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fitzs-trained-monkey · 3 years

Text

Chapter One: Lonely Together

Jack Kline x OC

Rated: PG

~I might hate myself tomorrow

But I'm on my way tonight

Let's be lonely together

A little less lonely together~

Sent: 10:52 PM

Merry Christmas, stranger. I hope yours is as bright as new fallen snow. Stay warm.

I smiled down at my phone before clicking it off and slipping it into my pocket. I didn't know who I had sent the message to. It was just a number I had punched in at random. I didn't expect anyone to reply.

Wrapping my dark green cardigan tighter around my body, I pulled my knees in closer to my chest and pressed myself closer against the wall of the bakery. The wall was only slightly warmer than the frigid air around me. It was December 2nd and icy gales were blowing in from Lake Superior and stinging the skin of the city's occupants.

The sky hung dark, low, and flat over Copper Harbor, Michigan. Copper Harbor was an itty-bitty town at the northern most tip of the northernmost part of Michigan. You know that piece of land that's only connected to the mainland by a highway, that in-between place that really should be Canada, but isn't? That's where Copper Harbor is and that's where I was.

Copper Harbor was the sort of town where newcomers and visitors are as common as flying pigs and are treated with about as much scrutiny. It's not one of those small, friendly towns just off the highway; the ones that are pleasant to find yourself in if you've taken a wrong turn. It's quite the feat to get lost and turn up in Copper Harbor, considering its miles away from anything and everything remotely interesting, unless you're searching for Bigfoot or a drunk Canadian that took a wrong turn. Though those two things might just end up being one and the same. No, nobody came to Copper Harbor unless they had a reason. That's just the sort of place it was. And aside from the mind-numbing cold, it was exactly the sort of place I wanted to be.

The clouds were so heavy with the snow that now drifted down, dusting everything in a layer of fine white powder, it seemed that someone standing on even the lowest rooftop could reach up and touch them. The snowflakes raining down from those clouds gave the appearance of tiny shooting stars. Many would have found the sight beautiful. I didn't. I just found it cold and somewhat depressing. Some people say that shooting stars are angels, falling to the earth to bless the lives of people in need. I've never liked those sorts of stories. The stars belong in the heavens. The dust belongs on the earth. Collecting in puddles, the sparkling, sugar-like ice crystals did nothing to ease the bitter cold. I shivered and coughed, my breath fogging in front of me.

I should have frozen to death hours ago.

But I can't die. At least, not that way.

Suffering, on the other hand, I can do that to no end.

I put my head between my knees, hoping to retain what little heat my walking corpse had to offer. I struggled to remain conscious. The story of the little-match-girl was playing in my head. I'd never liked that story's ending. Hallucinations really weren't my thing, especially hallucinations about things I tried not to think about, the things I tried to burry in the farthest corners of my mind. I had to distract myself, to think about anything that would keep me awake. The problem was, there was nothing to distract me.

Pling!

My phone buzzed in my pocket with a text. I grasped it quickly, greedy for a distraction, but I paused upon seeing the number displayed upon the screen. It was that number I had texted the Merry Christmas message to. Whoever it was had texted me back. I unlocked my phone and peered at the mystery person's message.

Received: 11:18 PM

Merry Christmas to you as well!

The message read. I smiled a little, surprised that anyone would care to return my quiet Christmas wish. The screen of my phone lit up with another message.

Received: 11:19 PM

Who are you?

The question was a simple one. Though tone can often be difficult to infer over written text, the question seemed to bear no hostility, only innocent curiosity. I thought for a bit about what to say, the answer was not as simple as the question had implied.

***

Located quite literally one thousand miles away from Copper Harbor, was the small, out-of-the-way town of Lebanon, Kansas. Now, in the outskirts Lebanon there was a hill. The hill was modestly sized and carpeted with thick grass painted with a layer of frost. Although it was a rather pleasant sight for some stray hiker to find, the hill was really quite unremarkable. That is, if you ignored the hulking steel door built into the side of it that looked like the entrance to a post-apocalyptic hobbit hole. See, built under that hill there was a bunker. It looked like any ordinary bunker if one can ever describe a bunker as ordinary. But inside this ordinary looking bunker, sat something rather extraordinary and his name was Jack.

Jack Kline was quite happy where he was. Sitting with his legs crossed on a chair beside the bunker's fireplace, Jack held Sam's beloved lap-top between his knees. Sam let him borrow it on the nights he couldn't sleep. Those nights were many. Sleepless nights were one of the many side effects of being half-angel, but he didn't really mind. Jack wasn't overly fond of sleep, not like Sam or Dean who adored the few hours they got. Jack would much rather be awake because if he was asleep then he couldn't observe. He liked to observe. He loved learning. He loved taking in anything and everything going on around him, soaking it all up like a sponge with legs. He especially loved to soak up a story. Epic ones with heroes that defeat powerful villains. Jack loved stories.

So, no; Jack Kline was not overly fond of sleep. No, Jack preferred to just sit quietly and watch those epic stories as they played out in front of him on the screen of Sam's lap-top.

Currently, he was watching Star Wars: The Clone Wars. The computer had said he would like it, and the computer had been right. He had just finished season 2 and had begun on season 3. Some small voice in the back of his mind told him he should slow down and draw the series out a little longer, but Jack just couldn't find the will to do so. This story was just too good to stop. Jack shoved a hand full of popcorn in his mouth as he pressed the play button on the next episode. He had managed to sneak several bags of popcorn from the kitchen and into the secret stash in his room a few nights earlier. It was perfect, except popcorn needed to be popped and popping the kernels without attracting notice was a bit of a challenge. But he found that if he popped them during the day, when everyone was clamoring about and busy with whatever, the noise from the popping kernels wouldn't peak any suspicion. The only downside to his strategy was that it left him with cold popcorn. Though this too could be remedied via his angel powers, if he was careful about it, he could warm up the popcorn undetected.

Now, don't get the impression that Jack was being starved, or held in this bunker against his will, or something awful like that. As was mentioned before, Jack was very happy there. The Winchesters, Sam and Dean, and the angel Castiel, lived there with him and took care of him. They were his family and Jack loved them. The only reason he had a secret stash at all was because Sam was the only one in the bunker who cared about the importance of having a somewhat healthy diet. Whereas Dean let the boy eat pretty much anything he wanted and Cas- well in Cas's mind food was food and that's all there was to it. But Sam didn't like it when he caught Jack eating what he referred to as 'junk food'.

Somehow, Sam always caught him.

"That stuff’ll rot your teeth, Jack!" He'd sigh, as he'd flip on the kitchen light and catch Jack eating cereal sometime around midnight. Then he'd look at Jack with a disappointed look on his face until Jack threw the cereal away and went back to bed. Jack hated it when Sam looked at him like that, he just couldn't bear to let the Winchesters down.

But Jack loved to eat. Eating was enjoyable as it brought with it something new every time. Yet more things to absorb and to experience. Although the younger Winchester disapproved of the more sugary foods; Jack liked those a whole lot more than the salads Sam tried to get him to eat. Jack didn't like the salads or 'Rabbit Food' as Dean called it. No, Jack liked popcorn a quite a bit more.

He smiled as he brought another handful into his mouth. Yes, Jack Kline quite enjoyed eating.

Plip! Ploop!

Jack's head swiveled away from the screen to stare at the phone laying face-up on the arm rest of the chair in which he sat. The screen was alight with a text message. He picked up the phone and unlocked it. The message read:

Received: 10:52 PM

Merry Christmas, stranger. I hope yours is as bright as new fallen snow. Stay warm.

That was all. Jack was quite confused; he didn't know that number. Who had sent the text? What should he do? Should he say something back?

Curiosity and caution struggled in a match tug-of-war in his head. He wanted to know who the message had come from. He wanted to know why that person had sent it. He also wanted to know why he had a strange feeling that whoever had sent the message was horribly sad. But would the Winchesters be mad at him if he answered? Sam and Dean had given him the phone just a few days earlier.

"For emergencies," Sam had said as he laid the device in Jack's hand before resuming his packing. Jack had stared at it, rather confused as to its purpose. Castiel had been off somewhere doing something and Sam and Dean had been leaving for a hunt, leaving him alone which Dean was completely and utterly against.

"Only for emergencies," Dean had stressed, jabbing his finger in Jack's general direction as he inspected various articles of clothing before tossing them into a duffle bag. "That means don't text or call unless someone is breaking in or you're dying!"

Sam shot his older brother a warning look. Dean ignored it and pulled a pair of socks out of his dresser, sniffing them briefly before making a face and chucking them to the other side of the room. Jack looked back down at the small black rectangle in his palm.

"Okay so, only text or call in case there's an emergency. Got it." Jack clinched the thin black box between his thumb and forefinger, carefully lifting it up as if it might explode in his face. "But, one question, if something happens like-like you said, like somebody breaking in or me dying, how-how would I do that?" He asked, looking back at the two brothers. They both froze their hasty packing and pivoted to stare at him, their eyebrows raised with disbelieving question.

"What?" Dean asked the young Nephilim. Jack shrank away a little, not wanting to upset the older Winchester.

"How do I text or call you? I don't know how to do that," Jack had timidly replied. Dean just shook his head and returned to over-stuffing the duffle. Sam, however, was much more understanding.

"That's right, you-you don't, do you?" Sam asked, realizing his mistake. Jack turned his attention to the younger of the brothers, shaking his head in an answer to Sam's question.

"Unbelievable," Dean muttered, rolling his eyes. Sam shot him another glare which Dean merely shrugged off.

"Well, come on then, I'll teach you," Sam had said. Jack watched as Sam set the contacts and explained how everything worked. He showed Jack how to send a text, how to dial and answer a call, and all the other things Jack would need to know. Jack just watched him and took note of every little thing. Watching and replicating was how Jack learned best.

"Now, if I don't answer my phone, you call Dean. But if he doesn't pick up, I want you to call me again, if I still don't answer a second time, I want you to call this number right here. That's Jody Mills, she's a friend of ours and she'll help you, alright? You get all that?" Sam finished explaining and looked for Jack to confirm his understanding. Jack nodded.

"I got it!" He said, enthusiastically. Sam gave the young boy a nervous smile.

