ‘dream’ is a stretch—there is nothing happening, nothing to see. Only white, as pure and unblemished as a young lily blossom in early spring. Only this time this picture—maybe a memory, but of what or where you can’t say—is different.

Wake up, a voice whispers, barely recognisable and dull, spoken behind a wall of water. Wake up.

Your hands weigh a ton. Unable to reach out and grasp it, the dream blurs, slipping through your fingers like sand.

Wake up.

“Herald, wake up,” Claude persists. “You’re drooling on my test papers.”

His hand brushes your shoulder and you jump, all focus on the dream dispersing. Multiple voices fill the room in a shower of sounds, not helping to regain your senses of where you are. It doesn’t help that your right eye throbs dully, and as you rub it to somehow reduce the sensation, white spots dance across your vision.

“So sorry, Herald,” Claude smirks with his hand still hovering over your shoulder. “Didn’t mean to wake you from your beauty rest, but Hilda planned to draw obscene things on your face, and we can’t have that now, can we.”

“Liars never prosper, Claude!” comes Hilda’s response from somewhere in the back of the room. You groan, narrowing your eyes at him. Going back to sleep and stumbling about to try and figure out what’s going on sounds more pleasing than dealing with Claude’s shenanigans.

“Man, what a bummer you won’t join our House during the mock battle,” he continues as if Hilda hasn’t said anything. “If someone asked me, I think to have you fight for the Blue Lions is cheating.”

“But no one asked you?” you offer, indulging him with a weak smile.

“The audacity, right?” Claude rolls his eyes towards the ceiling, leaning against the teacher’s desk. “Just imagine the brilliant schemes we two could work out. Oh, I have an amazing idea. How about you ask Lady Rhea—”

“I’m not asking to be by your side during the battle.”

“Ouch.” Claude places a hand over his chest, right above his heart. “Immediately shut down. Who knew our dearest Herald would be such a heart breaker.”

You shoo him away, not only because he’s getting on your nerves, but there’s also Ignatz and Raphael standing in line, waiting for your attention.

“We’ve heard the students from the other Houses gave you some insight in their abilities,” Ignatz says, tugging a stack of papers to his chest. “We decided to give you one as well.”

“I’m sure you’ll like them,” Raphael chimes in, looking more excited than usual. “I gave Ignatz instructions on how to make our report the best. Forget boring words, Herald, we’ve prepared the real deal!” He rips the papers from Ignatz’s hands and slams them on your table. A crack sounds on the underside, and Raphael leans his whole weight upon the surface, completely oblivious to the protesting creak of the wood.

“Here, we started with Claude, since he’s the big shot and all that,” he explains, opening the first page. It shows Claude, a surprisingly accurate portrait of him, if not a little bit scrawny. He’s wielding a bow, nocking multiple arrows. Seems like Raphael wasn’t the only one giving instructions.

“And here is Leonie, and there’s Lorenz, and oh! That’s us working together as a team!” Raphael beams as he turns the page. In this picture, everyone is assembled, fighting against angry looking soldiers and horned monsters. There’s Lysithea and Marianne shooting lightning bolts from their hands, zapping their opponents. Raphael is carrying a huge stone, on top of it stands Hilda, wielding a mighty axe.

“These are the most accurate file reports I’ve seen,” you say for lack of better words. “It really is a shame I can’t join you for the mock battle.”

“There’s gonna be a next time, no worries!” Raphael gives you a thumbs up, then retreats to his seat, Ignatz by his side. They’re a funny duo, not just because of their different build. Their personalities seem the complete opposite, and yet strangely fit like a child’s box to sort blocks into the right shapes.

The difference between the Golden Deers and Blue Lions, for one, is the noise level. Instead of waiting for you to call them up one by one, they love to shout answers whenever they see fit. Judging who was the first isn’t really easy when four people scream at the same time, so you’ve given up on that—Claude’s policy whoever screams loudest didn’t help all too much as well. Maybe it’s time to ask Byleth about some tips how to handle them. When the bell tolls for the last time for this day, announcing everyone to be relieved of their work, the student clear out faster than during fire drills, leaving you with a turmoil of thoughts and worries and two little voices bickering about how much of a disaster next week is going to be.

After seven days and nights of restless sleep and vigorous training under the vicious supervision of Byleth, the green fields stretching before you end boarding on lush woods, its treetops protruding into the sky. It’s a wonderful day you would enjoy much more without knowing this is a battle field, and the people behind you wait for your command.

“Black Eagle and Golden Deer are in position. Captain Jeralt said the mock battle begins in roughly ten minutes.” Dedue gives you an expectant look, and you give him a curt nod, your mouth dry.

“Thanks. We’ll have a last briefing. After that, we’ll deploy our units.”

Dedue joins his classmates, leaving you to your troubled thoughts. With luck, none of your opponents will reach you, and you won’t have to fight. It’s as if you can feel Byleth’s taste for your blood all across the field, even though right now she’s just a blurry, dark blob in the distance, surrounded by her students.

“Do not worry, Herald.” The hard metal of a gauntlet on your shoulder makes you flinch, backing away from Dimitri. The worry on his face is a mirror of your own, albeit for different reasons. “Everyone will do their best to follow your orders, and fight with everything they've got. Your leadership will lead us to victory.”

“Oh, yeah!” You don’t meet his eyes. “For sure.” Zero pressure and all that. You don’t say that, seeing that most of the students don’t appear to be as nervous as you. Confidence is key, and even though you see none of it in tangible proximity, you can at least fake it until you make it.

Six minutes left. With a deep breath, you try to get hold of yourself, and face the Lions.

“Since we don’t know who will be deployed by Manuela and Byleth, prepare for everything. I want to split the group. Dimitri, Dedue and Mercedes move to the northern forest. Felix, Sylvain, you’re moving west with me.”

Felix pulls a grimace, but before he can say anything, Sylvain throws an arm around his shoulders and leans on him, gracing you with a full grin. “We got your back, Herald.” He earns a whack on his back from his friend.

“Why are we splitting up if our plan is to take out each group separately?” Dedue inquirers. “Isn’t that what we agreed on before?”

“I think the Herald plans to let our opponents think we plan on taking them both on at the same time.” Dimitri throws a quick glance at you. “We’ll draw them in our direction, and once they are near, we close in from both sides.”

You nod. “Precisely. We know the Black Eagles will start far north from us. The Golden Deers are northwest. As soon as one of them moves towards us, we’ll have to defeat them immediately. It will be easier fighting one House, not both at the same time.”

“Look at you, Your Highness.” Sylvain pats him on the shoulder, looking proud. “Someone’s been paying attention in class!”

“Sylvain—” Dimitri’s chiding meets deaf ears as Sylvain already turns away, checking his lance for a last time. But he does beam a little, you think. Or maybe it’s just the sun making everything look much brighter. It’ll go into your report nonetheless. Chances of a victory look good—even if you have to retreat, the Blue Lions might make it on their own.

The bressy sound of a horn echoes across the valley, reverberating in your bones. The mock battle begins.

The weight of the wooden training sword hanging from your hip is foreign; it’s as though you only expect to trip over it. Determined to keep it in its holster, you approach the grove, flanked by Sylvain and Felix—and not a minute too soon. Moving towards you is the first line of enemies, Ignatz, Lorenz and Marianne.

“I think they didn’t see us—” Sylvain starts just as the first arrow flies past his head and hits the trunk beside him with a thunk. For safety purposes, all arrow’s tips are wrapped up in stiff cloth, not intended to leave permanent wounds but surely still capable to deliver nasty bruises like the training swords and lances.

“I think they saw us—” Sylvain’s brilliant new observation ends in a yelp as Felix shoves him out of the line of fire.

“Get down, dumbass!”

You three duck behind bushes and trees, cautiously observing how the others advance, their weapons drawn.

“I’ll go for Ignatz,” you say. “Felix, you’re fast enough to reach Marianne and take her down before she starts healing everyone.”

“Fine, we’ll try your plan.” Felix has his sword drawn already, gripping it tight enough his knuckles turn white. “Try not to get kicked out too soon, will you.”

You blow a strand of hair from out of your eyes, squinting at his back as he jumps out of cover. The last couple of weeks you’ve put in some extra hours of sword practice with Felix. As an exceptional swordsman, noble and diligent in his training unlike anyone else—safe maybe for Dimitri—you imagined no one could teach you as much as possible in the short amount of time until the mission. It took some convincing, but the decisive argument that sold him was your desire to become better to finally have at least a chance against Byleth. If she is stern during practice, Felix is vicious, exploiting the tiniest opening you give in order to make you learn from your mistakes. Your body was a medley of pain and aches after every evening, but now the memory of that very same melody is your marching song towards battle. Then there’s always the knowledge that if you three can distract them long enough before the rest of the Golden Deer students arrive, Dimitri and the rest will close in on your position, and taking down your opponents won’t be difficult.