"You do? Can you repeat it back to me?" Sam asked Jack the question the same way Sam and Dean's father had always asked them.

"If something happens, call you, and if you don't answer, call Dean. If Dean doesn't answer then I call you again, but if you still don't pick up, then call Jody Mills." Jack repeated all of Sam's instructions perfectly, grinning proudly at the younger Winchester when he finished. Sam laughed a little, but nerves twinged his voice.

"Good, yeah. Okay," Sam paused, thinking things over, "You know what, Jack? If neither of us answer your call and it's really that urgent, don't bother calling me a second time. Just call Jody right away if you can't get through to either of us. Alright?"

"Alright!" Jack nodded, grinning. Sam nodded back, stiffly.

"Alright." He seemed like he wanted to say something else but didn't know how to say it.

"You two done in there, Sammy?! We gotta go!" Dean called, walking in from another room. Sam stood and looked at his brother.

"Uh, yeah. I think we're good," He took a few steps towards the stairs that lead up to the door before pausing and turning back to Jack, "We're good, right? You're gonna be okay here by yourself?" Sam asked again. Jack grinned and gave him a thumbs up.

"I'll be fine. You don't have to worry."

Sam nodded and smiled with so much nervousness it almost hurt to watch.

"Okay, good. It's good. We're good," He said, nodding and trying to reassure himself more than anyone else. Dean raised an eyebrow at his overly anxious little brother, tugging his old leather jacket on over his shoulders, but he didn't say anything. Instead, he directed his remarks at Jack.

"Hey, kid. Whatever you do, don't do anything stupid," He'd said, half glaring, "We'll be back in a few days." Then they'd left.

Now, Jack glanced back down at the phone in his hands, remembering Dean's warning about not doing anything stupid. But his curiosity regarding the sender of the message was overwhelming. It couldn't hurt to text this person back, right? Was that what Dean had meant by his warning? Did this count as something stupid? What was the worst that could happen? Deciding that the benefits outweighed the risks, he texted back.

Sent: 10:18 PM

Merry Christmas to you as well!

Jack wrote.

Sent: 10:19 PM

Who are you?

No sooner had asked his question, he began to worry that he might have sounded rude. He waited with anticipation for the mystery person to reply. He didn't have to wait long.

Received: 10:20 PM

It doesn't matter, you don't know me.

I'm just someone wanting to give you a warm holiday wish.

Jack frowned. Again, he got the distinct feeling that the person on the other side of this conversation was deeply saddened by something. He desperately wanted to know what. So, he did the thing he did best. He asked and waited to see what would happen.

***

Received: 11:21 PM

If you don't know me, why do you care?

I don't mean to be rude. I'm just curious.

Why do this?

I read the person's question once, then twice, then three times and I realized that I didn't have an answer. Why did I care? Why was I texting some random person a Christmas wish? For all I knew, this person may not even observe the holiday. I had so many of my own things to worry about I was nearly drowning in them. I didn't know this person. I had nothing to do with them. So, why did I care about their holiday season? Why was I doing this?

I told myself it was just a random act of kindness. But deep down I knew what the reason was, and even if I didn't want to think about it, I felt it in my heart. I was doing this for the same reason I did everything. So, I took a few moments and came up with a reply.

Sent: 11:25 PM

I'm doing this because I believe that no one should ever have to be alone,

especially during the holidays.

I sent my reply and remembered to keep on shivering. I could hardly feel the cold anymore, I had gone almost completely numb. But I knew if I didn't keep moving, I would surely freeze in place and be unable to move until spring came. I vaguely wondered how cold it was. I remembered having heard on someone's car radio that this was supposed to be the coldest winter Michigan had experienced in the last decade. Though winter had only just begun, it was already cold enough for the district council to be suggesting face coverings to prevent citizens from getting frostbite and losing their nose.

I sneezed. I had no such face covering. Hell! I didn't even have a jacket! Let alone a coat or anything mildly warm. All I had was my oversized green cardigan, my black Star Wars t-shirt and my black jeans. That was it. Yet here I sat, outside a bakery in well below freezing temperatures, shivering myself into next decade.

I could go to a shelter. At least there I wouldn't have to endure the bitter biting of the wind as it gushed with double its normal force through these tight, abandoned alleyways. But if I went to a shelter then there was no chance of leaving undetected, I reminded myself. No, it was better to stay here, cold and alone, than to risk human contact.

I was pulled from my thoughts by another pling from my phone. Another message from that unknown contact.

Received: 11: 27

Are you alone?

Again, the question was simple. And although the mere thought hurt like a knife twisting in a fresh wound, I looked around at the dark, trash littered alleyway I sat in, watching the scattered rags of paper flutter and tumble in the winter gales, and I looked at the brutally beautiful puddles of speckled ice gathering along my body and melting on my skin, and I examined the bleak night sky, choked starless by the drifting dreary clouds; and the utterly silent stillness of the sleeping city revealed the harsh reality of my answer.

No one was here.

Nobody cared.

Not even the stars would keep me company. Because the stars never cared who I was.

So, with no reason to keep the truth hidden. I answered the question honestly.

Sent: 11: 29 PM

Yes.

Sent: 11: 30 PM

I am alone.

I was completely and utterly alone.

***

Received: 10: 30 PM

I am alone.

Once again Jack got the distinct impression that these words carried a heavy burden. It made him frown. What could he do to help a person he didn't even know? He wanted to ask this person if they had any friends, but something about those words told him the answer. When this person had said they were alone, Jack got the feeling they weren't just talking about the current moment. But maybe that's what this person needed. Maybe they needed a friend.

Sent: 10: 32 PM

Well, I'll be your friend and talk to you. There, now you're not alone anymore!

Jack smiled as he sent the text. The reply didn't take long.

Received: 10: 33 PM

Thank you.

You don't have waste your time on me but thank you.

It didn't take any special powers to read in between the lines this time, anyone could see the sadness in those words. Though Jack wasn't sure if it was his powers causing that strange feeling or if he was just imagining things.

Sent: 10:34 PM

I don't mind. Really!

Besides, I don't have anyone to talk to either.

Received: 10: 35 PM

Well, in that case, we can be lonely together!

Jack grinned. He'd made himself a friend. He couldn't wait to get to know them.

***

Received: 11: 36 PM

Since we're friends now, what's your name?

I smiled down at my new mystery friend's message. There was something about the words that made them seem innocent and earnest. It couldn't hurt to give my name, right? It’s not like he could find me. After all, I'm supposed to be dead.

Sent: 11: 37 PM

My name is Martina.

I sent my name and waited for the response. It came quickly.

Received: 11: 38 PM

I like your name Martina!

It's very pretty.

I flinched as I read the text. Something about seeing my name written in the text brought me back to a conversation with a different person a long time ago. It was a painful memory, and I didn't want to see it anymore. I didn't want another reminder of the still bleeding wounds in my heart. I remembered why I didn't let anyone call me that name anymore.

Sent: 11: 39 PM

Thank you.

But I would prefer you call me Marty.

I didn't want to be so sensitive to things like this, but I just couldn't help it.

Received: 11: 40 PM

Alright! I like Marty too.

It's a fun name.

I smiled; grateful they didn't ask why it was so important that they called me by a nickname.

Sent: 11: 41 PM

Thanks for understanding.

So, what's your name?

Received: 11: 42 PM

My name is Jack!

I grinned to myself. I'd made me a friend. I just couldn't wait to get to know him.

Sent: 11: 43 PM

Heya, Jack!

It’s nice to meet you!

I think this is the beginning of a wonderful friendship.

Received: 11: 44 PM

I agree, Marty. We are going to be great friends!

Sent: 11: 45 PM

So, what's your favorite movie?

And just like that, we talked until the sun came up. And suddenly, for the first time in quite a while, I wasn't completely alone.

***

"Hey, uh, Jack? We're back!"

Sam's voice drifted in from just outside Jack's bedroom door. Jack was surprised. He hadn't heard the brothers come in which, for him, was quite peculiar.

The door creaked open and Jack hastily attempted to pretend like he hadn't been using the phone.

He failed.

Miserably.

The device slipped from his hand and he fumbled to catch it before it smashed against the grey, polished concrete floor. He let out a sigh of relief as he snatched it just in time.

Sam peered around the door, checking in on Jack, who was now hanging halfway off his bed and clutching the phone. Scrambling to sit upright, Jack gave Sam a half-panicked smile.

"Hi Sam!" He waved a greeting, shoving his phone behind his back. Sam raised his eyebrows in a questioning expression and stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him. He folded his arms and leaned back on his heels.

"Hey Jack," Sam seemed a little distracted, "Have you seen Cas?" He asked. Jack shook his head vigorously.

"He's not back yet," He answered. Sam nodded and started to leave before stopping and turning back. Only now seeming to notice Jack's odd behavior. Sam gestured at the phone hidden behind the boys back,

"So, what were you doing in here just now?" Jack's eyes flew wide as quarters and his gaze shifted rapidly around the room, focusing on anywhere but Sam. His mind was working overtime trying to find a viable excuse.

"Uhhhh...Nothing!" Jack tried; his brain had gone blank. Sam raised an eyebrow.

"You sure about that?" Sam leaned forward a little, narrowing his eyes. Jack leaned back to match; his face scrunched up with the guilt he was trying very hard to hide. Everyone in the bunker knew how terrible Jack was at lying. He might be able to pass a few simple fibs by a stranger, but his family saw through him like he was made of glass. He couldn't deceive them. But that didn't stop him from trying, however.

"Yes..." Jack said slowly, his eyebrows pulling together in a rather sad attempt at looking sincere.

"Jack, what were you doing?" Sam asked more sternly. Jack looked at his feet and didn't answer. His shoulders moved up and down in a shrug.

"Do I have to go get Dean?" Sam pressed. Now Jack's head shot up. He stretched his hands out in a pleading gesture.

"No, no! Don't tell Dean!" Jack begged. Sam's expression shifted into one of concern.

"If you tell me, I won't tell Dean." Sam agreed, moving to sit on the bed beside Jack who shifted to give him some space. Sam waited patiently for the young Nephilim to speak. Jack kept his head down and rubbed his hands together nervously as he tried to think of how he should explain himself.

"Well, last night I was watching Netflix when I got this text from somebody wishing me a merry Christmas-" He started.

"Someone we know?" Sam asked, interrupting. Jack shook his head and continued.

"I asked them why they would do that, and they said it was because they thought that nobody should be alone this time of year. So, I asked if they were alone and they said, yes ─" Jack looked the younger Winchester in the eyes ─

"I don't know why but I just got this- this feeling, and they sounded just so sad, and now we're friends! But Dean said not to do anything stupid, and now I'm worried that I did! Are you mad?" Jack finished, worry coloring his features. Sam blinked. Once again astounded by the size of the half-angel's heart, he shook his head.

"No, Jack. I'm not mad," He said, softly.

"Really?"

"Really. I think you did a good thing. Everyone needs a friend." Sam patted Jack's shoulder and smiled. Jack looked down, grinning to himself as pride filled his chest.

Sam waited a moment before getting up from the bed. Stretching his back out and groaning a bit as he stood. It had been almost 48 hours since he last slept, and he was more than ready for a long nap. His hand rested on the doorknob and he paused a moment before turning back around.

"Hey, uh, Jack. Just one more thing. Do you by chance know this person's name?" Sam asked. Jack looked up briefly before looking back at the floor again, trying to hide the embarrassment creeping up to stain his cheeks.

"It's, uh, it's Marty," He replied. Sam nodded and moved to leave again but he stopped. His eyebrows pulled down with confusion before he turned back.

"And uh, is that a boy's name or a girl's name? Do you know?" Jack turned his head a bit to the side and picked at a thread in his jeans.

"Does it matter?" He questioned back. Truthfully, it didn't. Sam wouldn't make Jack stop if he didn't want to. But to say that the boy's current evasive behavior didn't pique his interest, would be a lie. Though, the kid’s flushed cheeks told him quite a bit about the answer.

"It doesn't matter," Sam said, shrugging, "I'm just curious is all." The tall man watched the boy's reaction. Jack nodded and shifted as if uncomfortable.

"Marty's a girl." He answered, trying to force his voice into sounding nonchalant. And failing.

"Okay, cool." Sam nodded, turning around again, and reaching for the handle. Jack's head whipped around.

"Wait, Sam!"

Sam looked over his shoulder.

"Hmm?"

"Don't. Tell. Dean!" Jack stressed. Urgency was evident in his voice. Sam huffed a laugh.

"Okay, Jack." With that, Sam pulled open the door and walked out letting the heavy steel swing shut behind him. Behind the door, Jack sighed with relief. He'd dodged a bullet with that one.

Walking a ways down the hall, Sam got to Dean's room where his older brother was now unpacking. The younger brother leaned on the door frame and expelled the laughter he'd been holding on to since Jack’s room. Dean turned around, holding a pistol and a pair of weeks old and hopelessly blood caked socks in his hands, he faced Sam with a questioning look.

"What's got you so giggly all of a sudden?" The older of the brother's asked.

Dean glanced at the pair of socks in his hand. He grimaced at the stench and held them further away from his face, trying not to breathe. It didn't work. The socks odor was so pungent, Dean could smell them through his mouth. There was no hope of washing them. Nope, those things would have to be burned. Though, taking another whiff of them, Dean wasn't sure that even incinerating the socks would do him much good now. The stomach-turning stink would be branded into his memory forever. Sam straightened up, shaking his head of shoulder length hair.

"It's just something Jack said." Sam smiled and laughed again before taking notice of the unholy stench wafting off the socks. He coughed. "Dude, those stink. Bad!"

"Yeah, it's a sad day, Sammy." Dean nodded solemnly. Sam covered his nose.

"Why?"

"These were my second luckiest pair of socks."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Well, they're not anymore," Sam pointed out. Now, they were just rancid.

"I think we should give em' a Viking funeral, something to honor their service. I mean, I remember one time when I wore these things for two weeks straight!" Dean reminisced, grinning. Sam looked mildly disturbed.

"That's, uh... nice... But, uh, is there somewhere we could put them before the funeral? Because they, uh, they reek." Sam was trying hard not to gag and couldn't understand how Dean could be holding them and remain unaffected. Dean smirked.

"You wanna go put em' somewhere?" He asked, waving the socks into Sam's face. Sam leaned away.

"Ah! God! No! Put those things somewhere! Please!" He choked out. Dean just grinned and moved to the other side of the room. Grabbing a cardboard box from off the shelf, he shoved the socks in there and sealed the lid. The stench quickly began to dissipate.

"Better?"

"Yeah, thanks."

"We're gonna have to burn that box too."

"Yup." Sam still felt a little sick but at least the socks were gone.

"So, what was it Jack said that you thought was so funny?" The older brother asked.

"Oh, uh, nothing. It was nothing," Sam said. But laughter began to creep up on him again. Dean rolled his eyes and went back to pulling more dirty clothing from the duffle bag.

"Are ya gonna stand there or are ya gonna spill?" Dean pushed. Sam sobered up again.

"Well, I'm not supposed to tell you," He said.

Dean shook his head, mildly annoyed. He knew Sam was going to tell him whatever juicy information he had gotten, just like he always did when he got that sly look on his face. Sam could be a bit of a schoolgirl that way. Except, of course, when it came to the important things, the things Dean was supposed to know. Those things Sam always kept to himself.

"Well, Sammy, if you ain’t gonna spill─" he used the gun in his hand to gesture from Sam to the duffle bag�� "get workin'."

The younger Winchester moved to the bag and started unpacking, grinning his face off all the while. Dean knew his little brother was waiting for him to ask about the thing with Jack again, so he said nothing. He just waited for Sam to look over to him eagerly, which is exactly what Sam did.

"So get this!" Sam started.

'Here it comes.' Dean predicted internally. Sam kept starring.

'Yatzee.' Dean thought. He knew Sam like the back of his hand. Actually, he probably knew his brother better than that.

"Apparently, Jack got a text from some random person last night wishing him merry Christmas. And, well, you know Jack! So he─" Dean stopped his brother mid-sentence.

"What's her name?" He interrupted. Sam looked confused.

"I didn't say anything about a girl," Sam trailed off. Dean sighed and shook his head.

"Geez, Sammy! If you love drama so much, you should go be an actor. You ain't foolin' anybody. We both know where this is goin' so just cut to the chase!" Dean sighed, opening a trunk and tossing in the gun he'd been holding along with several knives. His small outburst had startled his younger brother, but Dean didn't really care. Sam wasn't the only one who hadn't slept in 48 hours. Sleep was calling and Dean wanted nothing more than to answer. Sam frowned.

"Marty. The girl's name is Marty," Sam stated, sounding rather put out that Dean had guessed at his not-so-cleaver ploy. The older if the pair turned to the younger with a perplexed expression.

"Wait, wait. Marty?" He clarified. Amused disbelief written all over his features.

"Marty," Sam confirmed.

"Marty?"

"Yeah. Marty."

"Like the zebra in Madagascar, Marty?" Dean asked, grinning. Sam nodded.

"Yeah, like that. But remember, you didn't hear anything from me!" He answered, smiling as well. Dean laughed as he turned his attention back to the mess of clothing and weapons surrounding him on the floor.

"Yeah, whatever, drama queen." Dean rolled his eyes and kept working. The room was silent for a moment before the older Winchester burst out laughing again. He couldn't help himself; he found the subject hilarious.

"Ah, man. Marty! Now there's a name!" He exclaimed as he started folding the few clean clothing items laying in the pile. "What? Did her parents just take one look at her and say: 'Look at our beautiful baby! Let's name her Marty!'" Dean scoffed.

Sam snorted and shook his head at his older brother's bad joke. Then he leaned his head back and yawned.

"Man, I think we need some sleep," Sam sighed. Dean smirked.

"Is it your bedtime already?" He taunted, expecting a playful retort. But this time, Sam didn't argue. He just nodded.

"Yeah, I think it is." Though worried about his little brother, Dean held his playful smirk in place perfectly, just like he had been doing for so many years.

"Well, you go ahead and hit the sack. I'll finish up here." He said, easily. Even though he was just as tired and Sam was, he would finish out like always. Sam raised an eyebrow.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, o'course. There's not much left anyway." That was a lie and they both knew it, but Sam took the offer of sleep while it was on the table.

"Thanks, Dean."

"You're welcome, Sammy."

Sam patted his older brother on the arm as he stood and left the room. Traveling down the corridor he got to his bedroom and was out as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Meanwhile, Dean mouthed the strange name of Jack's mystery girl and chuckled about it to himself. Sitting on the floor in his room as he continued folding the rest of the clean clothes, cleaning out all the weapons and putting everything back in its place. The chore took him two more hours to complete but when it was done, he stretched himself out and laid back on his bed.

"Marty. Now, that's hilarious." Dean snickered to himself as he drifted off to sleep.

~I might hate myself tomorrow.

But I'm on my way tonight.

Let's be lonely together.

A little less lonely together~

Lyrics from: Lonely Together by Jasmine Thompson

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orionnquartzwater · 3 years

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In a local witches group on my personal FB page, an admin I look up to asked us what our current altars looked like at the moment to spark up a discussion. I had an offhand picture of recently showing and explaining my faith to a friend of mine, but as I began to reflect on the items, my reply grew longer and longer until Facebook just gave up on allowing me to post it. Still wanting to share, I figured I would host my answer here.