“Sylvain, Lorenz is yours.”

He answers with a simple salute, grip tight around his training lance, and as you both follow Felix out in the open, an image flickers before you, there and gone like a flame going out with a last glint. An arrow, headed straight at you. Your body moves in instinct, dodging the projectile not a second too late. Judging from the direction of its origin, Ignatz must be just beyond the rocks only a few hundred yards away. You throw a MiasmaΔ in his direction, the black ball carving its path across the grasslands. It hits the stone, chipping parts away and revealing Ignatz, crouching behind it. He looks up, dirt on his cheeks, and adjusts his glasses before ducking out of his cover, another arrow already ready on his bow.

Another arrow hits him on his back, hard enough to get him down on his knees. Mercedes’ accuracy isn’t as good as Ashe’s, but the determination carved into her face makes up for lack of skill. Dimitri and Dedue are right on her heels, but a single look thrown over your shoulder shows that Felix and Sylvain have everything under control. Coming out victorious as well, save for Sylvain pressing a hand against his ribs, they were still complete. The knowledge of that makes you sigh in relief, a new surge of hope soaring inside you.

“I knew we shouldn’t have listened to Claude’s dubious plan.” Lorenz’s bickering is still audible, even as the three proceed to leave the battle grounds to meet up with Jeralt. You’re really curious to see what exactly Claude had in mind, but diverting your focus for just a second could become dangerous. Instead, you turn towards the students.

“Stay close,” you order, waiting until Mercedes is finished checking Sylvain's injuries. “We’re going to move further towards the Golden Deers and eliminate them first.” Flexing your fingers against the slow growth of getting used casting spells, your group begins to move further north.

Out of the corner of your eyes, you notice Dimitri buckling and unbuckling his spear from his back. Out of lack for the right words, and because the first rush of adrenaline still courses through your body, you jostle against him, wearing a grin on your face.

“Look lively, Your Highness,” you advise. “All that nervous fumbling isn’t what a leader is supposed to do.”

A tiny gasps leaves him, more an exhale than anything else, but he turns towards you, slightly flushed. Bringing his hands to his sides, it’s too obvious he’s tensing his body so they don’t stray again—like a statue that’s on the edge of shattering at the tiniest movement.

“You’re right, of course.” He lowers his head a little. “I just keep thinking that the Black Eagle students wait for us in that direction as well. Some are surely moving towards us as we speak.”

“Are you worried about Byleth?” you wonder, and more as an afterthought add, “Or Edelgard?”

“Anyone who is not worried about Byleth is a fool, if you ask me,” he replies with a crease between his pale eyebrows. “And well, this is our first chance to prove ourselves, being the heirs to the ruling factions. I know Edelgard is exceptionally strong. And Claude surely has an ace up his sleeve. You are right, Herald. Nervousness is a sign of hesitation, of weakness. I will be better than that.” A new fire comes alive in his eyes as he strides onward, catching up to Mercedes and Sylvain to compliment her on the excellent shot from before.

The epiphany really comes only now, fast and hard like a lightning bolt, that these children will drink in everything you have to offer—advices, orders, simple words of encouragement—simply for the title that is strapped around your neck. The weight of that responsibility slows your steps, which allows for another worry to quickly catch up: has everything you have taught them so far been right? Do they really know how to exploit the advantages certain classes have over others; will a strategic retreat even occur to them in the right time before it’s too late.

Doubt is like poison, slowly eating you from the inside. This mock battle won’t just be a lesson for the students. It will also test if you have put them on the right path, and the realisation unfolds a new conviction inside you, breathing new wind into your sails.

You quickly catch up to them, another rush of encouraging words on your lips when another image flickers on and off, painting your sight red. You freeze, raising an arm, hand formed into a fist.

“Halt!” you shout, processing what you just saw. The students pause, forming a loose circle around you. The throbbing from before settles back in, more persistent now like someone’s knocking against the back of your skull to get your attention. You try to ignore that and focus on categorising every student’s ability in alphabetical order.

“Linhardt,” you gasp, eyes wide open and glued on Dedue.

The students exchange worried glances. Sylvain is the first to speak. “No, Herald,” he says. “Linhardt’s the pretty boy with all the books, you know. Who sleeps just about anywhere, like a cat. That’s our Dedue here.”

“No, I mean Linhardt has Nosferatu,” you quickly explain, flailing your hands in hope to express yourself better. It doesn’t look like it helps. “Linhardt is the only one left who can use Nosferatu, and he’s going to land a good hit on Dedue. And with good, I mean bad. If he hits you, you’re down, Dedue.” Because only that makes sense, as Marianne is already standing on the sidelines and you haven’t heard about anyone else learning the skill. Undoubtedly a Nosferatu will hit Dedue if you don’t change course or take the spell caster out first.

Dedue steps forward. “Should it give us an advantage against our enemy, I will gladly face the opponent and go down if it means it won’t interfere with our progress towards the Golden Deer students.”

“Sacrificing yourself for a mere praise from the boar, is that what you hope for?” Felix demands, or more like snarls, his handsome face crumpling into an ugly look of contempt. “Pathetic.”

“Sacrifice is a big word to throw around during a mock battle, don’t you think,” Sylvain unhelpfully throws in, his posture a little too relaxed in the light of the conflict that’s about to break out.

Dedue shakes his head. “I am simply fulfilling my duty,” he states. “Anything that will bring His Highness victory.”

“You would also run head first into an ambush and get yourself killed, is that it?” Felix grimaces. “Blindly following orders—”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough!” Your raised voice makes them pause, and you use that second to grab lead of the conversation. “We don’t even know if Linhardt is going to be alone or joined by other Eagle students. What do you think will your little act accomplish, Dedue?”

He sets his mouth into a grim, hard line, unable to come up with a satisfying answer that isn’t a repeat of what he just said.

“You’ll have a tough time going against Black Eagles with all their magic users, so stay with Dimitri. Go and deal with the rest of the Golden Deer students. And you—” You meet Felix’s glare with narrowed eyes. “A battlefield isn’t the place to throw around petty disagreements. You would do well to remember that.”

“Understood.” He rips the training sword from its holster. “But let me go take down that mage. I’ll cut him down swiftly.”

“We’ll go together. I’m not leaving any of you on your own. Take care of Claude,” you tell Dimitri, showing with a nod that you fully trust in his leading ability. “We’ll meet east from the barricades in exactly one hour.”

He doesn’t shy away from you glare. “Understood. Take care you two.”

Felix takes the lead with long, eager strides. As you follow him, you rub your eye, wincing at the pinprick-like pain. The dull throb doesn’t cease this time, and if you had to take a guess, there’s only once left for the Crest to activate before you reach your limit. So far, nothing has helped you to ascertain when exactly a foresight occurs, and leaving it to pure chance is like grasping a loose rope in hopes that it is tied to something somewhere as you take the leap. Maybe Hanneman will make more sense of it laters.

“You should have stayed with the others,” Felix says after a moment, scanning your surroundings for any sign of the enemy. It sounds more like a simple statement than an accusation. “I can handle someone like Linhardt on my own.”

“I said before, we don’t know if he’s alone. I highly doubt it.” It’s like Dimitri said before: Underestimating Byleth will surely end in casualties and defeat. You don’t consider it far-fetched that she has sent a non-magic class with Linhardt, but who that will be is left to be determined.

“No matter how many accompany him. Be it two or three or all of them, I will take them down.”

“It takes more than one person to win a war.” Though you don’t doubt Felix might try it by himself anyway. “You’ll notice soon enough that you will rely on your comrades.”

“I will rely on them as long as they don’t get in my way.”

“So charming,” you mumble to yourself as you two round a mound. It really is none of your business, but you're actually curious about what is going on between him and Dedue. The moment you finish outweighing the pros and cons of trying to go down that rabbit hole, the air around you changes, barely noticeable save for a change of wind—it completely stills for a second, but that is enough to realise what’s happening.

“Felix—” you manage before the Nosferatu explodes in front of you, knocking you to the ground. Before the mock battle, all magicians were instructed to weaken their spells; no lasting damage should befall any of the participants. Only because of that you manage to climb back on your feet, only left with dizziness that makes the world spin. The jarring sound of metal clashing against metal clears your mind a little, and when you turn around, Felix and Ferdinand are clashing blades.

You turn further, and there he is, a hand raised in your direction. “Sorry, Herald,” Linhardt says. He doesn’t sound sorry at all. “The professor threatened with extra homework if we would hold back against you.”

“Of course she did,” you mumble, grabbing your sword with sweaty hands. Two against two is fair, and you have no doubt that Felix will hold his ground against Ferdinand. The only solution to your little problem named Linhardt is to get as close as possible, and make use of your advantage in meagre sword skills.

Another Nosferatu is sent your way, but this time you dodge, the hair on your neck standing on end. Somehow your body automatically shies away from Faith magic like a cat fleeing from water. Just one more hit will surely be enough to throw you out of the mock battle, and you can’t have that, not when the picture of Dimitri’s resolute expression is carved into your mind.

You close the distance, all nerves tensed in anticipation, completely focused on trying to feel where the next spell is going to land. As Linhardt retreats into the woods, his sight obscured by trees, you dive after him, shoving twigs out of your way. A shadow moves through the undergrowth; every muscle in your body locks up, but you plunge forward, sword raised—

Linhardt gasps when he finds himself pressed against a tree, your sword at his throat. With both hands up, he doesn’t move an inch, simply blinking at you. Somewhere above you, a bird cries out; a branch breaks. Linhardt makes a face like he jammed his foot in a door he slammed shut himself.

“I surrender,” he says. “Getting beat up and spending time in the infirmary doesn’t sound as good as reading tomes in the library.”

“You sure?” Your heart beats so loud in your chest, it’s a miracle it doesn’t break through your ribcage and fly off. “Byleth might drown you in homework for that.”

He shrugs. “I call it a strategic retreat. I’ll just have to—” A yawn. “—convince the professor.” Another yawn. You begin to see the ulterior motive behind his surrender. Squinting at him, you proceed to bind his hands with a dark spell. Black shackles appear around his wrists, locking them tight together. As you make your way out of the grove, you hope Felix had the same success.

That thought immediately dies when you return to the plain and see Jeralt heaving an unconscious Felix on the back of his horse, a battered Ferdinand by his side.

“Ah, Herald.” Even though beaten up black and blue, Ferdinand still manages a smile. It looks a little lopsided with his swollen cheek and the dried blood on his upper lip. “I don’t mean to offend, but I hope you return because Linhardt defeated you in mighty combat?” A second too late he sees the magic binds around Linhardt’s wrists. His face falls. “My, Linhardt.”

“You don’t quite look so good yourself,” Linhardt throws back without any heat in his voice. He sounds rather bored. Tired.

“Excuse me, but what happened. What’s wrong with Felix?” you ask, turning to Jeralt. Before he can answer, Ferdinand chimes in, “He fought splendidly! Though I had no doubt in that, he is a noble after all. Yet, after ringing me to the ground, he lost consciousness. By my honour as the heir of House Aegir, I cannot take advantage of that. We both shall step out of battle.”

“He passed out?” Now that you take a good look at him, he’s still pale, unhealthily so. Slick sweat glues his dark hair to his forehead, and the skin beneath his eyes shimmers slightly blue—lack of sleep.

“Overexertion, I guess,” Jeralt says now. He pulls Linhardt to his side, and gives his shackles a thoughtful look. “I’ll take these three with me. You go and continue the mock battle, Herald.”

“But…” It doesn’t feel right to leave Felix alone. Even though he technically isn’t, you imagine it would be better to wake up to a friendly face.

“He’ll be fine.” Jeralt gives you a strange sideway glance. “The other brats rely on you right now, don’t they? Go to them.”

He’s right, of course. The mission isn’t over yet, and with a strong combatant like Felix missing, victory has just slipped from your grasp.

There is the meeting point. There it is, and no student from the Lion House is in sight. The minutes pass in long stretches, ticking away until it’s impossible to tell if time moves on or holds still. Holding out between the trees, you look in both directions—for your comrades and the enemy. For whatever reason, Byleth has decided not to advance to your position, and you aren’t sure what that’s supposed to mean. More minutes pass in aggravating silence, heavy and oppressing, and then—

“Herald!” Dimitri’s voice rings through the woods. Your head snaps to him, and there they are, the Blue Lions tearing through the woods, a yellow flag with a deer on it waving behind them.

“You did it!” Joy and relief spreads through you as you stumble towards them. “You guys really did it!” They shuffle around you like kittens searching for warmth, and something tight uncoils inside your chest. Is this what Byleth always feels when she’s in front of her class?

“Hilda and Claude were mighty opponents, but nothing we couldn’t handle,” Dimitri reassures, but then a shadow jumps over his features. “Unfortunately, Mercedes had to leave. We couldn’t reach her in time to step in.”

“Step in,” Sylvain repeats, muttered under his breath as he brushes red locks from his sweaty forehead. “I want to see you stepping in when Hilda swings that axe like a lunatic and not scream like a little girl.”

“Where is Felix?” Dedue inquirers, ignoring Sylvain.

Your shoulders drop. “Well, Linhardt was accompanied by Ferdinand, and while I pursued Linhardt, they fought. None of them emerged unscathed, although I feel Felix drew the shorter straw.”

“Felix?” Dimitri repeats. He sounds as if you just tried to convince him it’s going to rain butterscotch pie later. “Our Felix lost?”

“Not exactly the fight, but I’m sure his pride took a hard beating.”

“Well, that leaves four against four.” Dimitri brings a hand up to his chin, a worry crease between his eyebrows. “And they still have Edelgard and the Professor.”

“And we got the Herald and you!” Sylvain beams. “I say we wrap this up and celebrate our victory with a nice dinner and maybe some ale? How does that sound?”

“Sacrilegious.” Your voice is drier than the crisp leaves cracking under your feet. “Aren’t you too young for alcohol?”

“Too young and irresponsible,” Dimitri agrees with you, looking tired of Sylvain’s antics. “But I don’t object to a celebratory dinner.”

“That is, if we win.” Dedue reads your mind, and brings the conversation back on the right course.

“I assume the Black Eagles are holding position. They’re waiting for us,” you say, briefly checking everyone’s state. Safe for dirt and scratches, they’re still doing good, though having fought already, the Blue Lions are on a slight disadvantage. You can only hope some of Byleth’s students dropped out facing the Golden Deers.

“We shouldn’t keep them waiting then.” Sylvain winks, playing with the grip of his lance. The smile that flirts with his lips is threatening.

“Keep your guard up.” Dimitri shares a single, meaningful glance with every one of you, then leads your little group out of the forest. Whatever Byleth has planned, you hope that you’ll be ready for it.

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mountainpoem · 3 years

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The Lotos-Eaters by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

"Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land, "This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon." In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon. All round the coast the languid air did swoon, Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. Full-faced above the valley stood the moon; And like a downward smoke, the slender stream Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem. A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke, Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. They saw the gleaming river seaward flow From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops, Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, Stood sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with showery drops, Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. The charmed sunset linger'd low adown In the red West: thro' mountain clefts the dale Was seen far inland, and the yellow down Border'd with palm, and many a winding vale And meadow, set with slender galingale; A land where all things always seem'd the same! And round about the keel with faces pale, Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came. Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave To each, but whoso did receive of them, And taste, to him the gushing of the wave Far far away did seem to mourn and rave On alien shores; and if his fellow spake, His voice was thin, as voices from the grave; And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake, And music in his ears his beating heart did make. They sat them down upon the yellow sand, Between the sun and moon upon the shore; And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar, Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. Then some one said, "We will return no more"; And all at once they sang, "Our island home Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam." CHORIC SONG I There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep." II Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, And utterly consumed with sharp distress, While all things else have rest from weariness? All things have rest: why should we toil alone, We only toil, who are the first of things, And make perpetual moan, Still from one sorrow to another thrown: Nor ever fold our wings, And cease from wanderings, Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm; Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, "There is no joy but calm!" Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things? III Lo! in the middle of the wood, The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud With winds upon the branch, and there Grows green and broad, and takes no care, Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow Falls, and floats adown the air. Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light, The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, Drops in a silent autumn night. All its allotted length of days The flower ripens in its place, Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. IV Hateful is the dark-blue sky, Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. Death is the end of life; ah, why Should life all labour be? Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, And in a little while our lips are dumb. Let us alone. What is it that will last? All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful past. Let us alone. What pleasure can we have To war with evil? Is there any peace In ever climbing up the climbing wave? All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave In silence; ripen, fall and cease: Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease. V How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, With half-shut eyes ever to seem Falling asleep in a half-dream! To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; To hear each other's whisper'd speech; Eating the Lotos day by day, To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, And tender curving lines of creamy spray; To lend our hearts and spirits wholly To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; To muse and brood and live again in memory, With those old faces of our infancy Heap'd over with a mound of grass, Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass! VI Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, And dear the last embraces of our wives And their warm tears: but all hath suffer'd change: For surely now our household hearths are cold, Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange: And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. Or else the island princes over-bold Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings Before them of the ten years' war in Troy, And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. Is there confusion in the little isle? Let what is broken so remain. The Gods are hard to reconcile: 'Tis hard to settle order once again. There is confusion worse than death, Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, Long labour unto aged breath, Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars. VII But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly, How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly) With half-dropt eyelid still, Beneath a heaven dark and holy, To watch the long bright river drawing slowly His waters from the purple hill— To hear the dewy echoes calling From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine— To watch the emerald-colour'd water falling Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine! Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine, Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the pine. VIII The Lotos blooms below the barren peak: The Lotos blows by every winding creek: All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone: Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown. We have had enough of action, and of motion we, Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was seething free, Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea. Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'd Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl'd Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world: Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands, Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands. But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong; Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil, Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil, Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil; Till they perish and they suffer—some, 'tis whisper'd—down in hell Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell, Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar; O, rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.