This is my current set-up. Please excuse some of the mess, I'm currently in the process of clearing out the old for the new calender year. I don't work at my altar very often at the moment as life has been a little hectic, but it's right above my fireplace in my living room! ♡

PHOTO DESCRIPTION WITH DETAILS AND PERSONAL HISTORIES BEHIND THE OBJECTS PICTURED: On white shelf above the fireplace in my living room is my altar, lit by a ceiling light that brings the eye to the center of the image where a wall-hanging of the elemental symbols I hand-crafted in branches and black twine covers a large portion of the white wall in the back. In the middle on the top of the hanging decor is a clear hand-crafted witch ball I made several years back when my coven was still meeting and I was teaching some of the history behind them and what they are today filled with many different herbs and a large cinnamon stick. Several natural pieces of twine hang from some of the twigs that make up the elemental symbols, used for tying and drying herb bunches above my altar, currently sitting empty. On both sides framing the mantle on the wall, there two metallic swirling candle holders, one of which has a recently gifted antique bell from my once-ignorant and oppressive grandmother about what my faith truly had meant to me on twine hanging from it. In the dead center of the altar, a large glass candle holder sits containing a layered orange and red candle, burned most of the way down with ash on the insise of the glass as it hasn't been in use for some time. Currently displayed on top of the candle is my own hand-crafted wand that sits perfectly balanced in my hand with the natural curve of the branch. It felt made for my hand as I whittled the top down and used copper and quartz to charge it, wrapping the handle and charging the energy forward with the small point I've had for years until I found why I had clung to it.

Two alabaster statuette busts of the Greek deities Artemis (to the left), and Apollo (to the right) also frame the large glass candleholder. The statues are of the deities who I worked faithfully worked with to recieve my service dog Andromeda, and thank constantly trying to honor, as everything in my life had said I couldn't receive her from time to money to circumstance to lack of outside help, even though everything else about it was said that it was truly meant for me, and I believe to this day it was due to them watching me working tirelessly to do everything on my end including my rituals and asking for their assistance that they granted me a medically healing (Apollo's side) & faithful canine (Artemis's side). I had the statues shipped to me from Greece, and the golden accents on the alabaster textiles and laurel on them are probably my favorite part of them. They're one of my most prized possessions. The two godly siblings face each other with their heads cast in different directions. Behind Artemis, slightly to her right is a black and white painting I did of the forested coast and night sky with a prominent moon bouncing off the waves and a comet in the stars above (Ironically, my dog Andromeda (Andi) was listed as Comit in the breeders list as well, something I hadn't even considered when painting and adding it to my altar). To Artemis' left is a small antler chew we took from my service dog when she was too big to use it safely any longer, as well as a small clay torso of the human form I crafted some time ago. In front of the mini painting is where I currently sit a chakra bracelet gifted to me years ago, and sitting in front of those not too far from the edge is an incense holder depicting a skeleton with roses around it as a memento mori, a circle of life as the ash falls and the incense is burned. To the left of that are some pieces of geodes and petrified woods I have that my grandmother also gifted me, two unused candles in front of those, and a petrified wood piece laying flat that holds two tiny pinecones connected by a stem and two coins for abundance beside a ceramic acorn bowl holding many gemstones collected through the years, including the labradorite my grandmother also gifted me when I was a small child and found myself connecting to the stone as I connected to the faith alone on my own. To the left of that is a tall decorative triple goddess wooden box box my dad's girlfriend bought for me, a small black and white moon phase & elemental symbol zentangle art piece sitting above it that I drew in pen in high school, and in front of them on the altar is an antique taxidermied dog-paw letter opener made of Mother of Pearl, dating the beloved Print's death as Sept 15th, 1867 that I use for directing energy, connecting to the love we hold for those in our lives, and also with connecting to the centuries past in my own hands.

To Apollo's right sits a massive pinecone, and behind him somewhat obscured is a small wax burner currently holding the remnants of the ritual work I had been using to call forth my service dog to me as a variety of herbs, green wax for abundance and coins. To the right of that are a variety of candles, currently perching a bird's nest that had fallen out of and was sitting abandoned from the tree in front of my apartments two years ago that would have been tossed by maintainence or mowed over but found a renewed life in my practice after it sat abandoned for some time. Beside that is a squared lantern of black metal framinh with frosted glass and metallic fir tree silhouettes. Also the right of that, leaning over the edge of the mantle from a small end table not pictured is a twig broom with the bristles up. (On the very edge of the mantle also sits a large bottle of hand-sanitizer constantly in use as I live with a hospital worker, and both cleanliness and healthcare are just as important in our faith, lest we forget to take care of ourselves with the modern knowledge passed down to us now, nor forget to do our part wherever we go.)

— I haven't had the mind to do much traditional work, even here, and this doesn't include the dresser I plan on doing a fuller altar for so I can have a place to be alone, in my space, and wholly enter the circle once more as I haven't been able to do that in a very, very long time, but this one houses most of my items of power, is displayed prominently, and is curated to allow me to remember to honor my faith more and never stop working on it, taking time to stand in front of it and reflect on me, my faith, where I came from and where I'm going as well as spending a moment with the deities I honor. After my birthday later this year growing up in a household of agnostics and the faith and discomfort of my oppressive grandparents, I'll actually have been in the faith for more than half my life as I was only 11 when I stumbled into it alone, celebrated my first Imbolc all by myself by making crafts out of ribbons and buying and lighting candles, meditating reading books. I ran around with my bell wand shaking it at nature to reawaken it for spring, and I knew I would always be in the faith, and want to raise a future family in it, and grow a community of like-minded folks. I'm still always learning, and it makes me equally immensely proud and insanely humbled when I can teach others what I've learned since the faith found me. I can actually remember crying to my grandma about whether or not magic(k) could truly exist in the world and she told me if I believed in it, it DID at that age, and the feelings of finding power in my faith after growing up so alone have been unlike any other. Finding other witches was one of the most impactful moments of my life, especially growing up in a heavily Christian town of just over 1,000. Nothing has made me ever feel more fulfilled than people who know me and know I have been in the faith since childhood coming up to me to timidly ask them to teach them some things and where they could start to learn more, asking questions and finding me with a million resources for them, only to come back at a later date and truly thank me for helping them find their path to deity, to nature, to being one with the energies around us and finding power in their experiences and newfound budding faith and community. I've since found a true passion for anthropology and folklore, and I never feel more whole than working with others who share that with me. I think that my coven was one of the best things I experienced in high school, a mix of young witches learning and finding our paths and bringing our passions to life with each other and what we knew over good food, good friends and good faith wasn't something I got to experience often until then.

I'm still hoping to one day build an establishment where witches and aspiring witches can come, talk, read, ask for recommendations, be taught by local witches, take community crafting classes with history lessons, and be able to continue to provide that feeling to other folks. One of the people I ended up mentoring after they were asking me questions and for book recommendations, for clarifications and good conversation, also reaffirmed my childhood last name of faith that came to me by expressing their gratitude of my mentorship referring to me as "a willow tree I was providing wisdom, knowledge and needed shade to the growing saplings around them," and I actually broke down crying as Willow was the last name I ended up with as child, and Willowtree was the last name I had settled on after my transition. I hate the feeling of buying myself mass-produced items used for making a quick buck off a community rather than fostering the Craft, and the power that's within our tools created by hand or when they're gifted by people who impacted us with the knowledge of what they mean and the things they hold are just so much different than not knowing the ethical conditions of who made the materials, or the companies behind them pandering for money, and it's a bit of a passion project as my physical health keeps me from being able to work much on my own. I often wish I could go back and tell a young me how much I would learn and do, how many amazing people I would meet, and communities I would find, even in the areas directly around me. I think I would have been amazed. After writing all of this, I looked back and realized that my current set-up is actually doing it's EXACT job right now. As I described the objects and what they meant to me when I got them, I got caught up in it the same way I do IRL when I pass by and take a moment to think about what my faith holds for me, where I'm coming from and where I really want to take things from here. I guess it's REALLY just that effective on me that even trying to answer a question about it off-hand in a post really ends up in me really taking a minute to address who I am and the power it all holds to me, especially standing where I stand today.

Blessed Be! I hope everyone has a wonderful week.

— 12.9.2020

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herald-divine-hell · 4 years

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Woven Memories

Me, uploading another fanfic of Woven Memories? What is this audacity! But anywhere, I hope you all enjoy!

Chapter 1 - A Sea of Light

Year: 9:17 Dragon

The visitors poured through the gate in a river of gold and silver with banners withering overhead; banners of gold and green; of silver and blue; of black and crimson. The banners of House Trevelyan danced upon poles of polished silver, waving in the wind high up in the ramparts. The golden steed of Trevelyan reared upon its black stable in defiance, proclaiming its command over all the earth that it may step its hooves upon.

But, Amayian saw, there were others like it as well. The purple-black checkered field emblazoned with the silver steed of Trevelyan-Hasburn from Wycome; the silver-blue quartered with the black steed and golden rose of Trevelyan-DŐrthar from Hercinia. Cousins upon cousins that Amayian did not even know existed, yet somehow bounded by blood. The Trevelyans were a large family, his tutors often spoke of. One of the greatest houses in the Free Marches, spanning from the Trevalius in Minrathous to distant relations in Ferelden. Beside him, his younger brother, Rhyis, shifted on the balls of his feet, eagerness lighting his eyes and features.

“Do you think Cousen Alexandra is with them?” asked Rhyis. The wind stirred his thick, wavy locks of russet-brown, falling like a crown of dark tendrils that framed his features. His face was soft, cheeks flushed with pink from the cold, and freckles dotted the bridge of his nose and splattered across the crimson and white skin. Like his sister, Ashania, Rhyis had their father’s eyes - violet that shone with a light which made them even brighter than Lord Rhyis’. He wore a black doublet, striped with trimmings of gold. A cape of golden-embroidered darkness tumbled down his slant shoulders, a white wolf’s fur trimming at its borders. It looked almost too big on him, but their mother, the Lady Jacqueline, had expressly instructed stern punishment was to be enacted on if she had seen his brother stripped of it. Even Amayian had been warned, and he had never been one to defy the will of the Orlesian matron.

Amayian pushed up on the tips of his toes, narrowing his eyes as they flickered from banner to banner, seeking for House Trevelyan-Dulaphin of Kirkwall. Sunlight sparkled like glittering beads and caused the white marble walls of Vasenarg to shone as if wrapped eternally in its golden embrace. The wind came soft and gentle and sweet, fresh morning dew dancing with the cool air. Despite his mother’s many worries, Amayian had doubted that either his brother, his sister, or himself would have caught any shivers. But there would have been no point in bringing that up to his mother. Uncle Esmarian had once jested that their mother had been Andraste herself, with the way she conducted herself in a very clean and stern matter, but caring nevertheless. Lady Jacqueline had not denied it.

“I don’t see it,” he whispered back, and turned to find his brother’s lips pulled into a pout. “She’ll be here soon, no doubt.” Amayian understood his brother’s disappointment. Even he was filled with a sense of it when the great sea of multi-hued banners were neither the one they searched for nor sought. Yet, a part of him knew that the Trevelyan-Dulaphins would not turn their noses to Lord Rhyis Trevelyan. No one could even do that, not even Uncle Maxalias.

He tugged his cloak closer over his shoulders and hunched a little over, taking a soft breath. Without Alexandra’s presence, Amayian knew that this visit would not be a good one in any sort of manner. The bailey was soon filled with shining armor gleaming silver with scabbards clacking against metal-covered thighs. The sounds rang in his ears like thunder across a storm-filled sky. His fingers twitched and clawed at the soft texture of his cloak, and he wished he had the ability to disappear into the shadows, away from the rising tide of Templars who had blood connections to his family.

A feeling pulled at his stomach, a heated flame that sought to escape from the confines of his body. It boiled his blood, seared and sizzled beneath his skin to make it feel like his flesh was shifting with burning water. A brittle, chilled hand clawed at his chest, hammering icy pains across his shoulders and down to his fingertips. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. A storm of fire and ice, flecked with lightning which crackled tendrils with the frosted hand.

For the briefest of moments, only the sound of the wind was in his ears, tilted with the clacking scabbards against the armor of Templar family members. But he straightened himself, clamped his hands together and halted their trembling. His fears of the Templars were often abdicated with the knowledge that his father would protect him from any of their zealous actions. It did not keep the fear entirely at bay or subsided in any meaningful way.

Though he did wanted to flee into the shadows, hide in the safety of his bedroom, but he did not. Instead, he shifted his heels, dug his feet into the softening mud, and stood his ground, like his father had. Hairs at the back of his neck prickled.

The sea of banners rode forward like an unsheathed blade, before spreading like colorful wings. The gates were spread wide, and the Trevelyan horde seemed to gush forward like a running river, Amayian worried that there would be no more room for any other visiting lords. It seemed to him that all of Thedas swarmed the bailey, like a buzzing hive of silver-gleaming swords and burnished armor of gold and copper and white, with clouds of purple and black and crimson and gold and emerald and azure whirling and whipping overhead.

Glancing a little to his right, past his sister who wore a gown of white laced with gold, Lord Rhyis and Lady Jacqueline of Vasenarg stood erect and unmoving, like the like the gleaming walls of Vasenarg herself. Though, Amayian thought them more terrifying.

Lord Rhyis wore a black doublet with golden buttons flashing with pale light down the center. A cape as dark as his doublet cascaded down his broad-shoulders, like a river of darkness trickling down the face of a mountain. Little adorned it, besides the bear fur trimming across its shoulders and borders. His long, lushed black hair fell in raven waves, peppered with hints of gray. His features were sharp and chiseled, high cheekbones and a sharp jawline with a close-cropped beard covering his cheeks and jaw. His mouth was pulled tight and straight. He looked as if he was the Vismark Mountains staring down at the flowers of a meadow. A force greater than the bright colors of life. Amayian felt a sense of pride fill him. There was no other man as great as his father, Amayian was sured. That pride allowed himself to straightened his back and banished the tremble from his hands.

Lady Jacqueline stood as magnificent as his father appeared strong. Her long waves of the same brown that Ashania and Rhyis both had, tumbling in heavy locks, like a shuddering shroud framing her features. Hints of laughing lines adorned the sides of her golden-flecked green eyes, but her lips were frowning as tight as her father’s. Mother dislikes it as well. That did not sit well in his stomach.

The widening, colorful sea parted, leaving a road from the gatehouses to them. Then, Amayian saw the banner: two rearing, golden steads flaking a flame upon a black field stirred toward the west. The banners of House Trevelyan-Daluphin. Uncle Maxalias is here. He leaned once more on his toes, nudging out his chin to see if he could catch the sight of the black wooden wheelhouse. At the head of the approaching entourage rode Lord Maxalias, a slim man with skin as pale as snow and thick black, wavy hair cut short. His nose was long, sharp, and straight. His purple eyes were a dark violet, speared with a deep, harsh blue, but on his lips was a soft smile - though it never reached his eyes. Lord Maxalias dressed in vivid colors of silk: a crimson coat and breeches, a creamy-white waistcoat lined with golden buttons. Across the coat’s shoulders, running down in floral patterns to trim at his cuffs, were golden embroidery. It seemed to practically shimmer beneath the life. Riding at a mere trot, Lord Maxalias looked as gallant on the horse as a knight from the tales. But a cold pressure weighed heavily on Amayian’s shoulders at the sight of him, and he fought a shiver.

Behind Lord Maxalias rode the wheelhouse, which trembled and shook with every bump of a scattered pebble or risen earth. It was black, like the banners that wove through the air on the curtain walls. Golden paint covered the wooden’s corners, bringing out the black more so than the gold. But Amayian knew what hid in the hobbling carriage. The thought brought a semblance of a smile to his lips, and he clenched his cloak tighter to his chest.

Turning, the wheelhouse came to an abrupt stop, heaving forward a little, before settling back with a low groan by the wooden axis and wheels. The clattering of a thousand voices silenced with the halt by the wheelhouse. Most of the Trevelyans had came by horse, embodying the ideal of their heraldry. Not even great-aunt Lucille had came with her wheelhouse, though the woman neared her fiftieth year. Uncle Maxalias seems happy that he drew everyone’s attention, thought Amayian, glancing at his uncle and the door to the wheelhouse, expectedly.

Lord Maxalias swung from his horse with swift elegance, landing with a soft bounce onto the earth. Spreading his arms wide, he turned on his heels, leaned back, and smiled brightly. His purple eyes caught the sunlight, softening the indigo to a paler blue, though they glimmered with mischievousness. “My beloved cousin, the Storm of Starkhaven.” He laughed merrily, but a chilled hand shrouded the bailey, and both feet and hooves of men and horses alike shifted.

Lord Rhyis neither shifted nor gave any indication that he was pleased at the sight of his cousin. Instead, his mouth tightened, the wind fluttering his hair back. His father’s eyes narrowed, the Lord of Vasenarg said, “Maxalias.” He did not offer his hand.

Uncle Maxalias’ smile did not falter for a moment, but something flashed in his eyes which hurled Amayian’s stomach, a glint of sharp ice that made his paling eyes paler and colder. Turning his gaze away, they landed upon Amayian’s mother, who was as straight-backed as his father. “Jacqueline, as beautiful as ever.”

Her mother merely inclined her head for a moment or two. “Lord Maxalias.” The title on her lips was harsh and filled with disgust that even his mother could not hide.

The door to the wheelhouse swung gently open, pulled back by a foot soldier in silver armor and green cloths and brown leather. His shortsword hung in a scabbard plain and worn, and the silver of the guard glimmered faintly beneath the light when it caught it. But Amayian could not see his face, even when he turned to stand flat against the wheelhouse, door handle in hand. His face seemed entirely made of shifting shadows, but a pair of golden-hazel eyes burned with a calm and serenity. Kyal. A golden-hazel eye winked when it caught Amayian staring, but quickly returned to gaze off in the distance.

A woman stepped down, garbed in a dress of emerald green satin laced with intertwining vines across the corset and sleeves, which draped with sheer, translucent cloth toward the ground. Her long hair was a mane of wavy locks and of a rich deep brown, framing a square-jaw, with soft cheeks tinted with a hint of rose. Golden-green eyes peeked out beneath long, black lashes, twinkling. A smile danced upon full, small lips.

Aunt Amélie, he thought, watching as she slipped one of her hands into the other. His mother’s younger sister. Lady Jacqueline and Lady Amélie were both daughters of the House of Talayene, an old cadet branch that had split when one of Amayian’s many ancestors married into a Orlesian house with a sickly lord as her husband. He had died, and his wife had taken command as the matron of the household, installing her son as the new lord and declaring the House of Du Valus to be renamed the House of Talayene. Ever since then, Amayian been told, his family had a strong influence in the northwestern parts of the Orlesian Empire. Sizable enough for them to claim the title of Dukes. Enough to catch the eye of the Storm of Starkhaven.

“My dearest, eldest sister,” said Aunt Amélie, pulling the sides of her dress up, crossed her legs, and knelt a little to the earth in a humble. She then brought Amayian’s mother into a warm hug, kiss both cheeks, and cupped them with gloved hands. “Why don’t you smile? It's been years since I last saw you do so.” Glancing at Father, Aunt Amélie’s eyes were frosty and narrowed to slits. She leaned close, whispering something in his mother’s ear. Something which caused Lady Jacqueline’s shoulders to tremble with laughter. Amayian shifted to side to side on the heels of his feet. His Uncle had warned him to be wary when he saw Trevelyan woman interluding with one another. But it did not seem entirely too bad. It had gotten his mother to laugh, and that was what mattered, did it not?

His mother and father spoke in soft words with Uncle Maxalias and Aunt Amélie, leaning together in a huddle as the bailey was continued to be filled with the sounds of laughter and chatter, and Amayian was slowly believing that the entire world was streaming through Vasenarg’s gatehouse to clog the castle.

Rhyis whimpered in disappointment and poorly hidden annoyance. His fists were balled into tiny fists, bottom lipped pumped out into a pout, and his cheeks flushed bright red. Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, Amayian pulled him into a hug, his own dread tugging at his stomach. Did they leave her back at Kűrgaz? Instead of letting himself reveal that dread, Amayian smiled and kissed the top of his little brother’s head. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “We’ll see her next time Uncle Maxalias and Aunt Amélie visit.” He did not think that he sounded as assured as he would have liked, but his brother seemed to have bought it well enough. Sniffing, the pout his brother had worn retreated a bit and he pressed his face flushed against the silk of Amayian’s doublet.

Then, the wheelhouse creaked once more, and a shadow slipped down from the doorway, landing with a slight jump onto the earth. Black, billowing curls trembled in thick waves by the wind which came eastward. A small, childish smile played at her lips, and large, almond-shaped green eyes, speckled with gold, shimmered like light spearing through evergreen trees. His cousin stood only a little taller than him, with a soft face and rosy cheeks. She had her mother’s eyes, but her glimmered more green than gold, as if the sun dripped pools of light into a meadow dancing with flourishing grass.