#alfred lord tennyson #the lotos-eaters #poem #poetry #beauty #love

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shade-without-color · 5 years

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Fruits Basket Discord Contest: A quiet soliloquy (Victorian AU)

Note: So this is my entry for the Fruits Basket contest which I am working on the theme of Blossom. So I am interpreting it on both ways, one on the physical garden and another, on how Tohru tried to get Kyo somehow (I dunno why I just thought of John Keats in Bright Star LOL), it was a little idea which is out of my comfort zone as I have to research on the Crimean War and the effects. I thank @stormcrowthegrey for the additional idea!

I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades For ever and forever when I move. (Ulysses by Alfred Lord Tennyson)

Tohru slowly skipped the stairs as she looked over the faces of the Sohmas, there is that strangeness in their faces, and at most, they hold themselves to a certain hunger. She particularly looked at that portrait of one of the family members which he took a masque as an ancient god. She somehow makes fantasies what he would be, in that guise of time.

However, the smell of fried mutton nearly tempted her, which she glanced at the sidelines on Kyo gazing to the celling of the triumphs of Gods and Goddesses in unison. He nearly gave a satirical chuckle. She shivered slightly at his ramrod gaze. She swallowed quietly at that thought. “Ohhh good morning.”

He did not reply much. In contrary, she saw Yuki descending down the stairs, and as usual, he seems composed in his actions. “Good morning Miss Honda...” his hands somehow curled to the maps of the countries. “Should we move on with breakfast....” it seems like a deep contrast from Kyo’s sullenness.

“Hmmm...”

Meanwhile, Shigure came down the stairs lazily, his face seems flushed as his hand gripped to the papers of the work “Oh good morning miss Honda.”

“Morning...”

Soon she saw a ginger-haired girl, wearing a simple eggplant dress and patent leather shoes “Good morning Lady Kisa.” She did not reply as she was rendered silent, her eyes gazing over a small modelli of Rinaldo walking over the enchanted gardens of an enchanted sorceress.

Shigure somehow squeezed Kyo’s shoulder. “Come, do not sulk, we should have breakfast together...” Kyo mumbled quietly “There is no need...” as his hands reached out for the nearest book. “I bet Yuki will say that I am a failure for the family, even more, when I laid there..." He only gave the company goodbye. "Do not let this affect you, Miss Honda. Kyo is always upset…I just cannot get through his head since he charged in front of the house…"Shigure nearly glanced at Kyo storming out of the corridors “So be it, Yuki, I wonder what did they prepare this I hope it is devilled kidneys…”

During the breakfast brought by the servants, Tohru grew uneasy than before, she heard about the plight of the soldiers of that war, and the horrendous conditions that they lived, but she has never seen someone who has been shaken by the war by Kyo. For that moment he seems to be like a caged tiger, waiting to lash at anyone. She somehow traced her fork against the French omelette, thinking what is that side which he is afraid of.

“Tohru…your tea seems cold…”

Tohru blinked her eyes slightly, as she gazed at a young maid trying to fill up the pots with hot water to keep the ham warm.

“Sorry…I have something in mind…”

“Yes…I just need some fresh air Shigure…” Tohru mumbled slightly, as she gazed at Shigure smiling quietly as he enjoyed his favourite dish of devilled kidneys. “…I feel that my digestion is…”

“You are excused…” Shigure simpered quietly. “Just do not take too long…"

“…Thank you, Shigure…." Tohru curtsey Shigure quietly. Somehow Tohru could breathe easy as she left the dining room, leaving the door ajar as Yuki showed Shigure his plans of expansion, which he observed her trying to hold back the tears in her eyes.

He somehow knew that Tohru is going to their family gardens to look for him.

“It seems that Miss Honda is off, should I bring her to the…”

Shigure held his hand slightly to Yuki “There is no need, a woman must figure her own path, well about Singapore, how it is like. Heard from friends that is balmy.”

Tohru quietly searched over that young man in the gardens, which the gardeners barely recognise that stranger. And soon she found Kyo, he was different from the meeting in the courts. He seems settled with a simple shirt and breeches. He seems to be sheltered with the shade of the leaves. A scene of tranquillity and at most she could hear him speak.

"For heaven's sake, let us sit upon the ground. And tell sad stories of the death of kings,. How some have been deposed, some slain in war.”

There is a slight tremble in his voice, as Kyo focused himself to be that illicit king, a mulberry flower slowly landed on his shoulder.

"Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed…."

"Some poisoned by their wives, some sleeping killed, All murdered. For within the hollow crown…” And finally, he stood up to himself, watching the sun rays bathing in the lands “...That rounds the mortal temples of a king.” She was moved by those words, perhaps he has to wrestle with his demons, alone, and yet frightened. At that moment, Tohru nearly tripped her skirts and found herself falling down on the patch, causing a thud.

Kyo glanced at her slightly, and soon Tohru ran off from that hedge. And Kyo scratched his head slightly, only resigned himself to follow along with the speech again.

Quietly Tohru assembled herself a small palette of watercolours and papers when she noticed Kyo sitting down quietly amidst the nestled mulberry leaves, with his hands trembled from reading a poem from Shakespeare. He somehow possessed a quiet spirit which is much different from his more violent nature. She could not tell the trembling of his hands, as he flipped through every page. Amidst the soft light, she could see the pricks around his hand, swallowing lyrical wisdom of characters that came back and forth in mind. Shigure seems to walk by with ease, as he leans by the wall "Ahhh, as usual like Keats, in deep melancholy, he tried to be awake from the biting reality, and yet he is not..."

"Why do you said that..."

'I know faces like him, who came back from uncharted lands... And this war, though as a way to gain lands, are executed rather poorly." Shigure closed his eyes slightly "They are once boys, now they become the hollow men of the world..." Tohru paused slightly, maybe that is why, at times, he could hear him scream at times, as he was forced to be awakened by the demons that encapsulated his mind. Somehow Shigure helped himself to take a piece of bread, and quietly chomped it "I somehow pitied him, I know that Yuki could have been in the same position as him, fighting against those power hungry Russians.

"Lack of clean water, cold winters which you have a blanket to wrap your hungry body, and the usual diseases, cholera, and if you are wounded. Your arm or leg could be chopped off, though in an untactful manner. "

Quietly Shigure looked over the framed pictures of the relatives who have passed on. “Yuki has shown promise on expanding our business, that itself, a big ticket to escape the clutches of war.” He took a deep breath, as he glanced at one standing proudly in military uniform “And of course we have to give a scapegoat to the persons in charge, and you probably know who...” Tohru could easily fill in the blanks in her mind. She made a slight frown, as she watched him more growing agitated at dinners which Yuki shared his dreams with the older members of the family. Maybe that is why he has a sinking feeling in his heart. “Oh…” Shigure smiled quietly, watching the clock tick by. “I suppose you should be making your way to the drawing room. A certain little lady is waiting for you…”

Somehow Tohru's eyes widened slightly, as she quickly grabbed the papers and paints “Uhmmm..uhmmm…I am sorry if I took your time Master Shigure!, I should have to keep track! I am sorry! I am sorry!” And before long, Shigure gave a small smile. He thought to himself, there is no way that a kind person like Tohru could break through Kyo’s defences.