Rhyis untangled himself from Amayian’s waist and lunged forward, draping his arms tight around their cousin’s neck with enough force that Amayian was sure he thought his cousin lost her breath. But, instead, she merely giggled and wrapped an arm around Rhyis’ waist, a lopsided grin plastering her features. “Hello, little cousin,” she laughed, with a voice as sweet as summer air.

Alexandra Trevelyan was always the sunlight at the soirees his siblings and Amayian were forced to attend, a breaker of darkness as boredom from which would have slowly settled on them with time’s slow crawl. She knew how to make Amayian laugh, and with a mind that matched Ashania, she shown as a beacon, a symbol of what a Trevelyan ought to be, even if she was little more than a year older than Amayian was.

Aunt Amélie’s voice broke the joy like a howl from a wolf. “Alexandra,” she said shrilly, “greet your aunt and uncle. It is unbecoming of a lady.” Her lips were thinned, jaw set tight, and Amayian watched as his cousin’s cheeks flushed the brightest of red.

Hesitatingly, Alexandra released Rhyis, whom pouted and crossed his arms over his chest with a huff. Mother sent a dark, but not unkind, look toward her youngest child, and spread out an arm, combing her fingers as an offering. Rhyis took it, and slipped to nuzzle his face against the skirt of Lady Jacqueline’s dress. Amayian noticed the smile forming at his mother’s lips.

Alexandra curtsied with only the slightest mistakes, and rose to clasp her hands at the front of her dress, like her own mother. She smiled up at Amayian’s mother and father. “Greetings, Uncle Rhyis, Aunt Jacqueline.” Her words came strong and vibrant, unlike the softness of a lay sister or the Revered Mother when uttering prayers in the chantry. But she seemed to whittle beneath the gaze of her mother and father, and brought her own stare to rest at his parents’ feet.

It was his mother who saved his cousin from inflaming her cheeks with crimson. She knelt down, fingers raking through Esmyial’s wavy locks, and pressed a kiss to Alexandra’s forehead, pulling back with a smile. “It is good to see you again, Alexandra. Maker, you’ve grown. You’re almost up to my stomach.” She laughed and rustled Alexandra’s hair, who pouted, puffed, and soon joined in with the laughter. Amayian felt a smile blossom on his lips. Rising from her bent position, Jacqueline Trevelyan notched an eyebrow. “Where is little Malanias?”

“Alas, we were forced to leave Malanias at Kűrgaz with our other servants.” Uncle Maxalias shook his head, sighing, as if that was the most disappointing news in the world.

Father spoke, and when he did, Amayian jumped at its sudden arrival, like a clap of thunder from a storm that seemed to have ended. “Then let the Maker preserve him.”

Amayian’s mother followed suit, tilting her head in a soft bow, the words uttered gentle and not loud enough to be heard, but he knew what she said well enough. Ashania brought her hands to her lips, cupped together, eyes closed, and by that point Amayian was compelled as well. Malanias was only two years old, but even Amayian saw that the boy had little in him to survive. It had hurt his heart to see him so thin and small. The babe smiled and laughed easily, even with the shadow of death crawling over him. The Chants gave a soft, warm beat to follow in his blood and quieted an uneasiness which lingered unexpectedly on his chest. When he lifted his eyes, the sun glowed warmer, somehow.

“Thank you, Uncle Rhyis,” said Alexandra chirply, and the wind eased into a soft breeze to allow her hair to finally settled about her shoulders, like a rippling curtain of darkness.

For a moment, his father seemed to smile, but it disappeared as swiftly as it came. He turned to Uncle Maxalias, who’s smile never waved, not once. “Ashania, Amayian. Take your cousin with you to one of your bedchambers. I’ll send the others to you once they arrive and I greet them.”

Ashania and Amayian bowed, and the wind curled up, splattering his cloak behind him in a hard whip. His sister smiled, nodded, and said, “Yes, Father.” She entwined her arm with Alexandra’s, and nearly dragged her along with a light skip to her step. Rhyis soon followed in a run, nearly tumbling to the ground. He steadied himself and continued on, laughing. The guards at the keep’s bronze doors pushed the open with a loud creak which was drowned out by the chatter.

He glanced up at his father, and bowed once more to his uncle, aunt, mother, and father in silence. “My lord,” he whispered, “my lady.” His uncle and aunt smiled, though they did not reach their eyes. They were cold, distant, detached, though Aunt Amélie seemed warmer - only a touch, however.

Father merely nodded. “Go on.” His voice seemed softer than before. His mother ruffled his hair and laid a kiss to his forehead and smiled.

The sounds of the Trevelyans grew fainter as Amayian walked up the marble stairs, the echo pounding in his ears, and weakened the laughter and the prattle. It sounded like drums in his ears, and the hallway was casted in faint balls of orange and gold, seemingly bouncing in the air as darkness seeped. With trembling hands, he stepped through the threshold into Vasenarg’s great, black maw.

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artisticlicenserpmemes · 5 years

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(Mostly) Tanka Poetry Starters 1

Tanka poetry refers to a Japanese 31-syllable poem, traditionally written as a single, unbroken line. The word "tanka" translates to "short song." Similar to haiku poetry, tanka poems have specific syllable requirements. They also use many literary devices, including personification, metaphors, and similes to allow ample visualization. Some lines aren’t really Tanka, but I felt the necessity of including them because the many possibilities of being interpreted. Translated, feel free to change anything or just send parts of the whole poems.

The bead flowers you gazed at are about to wither, even though my tears haven't dried.

Do you not see the guards as you travel through the purple fields and the forbidden fields, waving those sleeves of yours?

Plum blossoms are falling in my garden. I thought them as snow falling from the sky.

I might not be seeing you, seeing as your feelings are as half-hearted as the light peach color of your garment.

I do not feel sorry for my existence, even if it will soon vanish like dewdrops on the morning fields of Kasuga.

I wish I could also pick the moonlight filtering through the four-petaled hydrangea flowers.

It seems spring is coming, seeing as the trees all over the mountain slope are blossoming.

Waves of wisteria flowers are in full bloom. You are missing the city of Nara, are you not?

Just one branch of these flowers holds a thousand words, so don't take it lightly.

Your skin that shines under the moon, is it like snow or precious stones?

I suppose I'll spend the night as long as the cascading tail of a copper pheasant sleeping alone.

How I yearn for the mountain cherry blossoms to bloom every single day.

The world is hopeless. Even the mountain cave I enter out of despair is filled with the cries of deers.

Why don't we pick the white chrysanthemums that look like early frost to our hearts' content?

My being is burning like algae salt being dried on a windless afternoon on the shores of Matsuho waiting for someone who never arrives.

I was looking for my beloved who has gotten lost in the autumn-leaf-covered autumn mountain, but I don't know the way.

To not even have my wish of vanishing from the face of this world granted, I truly am a miserable existence.

A foggy autumn sunset is shining upon the trees on which passing raindrops haven't dried.

Flowers return to the roots, birds return to their old nests, but people have nowhere to go in spring.

Snow is falling like flowers and shining like gems, it reminds me of my snow-covered hometown which I even see in my dreams.

Since it seems no one can escape from the rain, these drenched clothes will never dry.

I was willing to throw away my life to be with you, but now that we are together, I wish it could be longer.

I suppose you know how long it is to spend all night alone in bed lamenting until morning.

I wish the world could stay unchanged. I feel indescribable sorrow at the sight of the rope of a fisherman's boat rowing along the shore.

Upon the northern mountain, blue clouds are floating away from the stars and the moon.

Plum blossoms are in full bloom, so my friends, let's weave them into our hair.

When snow falls, every single tree looks like it's blooming, so let's break off one branch to see if it's really plum blossoms.

There wanders a young woman on the road lit up by the pink of the peach blossoms in the spring garden.

It seems the snow that I asked my village's god for has spilled over into yours.

#poetry #poetry starters #starters #rp meme #rp starter #rp starters #sentence starter #sentence starters #sentence starter meme #meme #ask meme #Poetry meme #roleplay meme #roleplay starter

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archadianskies · 5 years

Text

settle down

@dbhrarepairs Monday Day 1: Laughter + Supernatural; Witch AU North/Chloe

They meet, again and again, at dusk when the sky is aflame and the sun melts along the horizon. It is a sliver of time when both their auras can coexist; hers is the sun that shines and burns and hers is the moon that gleams and glows. She does not know how she came to be so blessed, for she has set alight everything she’s ever tried to love and been left with nothing but ashes for her efforts.

Chloe waits for her at the forest’s edge, draped in diaphanous robes that wink with starlight.

“Hello my love.” She greets with a smile and North yearns for her like a ravenous fire ever hungry for more. “You’ve returned from your travels. How fares the city?”

“Loud and smelly and rude.” North shrugs, slinging down her rucksack in favour of gathering her into her arms and spinning around for no other reason than to hear her bright laughter.

“So nothing’s changed, hm?” Her eyes twinkle with mischief and such light to put the stars to shame.

“Everything’s new and somehow still the same, yes.” She noses her long blonde tresses, drowning in the scent of wildflowers to banish the stench of the city away.

“It’s a full moon tonight.” Chloe whispers, her body thrumming with energy. “We shall dance.”

“We shall.” North confirms, cupping her face to seal their lips together. “And we will weave our magic as one.”

And so they do. Her magic is rough, is brazen and merciless, is all encompassing and demanding. It burns up all her energy and claws for more and she uses it to forge weapons, she uses it like a blade between the ribs of the unjust, she uses it as a pyre upon which to throw those that abuse their power. Chloe’s magic is cold, silken smooth like drinking spring water still icy from winter’s frost. Her magic is old, ancient and timeless and revered, and she uses it to heal, to unmake something made, to unbreak something broken. North worships her with her words, with her mouth, with her fingers, and she is an ancient god forgotten until now and North will make sure she’s never forgotten again.