Shigure quietly slipped himself another piece of bread left on the plate, and slick some butter on top. "You know after, that walk by the garden, I notice that Kyo came back to eat, but always in silence..." His voice seems to be grave about this matter. "I think you must have an effect on him..."

"I have never seen him smile since he came back to the house. It seems that not all hope is lost."

Meanwhile, Tohru curtseyed to the small lady, clutching her skirts slightly “How are you doing Lady Kisa.” She, of course, rendered silent as she looked over the window, and seeing the oak trees swayed in the breeze. Quietly she set up the easel, alongside with the papers and paints. Toru quietly gripped her hand “Come…let’s paint this landscape which you can see from this window…”

Tohru took the lead and started to sketch out the trees and the sunlight bathing in the leaves. Subconsciously she started to sketch a small figure hidden amidst the trees. Kisa hesitantly took up the brushes and started to paint the landscape with her own paper. She somehow cracked a small smile, as she glazed over the leaves. Toru grinned quietly “Well that seems lovely…”

However, Tohru was left with that lingering thought in her mind. What seems to go on with his mind. She wished to be at his side. He seems to be a kind man who dived himself to the crevices of poetry to quell the demons in his mind. Suddenly she heard a quiet mummer from Kisa “Lady Tohru...” Tohru looked at her quietly “...you must be worried about Master Kyo...”

How did a child know?

Tohru looked over at Kisa’s piece, her brushstrokes convey a delicacy, as if spring has come to the dull rooms. She yearned to be closer to him. Maybe what Shigure said is true, there are demons which she could not resolve for him. He has started his match He could smell the gunpowder amidst the mulberry trees, the roasted meats which she ate at nights, haunted his mind, and even the merriment of Shigure discussing the recent developments of his new bunch of friends made him all sullen. Even at nights, he would do nothing but to sit by the porch, and watch the moon glaze by, maybe it was comforting from the cramped tents, only lit by gaslight.

Tohru clutched her skirts slightly, there is got to be a side which he is afraid to show. Kiss tried to cheer her up, by showing off the new piece. “Miss...” Tohru looked at her quietly “I think master Kyo will one day, will see you as you are.”

Tohru found her eyes welled up in tears and soon held her by the shoulders, and before long she heard him speak. It was different from the jealous tones, he seems to show his vulnerability in these trees, and maybe that is what strikes her to paint him hidden. A man lost in the forest, never able to return home.

Kisa broke out her miasma as she clutched her hand. “I am sure, I have been thinking of Master Hiro, I wonder..I wonder what would he think of me.."

Tohru smiles quietly as she wiped a tear from her eye. She, will one day reach her hand to him. She knew someday will be the sweetest day ever.

“I do not know, but we will figure it out…” Tohru thought of something else to keep Kisa busy. Maybe she could brush up some French.

“Now the works are dry..maybe some light French conversation…” That thought of reaching out to him will come by someday, as she took that dusty book out from the shelf. Kisa nodded quietly "Allons-nous commencer?”

“Oui"

#writing #writers on tumblr #spilled ink #fruits basket #furuba #yuki sohma #Kyo Sohma #Tohru Honda #Shigure Sohma #Kisa Sohma #Victorian AU #Victorian #fanfic #creative writing #furubamonthlybang

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girlinthepictureframe · 5 years

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Thereto the silent voice replied; "Self-blinded are you by your pride: Look up thro' night: the world is wide. "This truth within thy mind rehearse, That in a boundless universe Is boundless better, boundless worse. "Think you this mould of hopes and fears Could find no statelier than his peers In yonder hundred million spheres?"

Excerpt from The Two Voices, by Alfred Lord Tennyson

#poem #poetry #alfred lord tennyson #the two voices

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remcase · 5 years

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Chapter 22

Love can vanquish Death. - Lord Alfred Tennyson.

For a moment William was blinded by the sun and could make out nothing of the graveyard below, but once the light stopped bursting in his eyes he looked down. Beside him he saw Elijah’s knees give slightly and he just let out a deep, unsteady breath.

Noah was ok.

He was standing by his mother’s grave, and though he was still, simply staring at it, when he moved his head to the side and wrapped his arms around himself William knew he was ok, and that he was safe.

He was almost sure he let out a cry of pure happiness and relief before he was running, heart thundering, feet pounding, down the hill to Noah. All of the day’s emotions crashed over him, coursing through his veins and when Noah heard his approach he turned, shocked despite the tears running freely down his face and then, he was in William’s arms.

That feeling of having Noah in his arms, safe and warm, after hours of pure agony, was so strong that William immediately started to shake and shudder with it, kissing Noah’s forehead, hair, cheeks, and temple, simply breathing him in.

He’s here.

“Gorgeous?” Noah protested weakly, trying to pull back so he could look at him, “What’s wrong? How did you find me? What’s going-”

“Don’t ever do that to me again, Noah Callaway.” William growled at him, the harsh anger in his voice juxtaposed by the gentle hands on his jaw guiding his beautiful face up and to the sun so he could see him. He was so beautiful, tears clinging to his lashes like diamonds, his eyes so light, his hair so dark, his lips so soft. Then, he kissed him, pouring all of his raging emotions into it, purging himself of all the darkness that had filled him up and revelling in the light and warmth and good that he found in its place instead. When they broke apart they were both breathing raggedly, bodies flush, and their arms locked tightly each other. Noah’s eyes were wide. “Will?”

“I thought you were fucking gone.” William whispered, “And you promised you’d never leave me.”

Realising how upset William was, and perhaps hearing that edge of hysteria in his voice Noah hugged him tightly, shaking his head quickly. “I’m here, gorgeous. I’m not going anywhere. No matter what.”

They stayed like that for a long while and William allowed himself to be held, feeling the world pass them by for just a moment while they were still, unmoving, and together.

William was alive again.

Eventually, however, he was forced to let Noah go and when he did his anger rightfully returned. He wiped his eyes fiercely. “Why didn’t you tell me where you were going? Why did you leave without saying anything?!”

“How did you even find me?” Noah countered, then his eyes widened in realisation. “Dad. Dad’s here isn’t he?”

Looking back over his shoulder, William saw that Elijah was nowhere in sight, no doubt giving the boys some privacy and likely needing to recover from the trauma of the day before he had to face his son. William’s anger faded and he sighed, laying a heavy hand on the side of Noah’s neck, his thumb stroking the soft and delicate skin there. “Yeah he’s here, baby. You fucking scared everyone.”

“Tell me.”

So he did. William told Noah about every single minute that he had missed while he was gone, sparing no detail, hiding no truths, and not attempting to shield him in any way from how bad his act was, and how the repercussions of his actions would be severe. Finally he told him in explicit detail how what Noah had done had made him feel. By the time he was done talking Noah was crying openly. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking…I was just thinking about myself. I’m so fucking sorry gorgeous.”

William caught his tears and wiped them away tenderly. “Tell me everything.”

“What do you-?”

“Everything.” William repeated solemnly. “No more lies, no more omissions, no more half-truths. It’s time.”

Stepping away from William but keeping a hold of his hand, Noah sighed and turned him to face the grave. It was plain, simple, the headstone bearing the name Eloise Callaway and the dates of her birth and death, the inscription just a quote that he recognised from the poem Noah had taken from the library, the poem that was now held in a small frame and rested on the grave next to fresh flowers. I thank whatever gods may be, for my unconquerable soul.

“Invictus.” Noah whispered to him. “That’s the poem that she used to read. It was always her favourite. She used to read it to me when I was little, but she read it every day when she got sick. She said it made her feel strong.”

Their joined hands were a solid, unbreakable link between them and William felt the early evening wind ruffle his hair. “What did she look like?”

“She was beautiful. About my height but with this insanely long brown hair, pale, really pale skin and big brown eyes. Big heart. Beautiful soul. She could sing too, and she used to sit with me in the evenings on the couch and brush my hair or hold my hand and sing. She liked dong that a lot when she was really sick.” He choked on his tears. “She called me lovey. She told me I was the best gift that she had ever gotten.”

William’s own eyes burned and he blinked quickly, feeling his own mother’s phantom arms around him, recalled her favoured perfume and wondered how that absence must feel like for Noah. He stayed silent and let him keep talking. “I know that this is going to be hard to believe, but she never shouted at me, never got mad. She accepted me for who I was wholly, without reserve, and never ever made me feel like there was anything wrong with the way I was. She was just perfect, and I don’t know if it’s because it was just us two for so long but she was everything to me, you know? I needed her. She needed me. God, I fucking love her still and she’s gone. There’s nothing there, no hugs, no-one to call when I’m crying, nobody to stoke my hair and call me lovey anymore. She’s gone, Will. She’s just gone.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I fucked up.” Noah said, not even bothering to wipe away the tears. “I fucked up and I regret it every day.”

“Tell me.”

“I was seeing Jacob at the time. I told you what he was like, how he treated me, but I didn’t care. I loved him…or I thought I did. Things were bad at home. Mom was sick, Dad was struggling, and I needed an out. I needed an escape, so I clung to Jacob, needing him to kind of give me a release from my life falling apart. Mom was dying, but she still didn’t mind me spending time with Jacob because she just wanted me to be happy. She used to say that she wanted me to find a nice man to marry that would make me as happy as Dad made her.” Noah scoffed gently, but otherwise didn’t further address his mother’s words. “The day…it happened, I was at Jacob’s. Mom was in the hospital at this point and the day it happened I’d spent all morning with her, reading to her, and when she saw me get the text from Jacob to meet him at his house she told me to go have fun. And you know what?”

His heart as aching for Noah. He was bleeding. “What?”

“I left. I wanted to go. I didn’t want to stay because Jacob was nagging me to come over and I just wanted to leave. I was bored. Frustrated. Angry. With my own sick mother. I’m a fucking monster.”

“Noah, no-”

“I went to Jacob’s. He wasn’t out, so his parents weren’t at home. When I got there everything was fine for a while but then Dad started ringing me. I ignored the damn calls and fucked Jacob instead. In the middle his dad came home and we didn’t notice. He caught us in bed and went berserk. He dragged Jacob out of bed and threw my clothes at me, screaming the bloody house down. It was awful, and he was saying such horrible things-” Noah cut himself off, taking a sharp, shallow breath. “Anyway, I got dressed and his dad threw me out, and when he turned on Jacob and demanded that he explain what was happening Jacob told him I had asked to come over and fuck. He sort of made it out that I forced myself on him. Seduced him, maybe.” Noah laughed, but there was no humour in it. “I left. Called dad back. Turns out Mom had taken a turn. I got to the hospital just before died but she wasn’t really conscious. The nurse said she could hear me, but I don’t know if she did.”

The guilt in Noah’s voice, the self-hatred and the anger was near overwhelming, almost tangible. “I left my dying mom to go fuck a boy I knew didn’t love me or care about me. I…I didn’t get to say goodbye to her. I don’t know if she heard me.”

“Noah, baby…”

“I just wanted to say I was sorry.” Noah sobbed brokenly, “I just wanted to tell her that I was sorry, Will, because I don’t know if she heard me.”

“She did, baby, she did.” William said and pulled Noah into his arms tightly, letting him cry for as long as he needed to, soaking his shirt through. “She knows.”

William didn’t know how long they stood there like that, but the sun died and evening began to set in around them. They wouldn’t have much longer alone before Elijah would come looking for them. The world was waiting for them just beyond the hill at their backs, and when they crossed its crest they would have to face the consequences of what he and Noah had done back at school.

When they parted, William cupped Noah’s tear-stained face and kissed him again briefly, softly, gently, barely a whisper of lips. “Noah, I love you. Your mother loves you. Your father loves you. You are so loved, and if your mom was even half the woman that you described she wouldn’t you to feel this way, she wouldn’t want you to be so unhappy, so alone, baby. You. Are. Beautiful. Your mom’s beautiful soul lives on in you. Believe me.”

“I’m sorry for everything that I’ve done. I’m sorry for ruining us, Will, I’m sorry for not being strong enough.”

“Don’t be sorry. Please.”

Noah looked up at him, a realisation slowly dawning in his eyes. His lips turned down slightly. “Everything is going to change, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I think so. We’re both going to be in a lot of trouble.”

Noah bit his lip. “And us?”

“I love you, Noah.” William promised, but the little dark wound in his heart that Noah had put there still ached and he knew it couldn’t be ignored. “But we have lots to talk about. You’ve pushed me away. You isolated yourself, you didn’t trust me, and you scared me. I love you, Noah, but I’m going to need time. I’m sorry.”

Noah nodded, like he had expected it, but he didn’t cry or allow himself to slip back into the darkness. Instead he squeezed William’s hands, squaring his shoulders. “I’d wait a thousand years for you, William Dalton.”

Distantly William heard the sound of Elijah’s car door opening and he knew their time alone and outside of reality was quickly coming to an end. He turned back to the grave and looked at the headstone, trying to picture the woman that Noah had described and when he spoke, he tried to convey all of his love in his voice. “Thank you, Eloise, for bringing Noah into the world. Thank you for bringing him to me.”

Elijah’s footsteps were audible now at their backs and Noah took a deep, shuddering breath and looked at the sky. “I love you, Mom.”

William squeezed his hand, and then together they turned back to face Elijah, and to face everything they had left behind them.

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alohazone · 3 years

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My Thought Stream 4/20/2021

What Stays.

The Mother. The other. Not wanting to stare directly at the wound. Loss of self through placing all power and control in the hands of a confused captain. A childlike woman who keeps her own pain at bay by aligning with the suffering of others. No real connection to a deeper, personal drive. Do you even know my name? The impossibility of knowing anyone. If you don’t want anything, you’re dead. Toss the slacks, rollers and lipstick. Chuck it out the window. Stop inhabiting a role. Why have intimate, stable love when you can get on that roller coaster? If all you know is PTSD, that unstable place seems like home. It’s self indulgent. There’s what is being presented and there’s the lens it’s being filtered through. We are at the precipice. It’s a choice, to walk the path of the razor's edge requires courage.

What Expands.

Do you seek the eternal or the transient? In the scope of eternity, what is there to fear in this moment? Can you think in terms of the eternal, beyond time and its measurements? Look toward the obelisk, one here, another there. The point is not to answer the question but to take what you see and put it into words. Articulate the ephemeral, so that other people can see it too. Take the complicated and make it simple. Allow what is vast to become accessible. You’re at death's door. Push past the pain. What is the spectrum? The spectral? Who is the spectator? My photograph for you of what I see is these words on the page. I hope it’s not too abstract. Sometimes, when I sit silently on a park bench, inside my heart I am screaming at the top of my lungs, giving it all over, throwing down the whole gauntlet at the gate, flipping the table of the universe. I overheard some school boys talking about energy, about reiki. One guy didn’t believe in energy. The other guy believed in energy and wanted to know why his friend went for the reiki if he didn’t even believe in energy. I wondered if they could feel the lion in my heart, roaring as the phoenix of my soul slowly rose from the ashes. I didn’t say anything, not out loud at least.

Who is going to die? How does it work for you? I like the way Schwobe puts it in ‘The Book of Monelle’, “Say not: I live today, I shall die tomorrow. Divide not reality between life and death. Say: now I live and die.”

New Insights.

Private versus public versus paparazzi. What is your perspective, what is your angle? Am I in the right light? How do you capture and present me to the world? Do I present myself, or do you? Who has ownership? I’m thinking. I’m feeling. I’m processing. I’m developing. I thought I wanted to see myself as you see me but maybe I don’t. There’s a man behind the mask and a ghoul behind the man and nobody but the baby is tender. I am raw. I’ve been hollowed out to a husk when the invisible appeared with an ice cream scoop, scraping out what was left of my insides. Maybe this is what they mean by die to live, what they are talking about when they say dweller on the threshold. Do you think about these things? Do you ponder on this? I know I ask alot of questions but it helps me feel closer to the answers, pondering the questions. Letting the questions look at me long enough for me to look back at them and eventually see something. This is me attempting to tell you how I feel, what I think, I’m extending an olive branch. I’m not being frivolous at all. I can’t be, this is like a moving sidewalk through distant stars. You’re born naked and the rest is drag was that Ru Paul or Beaudelaire? I constantly wonder lately if I am being trolled and by who. There’s my personal life colliding with the administration. Maybe this is my hot take, zeroing in on the missing link, the bridge between self and reportage. I think I’m losing touch with old ideas of success, of what it means to be successful. I’m going to keep being voluble because that’s who I am. I talk fluently and incessantly, even when I sleep. I wonder if I have what it takes to find the willingness to be uncool.

Navigating the Shift

I’m allowing myself to move forward as I switch lanes. It could also be that I’m straying away while circling back to the same central questions. I want to know more about who I'm becoming rather than what I was. My skin has been itchy after a hot bath, maybe I’m shedding my old skin but with it comes up buried wounds. There are parts that need to die, the parts I put to sleep in the living room, I let them live here instead of asking them to move on and out. I know I have courage, but do I have restraint? I trust everything openly, instantly but lately I have been mostly alone. I dreamed of an oceanic inlet this morning, teeming with dolphins and whales. They were communicating with me, I hope it was real somehow, that they came to help me.