Come the morning, when dawn paints copper against the inky swathes of night, North stirs as Chloe’s power wanes. Her beloved’s golden tresses are tangled with leaves and crushed flowers, her breath soft and warm, her body bare and deliciously bruised. She traces her fingertips along the masterpiece that is her ancient goddess, her moonlight witch, her ever enduring love. There’s honey, sugar crystals, morning dewdrops, dried petals, and powdered bloods in her rucksack, her spoils from the city where her friend runs a store with his beloved. They will make potions today, gathering the fruits of the forest to grind, to boil, to ferment. She will journey with those potions in a week’s time, back out to the city where her friend runs a store with his beloved so he may sell them in their stead.

For now, though, she is not going anywhere. Chloe sighs, burrowing closer for warmth and she is perpetually cold and North perpetually burns. She’s rendered to ashes everything she’s ever tried to love, except Chloe. No harm will ever come to her because they will have to fight the inferno first.

#dbhrarepairsweek #dbh north #dbhrarepairs #dbh chloe #detroit: become human #witch au #it's monday in australia so #annie writes: dbh #yeah yeah it's a 1975 song

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livmoose · 5 years

Text

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Willy Pogany ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’, illustration, 1915

Argument

How a Ship having passed the Line was driven by storms to the cold Country towards the South Pole; and how from thence she made her course to the tropical Latitude of the Great Pacific Ocean; and of the strange things that befell; and in what manner the Ancyent Marinere came back to his own Country.

PART I

It is an ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three. 'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?

The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide, And I am next of kin; The guests are met, the feast is set: May'st hear the merry din.'

He holds him with his skinny hand, 'There was a ship,' quoth he. 'Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!' Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

He holds him with his glittering eye— The Wedding-Guest stood still, And listens like a three years' child: The Mariner hath his will.

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone: He cannot choose but hear; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner.

'The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared, Merrily did we drop Below the kirk, below the hill, Below the lighthouse top.

The Sun came up upon the left, Out of the sea came he! And he shone bright, and on the right Went down into the sea.

Higher and higher every day, Till over the mast at noon—' The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, For he heard the loud bassoon.

The bride hath paced into the hall, Red as a rose is she; Nodding their heads before her goes The merry minstrelsy.

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, Yet he cannot choose but hear; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner.

And now the STORM-BLAST came, and he Was tyrannous and strong: He struck with his o'ertaking wings, And chased us south along.

With sloping masts and dipping prow, As who pursued with yell and blow Still treads the shadow of his foe, And forward bends his head, The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, And southward aye we fled.

And now there came both mist and snow, And it grew wondrous cold: And ice, mast-high, came floating by, As green as emerald.

And through the drifts the snowy clifts Did send a dismal sheen: Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken— The ice was all between.

The ice was here, the ice was there, The ice was all around: It cracked and growled, and roared and howled, Like noises in a swound!

At length did cross an Albatross, Thorough the fog it came; As if it had been a Christian soul, We hailed it in God's name.

It ate the food it ne'er had eat, And round and round it flew. The ice did split with a thunder-fit; The helmsman steered us through!

And a good south wind sprung up behind; The Albatross did follow, And every day, for food or play, Came to the mariner's hollo!

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, It perched for vespers nine; Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, Glimmered the white Moon-shine.'

'God save thee, ancient Mariner! From the fiends, that plague thee thus!— Why look'st thou so?'—With my cross-bow I shot the ALBATROSS.

PART II

The Sun now rose upon the right: Out of the sea came he, Still hid in mist, and on the left Went down into the sea.

And the good south wind still blew behind, But no sweet bird did follow, Nor any day for food or play Came to the mariner's hollo!

And I had done a hellish thing, And it would work 'em woe: For all averred, I had killed the bird That made the breeze to blow. Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay, That made the breeze to blow!

Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, The glorious Sun uprist: Then all averred, I had killed the bird That brought the fog and mist. 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, That bring the fog and mist.

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, The furrow followed free; We were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea.

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 'Twas sad as sad could be; And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea!

All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody Sun, at noon, Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the Moon.

Day after day, day after day, We stuck, nor breath nor motion; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean.

Water, water, every where, And all the boards did shrink; Water, water, every where, Nor any drop to drink.

The very deep did rot: O Christ! That ever this should be! Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs Upon the slimy sea.

About, about, in reel and rout The death-fires danced at night; The water, like a witch's oils, Burnt green, and blue and white.

And some in dreams assurèd were Of the Spirit that plagued us so; Nine fathom deep he had followed us From the land of mist and snow.

And every tongue, through utter drought, Was withered at the root; We could not speak, no more than if We had been choked with soot.

Ah! well a-day! what evil looks Had I from old and young! Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung.

PART III

There passed a weary time. Each throat Was parched, and glazed each eye. A weary time! a weary time! How glazed each weary eye,

When looking westward, I beheld A something in the sky.

At first it seemed a little speck, And then it seemed a mist; It moved and moved, and took at last A certain shape, I wist.

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! And still it neared and neared: As if it dodged a water-sprite, It plunged and tacked and veered.

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, We could nor laugh nor wail; Through utter drought all dumb we stood! I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, And cried, A sail! a sail!

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, Agape they heard me call: Gramercy! they for joy did grin, And all at once their breath drew in. As they were drinking all.

See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more! Hither to work us weal; Without a breeze, without a tide, She steadies with upright keel!

The western wave was all a-flame. The day was well nigh done! Almost upon the western wave Rested the broad bright Sun; When that strange shape drove suddenly Betwixt us and the Sun.

And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, (Heaven's Mother send us grace!) As if through a dungeon-grate he peered With broad and burning face.

Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) How fast she nears and nears! Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, Like restless gossameres?

Are those her ribs through which the Sun Did peer, as through a grate? And is that Woman all her crew? Is that a DEATH? and are there two? Is DEATH that woman's mate?

Her lips were red, her looks were free, Her locks were yellow as gold: Her skin was as white as leprosy, The Night-mare LIFE-IN-DEATH was she, Who thicks man's blood with cold.

The naked hulk alongside came, And the twain were casting dice; 'The game is done! I've won! I've won!' Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out; At one stride comes the dark; With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, Off shot the spectre-bark.

We listened and looked sideways up! Fear at my heart, as at a cup, My life-blood seemed to sip! The stars were dim, and thick the night, The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white; From the sails the dew did drip— Till clomb above the eastern bar The hornèd Moon, with one bright star Within the nether tip.

One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, Too quick for groan or sigh, Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, And cursed me with his eye.

Four times fifty living men, (And I heard nor sigh nor groan) With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, They dropped down one by one.

The souls did from their bodies fly,— They fled to bliss or woe! And every soul, it passed me by, Like the whizz of my cross-bow!

PART IV

'I fear thee, ancient Mariner! I fear thy skinny hand! And thou art long, and lank, and brown, As is the ribbed sea-sand.

I fear thee and thy glittering eye, And thy skinny hand, so brown.'— Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest! This body dropt not down.

Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide wide sea! And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony.

The many men, so beautiful! And they all dead did lie: And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on; and so did I.

I looked upon the rotting sea, And drew my eyes away; I looked upon the rotting deck, And there the dead men lay.

I looked to heaven, and tried to pray; But or ever a prayer had gusht, A wicked whisper came, and made My heart as dry as dust.

I closed my lids, and kept them close, And the balls like pulses beat; For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky Lay dead like a load on my weary eye, And the dead were at my feet.

The cold sweat melted from their limbs, Nor rot nor reek did they: The look with which they looked on me Had never passed away.

An orphan's curse would drag to hell A spirit from on high; But oh! more horrible than that Is the curse in a dead man's eye! Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, And yet I could not die.

The moving Moon went up the sky, And no where did abide: Softly she was going up, And a star or two beside—

Her beams bemocked the sultry main, Like April hoar-frost spread; But where the ship's huge shadow lay, The charmèd water burnt alway A still and awful red.

Beyond the shadow of the ship, I watched the water-snakes: They moved in tracks of shining white, And when they reared, the elfish light Fell off in hoary flakes.

Within the shadow of the ship I watched their rich attire: Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, They coiled and swam; and every track Was a flash of golden fire.

O happy living things! no tongue Their beauty might declare: A spring of love gushed from my heart, And I blessed them unaware: Sure my kind saint took pity on me, And I blessed them unaware.

The self-same moment I could pray; And from my neck so free The Albatross fell off, and sank Like lead into the sea.

PART V

Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing, Beloved from pole to pole! To Mary Queen the praise be given! She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, That slid into my soul.

The silly buckets on the deck, That had so long remained, I dreamt that they were filled with dew; And when I awoke, it rained.

My lips were wet, my throat was cold, My garments all were dank; Sure I had drunken in my dreams, And still my body drank.

I moved, and could not feel my limbs: I was so light—almost I thought that I had died in sleep, And was a blessed ghost.

And soon I heard a roaring wind: It did not come anear; But with its sound it shook the sails, That were so thin and sere.

The upper air burst into life! And a hundred fire-flags sheen, To and fro they were hurried about! And to and fro, and in and out, The wan stars danced between.

And the coming wind did roar more loud, And the sails did sigh like sedge, And the rain poured down from one black cloud; The Moon was at its edge.

The thick black cloud was cleft, and still The Moon was at its side: Like waters shot from some high crag, The lightning fell with never a jag, A river steep and wide.

The loud wind never reached the ship, Yet now the ship moved on! Beneath the lightning and the Moon The dead men gave a groan.

They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, Nor spake, nor moved their eyes; It had been strange, even in a dream, To have seen those dead men rise.

The helmsman steered, the ship moved on; Yet never a breeze up-blew; The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, Where they were wont to do; They raised their limbs like lifeless tools— We were a ghastly crew.

The body of my brother's son Stood by me, knee to knee: The body and I pulled at one rope, But he said nought to me.

'I fear thee, ancient Mariner!' Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest! 'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, Which to their corses came again, But a troop of spirits blest:

For when it dawned—they dropped their arms, And clustered round the mast; Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, And from their bodies passed.

Around, around, flew each sweet sound, Then darted to the Sun; Slowly the sounds came back again, Now mixed, now one by one.

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky I heard the sky-lark sing; Sometimes all little birds that are, How they seemed to fill the sea and air With their sweet jargoning!

And now 'twas like all instruments, Now like a lonely flute; And now it is an angel's song, That makes the heavens be mute.