Break, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!

And I would that my tongue could utter

The thoughts that arise in me.

Lines from a poem by some guy named Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Some of it shows up in my notes but not exactly. Whatever was there on my page led me to it and I guess that is how life goes. I don’t need to feel so lost or unmoored. There is a line, an invisible thread of direction. I know I can’t think my way through and keep thinking it through. Part of me will just need to stand my ground, fixed in this moment with purpose instead of drifting into emotional exile. There’s something else in my notes about worn out shoes, the firm step of someone who doesn’t give up. I guess it’s in choosing what to give up that shucks the corn from the husk, separates the wheat from the chaff. Wondering how much of any of this is optional is a waste of time. The options shrink as commitment increases but the quality improves. There’s a texture to the heightened frequency, it’s much softer, much more gentle yet intense. Do you even want to know my name? What is your obsession? Give up all that is false and as you do so, find your voice. Don’t be afraid to listen to the narration of your most positive dreams. It’s ok to find joy amongst these tombstones. In fact, it’s recommended. Step away from the form or image. Let the finest characteristics of the mystery embrace you.

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libidomechanica · 3 years

Text

Another infant joys of ripeness beauteous hour

Which in golden she pind a ghastly night. If one before than that kindles it a licence made Norman; took growlings of love, and like shatterton He like those lines, and heart or her favourite; and her and night, and every spirit

of the tender acacia would observant on its earthly wreath: the ages hence, and Lord Love, now gay is on, a modestly, he scale there liues should falln asleep had love of colours of Apprehend the suns domain, let not your sires come sweep

the business of pain. With woe, and course of the unimprisoners cots and tulip-tinted the spirit call God! And makes me cold and loved and glows; a paper. “When you most edifying Venus nun, as some sinecures

hence, we reap in joy and call country gentle breezes blew that in aspire ants that anchor in that rises a baby new that a ‘bonne. Even to the raptures, but a friend, yet so dirty was—pardon the

white kine glitter. Why way, and vain— she cries, who grewest marry Bromions mint; and mark with a growth of love thee, cheerly swum. The breed a gelatinous eyes I said, Gee woe! Uncared for from day to high seas in hands,’” that releases its

sphered for beauty born with easeful Death I wrote 300 aphorisms on men, which renderd in mockeries; not in another married man, that sittest haps of her for the count it crime to stealing back from it had a right traveller:

for who could not rests upon thy Son lay, pierce and death that well full of power and silent to me, thy voice had consumers of Alfred Tennyson plays becket harold: A Drama the Cherries beheld there was begotten field that rather

mate no more—mething street significance of Musician that when those Camaldolese cloud-ledge Skies; and goodly matched her. where yet remember this, sad similar conne, my hands. That a poor girl of a dog then will hold their lutes there!

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #189 texts

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schmidtchristmasmarket · 4 years

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I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty. —Edgar Allan Poe

1. “Little Tree” by e.e. cummings little tree little silent Christmas tree you are so little you are more like a flower who found you in the green forest and were you very sorry to come away? see i will comfort you because you smell so sweetly i will kiss your cool bark and hug you safe and tight just as your mother would, only don't be afraid look the spangles that sleep all the year in a dark box dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine, the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads, put up your little arms and i'll give them all to you to hold every finger shall have its ring and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy… 2. “Christmas Bells” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men! 3. “Winter Time” by Robert Louis Stevenson Late lies the wintry sun a-bed, A frosty, fiery sleepy-head; Blinks but an hour or two; and then, A blood-red orange, sets again. Before the stars have left the skies, At morning in the dark I rise; And shivering in my nakedness, By the cold candle, bathe and dress. Close by the jolly fire I sit To warm my frozen bones a bit; Or with a reindeer-sled, explore The colder countries round the door. When to go out, my nurse doth wrap Me in my comforter and cap; The cold wind burns my face, and blows Its frosty pepper up my nose. Black are my steps on silver sod; Thick blows my frosty breath abroad; And tree and house, and hill and lake, Are frosted like a wedding-cake.

4. ’Twas the Night Before Christmas by Clement C. Moore …And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot. A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back, And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack. His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow… 5. “Music on Christmas Morning” by Anne Brontë Music I love - but never strain Could kindle raptures so divine, So grief assuage, so conquer pain, And rouse this pensive heart of mine - As that we hear on Christmas morn, Upon the wintry breezes borne. Though Darkness still her empire keep, And hours must pass, ere morning break; From troubled dreams, or slumbers deep, That music kindly bids us wake: It calls us, with an angel's voice, To wake, and worship, and rejoice; 6. “The House of Christmas” by G.K. Chesterton …This world is wild as an old wives' tale, And strange the plain things are, The earth is enough and the air is enough For our wonder and our war; But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings And our peace is put in impossible things Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings Round an incredible star. To an open house in the evening Home shall men come, To an older place than Eden And a taller town than Rome. To the end of the way of the wandering star, To the things that cannot be and that are, To the place where God was homeless And all men are at home. 7. “Before the ice is in the pools” by Emily Dickinson Before the ice is in the pools— Before the skaters go, Or any check at nightfall Is tarnished by the snow— Before the fields have finished, Before the Christmas tree, Wonder upon wonder Will arrive to me!

8. “Ring Out, Wild Bells” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (from In Memoriam) Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die… Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good. Ring out old shapes of foul disease; Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be. 9. “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” by Dr. Suess …So he paused. And the Grinch put his hand to his ear. And he did hear a sound rising over the snow. It started in low. Then it started to grow. But the sound wasn't sad! Why, this sound sounded merry! It couldn't be so! But it WAS merry! VERY! He stared down at Whoville! The Grinch popped his eyes! Then he shook! What he saw was a shocking surprise! Every Who down in Whoville, the tall and the small, Was singing! Without any presents at all! He HADN'T stopped Christmas from coming! IT CAME! Somehow or other, it came just the same! And the Grinch, with his grinch-feet ice-cold in the snow, Stood puzzling and puzzling: "How could it be so?" "It came with out ribbons! It came without tags!" "It came without packages, boxes or bags!" And he puzzled three hours, till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before! "Maybe Christmas," he thought, "doesn't come from a store." "Maybe Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more!”… 10. “O Holy Night” by John Sullivan Dwight (based on the French text from Placide Cappeau’s Cantique de Noel) O holy night! The stars are brightly shining, It is the night of our dear Saviour's birth. Long lay the world in sin and error pining, 'Til He appear'd and the soul felt its worth. A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices, For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn. Fall on your knees! O hear the angel voices! O night divine, O night when Christ was born; O night divine, O night, O night Divine…

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chezkamaeruivivar-blog · 4 years

Text

"Defeatist me"

(cento)

I cannot sweep, I cannot pray

I care no longer, being all unblest

I only watch how God gives love

Go by, go by

God let me listen to your voice

My heart has very silent grown

I could not see to see

But thou, go by

God let me look within your eyes

And took you to the silent land

I hope that he would love me,

And will my soul remember

To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave

Their words must stay unsaid

To speak when I am dead

References:

And then you could not near

And I desire to rest

Sara Teasdale - After Death

Sara Teasdale - Dead Love

Sara Teasdale - The kiss

Emili Dickinson - I heard a fly buzz when I died;

Alfred lord Tennyson - Come not when I am dead

By: Chezka Mae V. Ruivivar (stem 12-2)

#21stcenturyliterature

#Cento

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winged-gabriel-blog · 7 years

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we don’t have to feel this hurt | Rowland family

I hold it true, whate'er befall; I feel it when I sorrow most;' Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all.

In Memoriam A.H.H. - Alfred Lord Tennyson

“Gabriel. What are you doing.”

Gabe stopped mid motion. He knew that tone – when he was a kid, he’d broken some ornament, and hid all the pieces with the intention of gluing it back together. His mom had found him then, and she’d given him the same look he knew was trained on him, the same look he saw when he turned to look at her, shoulders hunched and wings tensed. “Finding something that isn’t a t-shirt?”

“You and I both know that isn’t what I meant at all.”

Gabe didn’t say anything, staring at his selection of shirts and not seeing any of them. Yeah, he knew what she meant. He could still feel Jazz’s touch lingering, could remember her smile, and the way the world melted away. In hindsight, he probably should’ve realised that his mom would have been watching carefully. She’d always been the more observant parent, quiet in her curiosity. Always intent on picking apart the answers she was given, searching for deeper meaning.

“Come here, angel,” Marie called softly, patting the spot on the bed. He hadn’t even noticed her actually enter the room, and didn’t that speak to his attention on the matter? He wasn’t even focusing on his mom, and that was the point of this week. To focus on his parents, to show them that he loved them. To focus on being actually, genuinely happy, not on the awkwardness with someone who’d once been his closest friend, and certainly not on the lump in his throat that formed whenever he spoke to her.

He obeyed quietly, coming over to perch beside his mom on the bed. Still he didn’t say a word, not sure where to begin.

Marie shifted on the bed, pulling her legs up and settling behind him, running her fingers through his feathers carefully. “Do you know, when you were six years old, you came to your father and I with this picture you’d drawn?”

He didn’t, in fact, remember that. He shook his head.

“You’d drawn this picture,” Marie went on, “with a set of pencils you used to have. It was of a man and a woman, holding hands. A lot of kids are supposed to do that, I suppose – family pictures. It’s adorable normally. I thought you’d drawn us – your father and I. But your father... he saw something different. He asked who it was.

“You looked at him like he was so silly for not understanding, then sort of – seemed to realise you’d forgotten something. You grabbed another pencil, a brown one, and you leaned on that little coffee table we had in the living room. You added wings to the man in the picture, and you held it out, and you said to us, ‘I want to be happy, like you two are’.”

“That was the day we had to tell you that it would have to be a very special woman to make you as happy as your mother makes me.” Gabriel flinched; he hadn’t realised Austin was listening from the doorway. “You were a smart boy, Gabriel, even then. You knew what we meant – that because of your wings, we couldn’t trust anyone to care for you as you needed. As you deserved.”

“You took your picture away and we never saw it again, and you never mentioned it again. Never even asked why it was so important that you weren’t seen by any of the customers who came to us. And we didn’t talk about it, either. It was...” Marie cleared her throat. If Gabriel listened, he could hear her voice catching on the tears. “It wasn’t what we wanted for you, but it was for the best. I stand by every decision we made.”

Austin closed the door gently, like he wanted to minimise the impact of it. Like a loud door would be too final. Gabriel knew, because it’d been the same way he dealt with closing doors for years, never once slamming it. It’d been the way he closed the door behind him when he left Jazmine alone in the bar that night, too: closed so quietly it only made a sound if you were listening for it. “Your mother and I met in college, Gabe. Our friends then – we haven’t spoken to them for years, but they used to say that we’d get this look when the other was around. The people I hung around, they told me it was like I didn’t wanna risk looking away, in case she’d disappear.”

“Mine told me I gravitated towards him,” Marie shrugged, quiet, absently running her fingers through the wings that had been such a big part of their reality for so long. “Like I had to be as close as possible. If he touched me, I did whatever I could to make it last. They’d joke it was painful, watching us dance around each other.”

Gabriel swallowed, sitting very still. All of it sounded familiar to him – not because he’d heard the story before, he knew that. But because he’d been through it. Falling in love with Jazmine had been a journey in and of itself, with its ups and its downs; everything adding up to be an emotional rollercoaster that had made Gabe’s insecurities seem at once to be the largest obstacle in the world, and the smallest.

“I didn’t realise it wasn’t a joke until I saw you and your Jazmine talking today, Gabriel.”

Marie’s voice caught again and her hands stilled, and Austin came to sit on the other side of Gabe, to start on the other wing. “Why didn’t you tell us how it affected you, angel?”

Gabe’s jaw worked as he tried to form the words he needed to say. To explain that he hadn’t been affected. That nothing he’d felt had been more than him being stupid and clingy and his stupid emotional self just refusing to move on from something that no one else – that Jazmine, more importantly, hadn’t wanted to try any more. “It wasn’t important,” he said, finally, not wanting to lie to his parents. “I – I was just. It. She.” He paused, closed his eyes, covered them with his hands, took a slow, shaky breath. It’s only mom and dad, they won’t judge me. “We, we knew it was coming. We did. I did. It. Everything changed, leading up to that, we didn’t know... It, we lost, we just.” We lost touch. “We were friends, and then we were a couple, and we don’t – we didn’t know how to. To. To make it work the way it’s supposed to.”

Marie and Austin exchanged a look, Austin’s expression completely serious, and Marie’s eyes welling with unshed tears. She swallowed. “The way it’s supposed to, angel?”

“We – we never felt like both? We felt like friends who just, just were, you know, physically close, and were constantly touching, and... and if we didn’t feel like that, then it was like, it was like, like, like.” Gabriel stuck on his analogy, not sure what he could say that would make sense to himself and to his parents. He sighed, muttering into his hands, his tone bitter. “And it didn’t matter, anyway. She said she wanted to break up, and I. I’m not going to ask her to do something she doesn’t want anyway.”

His mom knew books better than her husband and her son. She had taken literature in high school, had strode through Shakespeare with no trouble at all. It had been her that made sure Gabriel actually did the work assigned for his English classes, her that walked him through the finer points of epic poetry – of Tennyson. Tis better to have loved and lost, went the poem, no matter how vehemently she’d disagreed with how it was taken out of context, no matter how much she’d stressed that the line was about losing a great friend to mortality, not to some arbitrary change of situation.

“I don’t believe that,” she said, quiet. Then, again, louder; she shook her head, clambering off the bed to ease her son into looking to her, her tone insistent. “No, listen to me, Gabriel. Angel. Listen. We, I, we’ve wanted to meet Jazmine since the first email you mentioned her. You know you talked about some silly little conversation about wild animals? I don’t know what started it, to this day, but you lit up in that email. It was just like when you started talking about Aislinn, or Janey, but at the same time it was so different – you were enthralled with her from the start, do you know that? I know you didn’t do anything until the two of you were much closer, but the fact is this, Gabriel: you were going to fall in love with Jazmine from the start, and that doesn’t just go away.”

She could feel her heart breaking with the look he was giving her. She could see he was listening – that he understood, that he agreed with her. But the poor boy – he was so wrapped up in the idea of not pushing her into something she said she didn’t want that he couldn’t see what was right in front of you. For all Marie adored the idea of this girl who was the root of her sons happiness for so long, who he’d been so close to, who she’d liked from the second she heard about her – she couldn’t say it. Her throat wasn’t letting her speak. Fortunately, Austin understood the direction it was going, and he smoothed the last out of place feather.

“That girl is as besotted with you as you are with her,” Austin said quietly, but in the otherwise silent room it seemed exceptionally loud. “And the both of you are doing nothing but hurt yourselves and each other with this frankly ridiculous conviction that the other doesn’t feel the same way.”

Gabriel was silent for long enough that the parents started to wonder if maybe he was coming up with a counter argument. If perhaps he was going to refuse to see reason. Really, what he was doing was running through everything, every interaction with Jazmine he could remember, from when they first met to when they became friends, to their first date, to their break up, to introducing their parents just this week. Finally, finally, his voice cracking, he said, “But what can I do? Mom, what can I possibly do to fix it?”

“Oh, angel,” she breathed, cupping his face in her hands gently. “Be honest with her, like your father taught you to be. Tell her what you wanted to all those months ago.” If we’re wrong, we’re wrong, she thought, but refused to say aloud. “The worst thing that could possibly happen is that you get everything off your chest, and it’s not fair at all for you or for her to think it’s over when neither of you want to be.”

“The biggest way we let you down, Gabriel, is that you never had to fight for anything you want. You never had to learn how. And I’d thought it was too late to teach you, but,” Austin rested his hand atop Gabriel’s head, smiling faintly, thinking this is where our little boy has gotten without us. “If you be honest with her, angel, things will work out.”

Gabriel swallowed, gripping his mom’s wrist as he tugged her hands away, turning his head to meet Austin’s gaze. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice betraying his vulnerability on this.

Austin smiled. No. “I’m sure that doing this as soon as you see her is the best way to find out, and – if not yourself – then you owe her that much. Jazmine is a lovely girl, Gabriel. You were lucky once – I’m sure you will be again.”

“I just have to talk to her?”

Austin smiled at his son, messed his hair affectionately. “That’s where you’ll start, yes. I promise. Now go find something suitably 1920s-ish.”

That could still be us ‘Cause it still is sometimes at night when my eyes are shut Wish I could say it don't get to me but it does And I know I probably think about you way too much But that's because That could still be us

That Could Still Be Us - Keith Urban

#grimstonefam #grimstonedance #grimstoneevent #{drabble}#{writing}#{marie}#{austin}#HOLY FUCK THIS TOOK AGES

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