It ceased; yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon, A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune.

Till noon we quietly sailed on, Yet never a breeze did breathe: Slowly and smoothly went the ship, Moved onward from beneath.

Under the keel nine fathom deep, From the land of mist and snow, The spirit slid: and it was he That made the ship to go. The sails at noon left off their tune, And the ship stood still also.

The Sun, right up above the mast, Had fixed her to the ocean: But in a minute she 'gan stir, With a short uneasy motion— Backwards and forwards half her length With a short uneasy motion.

Then like a pawing horse let go, She made a sudden bound: It flung the blood into my head, And I fell down in a swound.

How long in that same fit I lay, I have not to declare; But ere my living life returned, I heard and in my soul discerned Two voices in the air.

'Is it he?' quoth one, 'Is this the man? By him who died on cross, With his cruel bow he laid full low The harmless Albatross.

The spirit who bideth by himself In the land of mist and snow, He loved the bird that loved the man Who shot him with his bow.'

The other was a softer voice, As soft as honey-dew: Quoth he, 'The man hath penance done, And penance more will do.'

PART VI

First Voice 'But tell me, tell me! speak again, Thy soft response renewing— What makes that ship drive on so fast? What is the ocean doing?'

Second Voice Still as a slave before his lord, The ocean hath no blast; His great bright eye most silently Up to the Moon is cast—

If he may know which way to go; For she guides him smooth or grim. See, brother, see! how graciously She looketh down on him.'

First Voice 'But why drives on that ship so fast, Without or wave or wind?'

Second Voice 'The air is cut away before, And closes from behind.

Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high! Or we shall be belated: For slow and slow that ship will go, When the Mariner's trance is abated.'

I woke, and we were sailing on As in a gentle weather: 'Twas night, calm night, the moon was high; The dead men stood together.

All stood together on the deck, For a charnel-dungeon fitter: All fixed on me their stony eyes, That in the Moon did glitter.

The pang, the curse, with which they died, Had never passed away: I could not draw my eyes from theirs, Nor turn them up to pray.

And now this spell was snapt: once more I viewed the ocean green, And looked far forth, yet little saw Of what had else been seen—

Like one, that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread, And having once turned round walks on, And turns no more his head; Because he knows, a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread.

But soon there breathed a wind on me, Nor sound nor motion made: Its path was not upon the sea, In ripple or in shade.

It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek Like a meadow-gale of spring— It mingled strangely with my fears, Yet it felt like a welcoming.

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, Yet she sailed softly too: Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze— On me alone it blew.

Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed The light-house top I see? Is this the hill? is this the kirk? Is this mine own countree?

We drifted o'er the harbour-bar, And I with sobs did pray— O let me be awake, my God! Or let me sleep alway.

The harbour-bay was clear as glass, So smoothly it was strewn! And on the bay the moonlight lay, And the shadow of the Moon.

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, That stands above the rock: The moonlight steeped in silentness The steady weathercock.

And the bay was white with silent light, Till rising from the same, Full many shapes, that shadows were, In crimson colours came.

A little distance from the prow Those crimson shadows were: I turned my eyes upon the deck— Oh, Christ! what saw I there!

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, And, by the holy rood! A man all light, a seraph-man, On every corse there stood.

This seraph-band, each waved his hand: It was a heavenly sight! They stood as signals to the land, Each one a lovely light;

This seraph-band, each waved his hand, No voice did they impart— No voice; but oh! the silence sank Like music on my heart.

But soon I heard the dash of oars, I heard the Pilot's cheer; My head was turned perforce away And I saw a boat appear.

The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, I heard them coming fast: Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy The dead men could not blast.

I saw a third—I heard his voice: It is the Hermit good! He singeth loud his godly hymns That he makes in the wood. He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away The Albatross's blood.

PART VII

This Hermit good lives in that wood Which slopes down to the sea. How loudly his sweet voice he rears! He loves to talk with marineres That come from a far countree.

He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve— He hath a cushion plump: It is the moss that wholly hides The rotted old oak-stump.

The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk, 'Why, this is strange, I trow! Where are those lights so many and fair, That signal made but now?'

'Strange, by my faith!' the Hermit said— 'And they answered not our cheer! The planks looked warped! and see those sails, How thin they are and sere! I never saw aught like to them, Unless perchance it were

Brown skeletons of leaves that lag My forest-brook along; When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, That eats the she-wolf's young.'

'Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look— (The Pilot made reply) I am a-feared'—'Push on, push on!' Said the Hermit cheerily.

The boat came closer to the ship, But I nor spake nor stirred; The boat came close beneath the ship, And straight a sound was heard.

Under the water it rumbled on, Still louder and more dread: It reached the ship, it split the bay; The ship went down like lead.

Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, Which sky and ocean smote, Like one that hath been seven days drowned My body lay afloat; But swift as dreams, myself I found Within the Pilot's boat.

Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, The boat spun round and round; And all was still, save that the hill Was telling of the sound.

I moved my lips—the Pilot shrieked And fell down in a fit; The holy Hermit raised his eyes, And prayed where he did sit.

I took the oars: the Pilot's boy, Who now doth crazy go, Laughed loud and long, and all the while His eyes went to and fro. 'Ha! ha!' quoth he, 'full plain I see, The Devil knows how to row.'

And now, all in my own countree, I stood on the firm land! The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, And scarcely he could stand.

'O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!' The Hermit crossed his brow. 'Say quick,' quoth he, 'I bid thee say— What manner of man art thou?'

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched With a woful agony, Which forced me to begin my tale; And then it left me free.

Since then, at an uncertain hour, That agony returns: And till my ghastly tale is told, This heart within me burns.

I pass, like night, from land to land; I have strange power of speech; That moment that his face I see, I know the man that must hear me: To him my tale I teach.

What loud uproar bursts from that door! The wedding-guests are there: But in the garden-bower the bride And bride-maids singing are: And hark the little vesper bell, Which biddeth me to prayer!

O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been Alone on a wide wide sea: So lonely 'twas, that God himself Scarce seemèd there to be.

O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 'Tis sweeter far to me, To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company!—

To walk together to the kirk, And all together pray, While each to his great Father bends, Old men, and babes, and loving friends And youths and maidens gay!

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell To thee, thou Wedding-Guest! He prayeth well, who loveth well Both man and bird and beast.

He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all.

The Mariner, whose eye is bright, Whose beard with age is hoar, Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest Turned from the bridegroom's door.

He went like one that hath been stunned, And is of sense forlorn: A sadder and a wiser man, He rose the morrow morn.

Willy Pogany ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’, illustration, 1915

#poetry #coleridge #pogany #long-ish #supernatural #great metaphors galore #gloriously scary #when you envy the dead #don't shoot the albatross #slimy things did crawl with legs upon the slimy sea #with throats unslaked with black lips baked #and yet i could not die #water snakes #till my ghastly tale is told this heart within me burns #zombies at sea #before Pirates of the Caribbean became mainstream

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sandrinedrouinlove · 5 years

Text

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner BY SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

Argument How a Ship having passed the Line was driven by storms to the cold Country towards the South Pole; and how from thence she made her course to the tropical Latitude of the Great Pacific Ocean; and of the strange things that befell; and in what manner the Ancyent Marinere came back to his own Country.

PART I

It is an ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three. 'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp'st thou me? The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide, And I am next of kin; The guests are met, the feast is set: May'st hear the merry din.' He holds him with his skinny hand, 'There was a ship,' quoth he. 'Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!' Eftsoons his hand dropt he. He holds him with his glittering eye— The Wedding-Guest stood still, And listens like a three years' child: The Mariner hath his will. The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone: He cannot choose but hear; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner. 'The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared, Merrily did we drop Below the kirk, below the hill, Below the lighthouse top. The Sun came up upon the left, Out of the sea came he! And he shone bright, and on the right Went down into the sea. Higher and higher every day, Till over the mast at noon—' The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, For he heard the loud bassoon. The bride hath paced into the hall, Red as a rose is she; Nodding their heads before her goes The merry minstrelsy. The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, Yet he cannot choose but hear; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner. And now the STORM-BLAST came, and he Was tyrannous and strong: He struck with his o'ertaking wings, And chased us south along. With sloping masts and dipping prow, As who pursued with yell and blow Still treads the shadow of his foe, And forward bends his head, The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, And southward aye we fled. And now there came both mist and snow, And it grew wondrous cold: And ice, mast-high, came floating by, As green as emerald. And through the drifts the snowy clifts Did send a dismal sheen: Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken— The ice was all between. The ice was here, the ice was there, The ice was all around: It cracked and growled, and roared and howled, Like noises in a swound! At length did cross an Albatross, Thorough the fog it came; As if it had been a Christian soul, We hailed it in God's name. It ate the food it ne'er had eat, And round and round it flew. The ice did split with a thunder-fit; The helmsman steered us through! And a good south wind sprung up behind; The Albatross did follow, And every day, for food or play, Came to the mariner's hollo! In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, It perched for vespers nine; Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, Glimmered the white Moon-shine.' 'God save thee, ancient Mariner! From the fiends, that plague thee thus!— Why look'st thou so?'—With my cross-bow I shot the ALBATROSS. PART II The Sun now rose upon the right: Out of the sea came he, Still hid in mist, and on the left Went down into the sea. And the good south wind still blew behind, But no sweet bird did follow, Nor any day for food or play Came to the mariner's hollo! And I had done a hellish thing, And it would work 'em woe: For all averred, I had killed the bird That made the breeze to blow. Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay, That made the breeze to blow! Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, The glorious Sun uprist: Then all averred, I had killed the bird That brought the fog and mist. 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, That bring the fog and mist. The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, The furrow followed free; We were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea. Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 'Twas sad as sad could be; And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea! All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody Sun, at noon, Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the Moon. Day after day, day after day, We stuck, nor breath nor motion; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean. Water, water, every where, And all the boards did shrink; Water, water, every where, Nor any drop to drink. The very deep did rot: O Christ! That ever this should be! Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs Upon the slimy sea. About, about, in reel and rout The death-fires danced at night; The water, like a witch's oils, Burnt green, and blue and white. And some in dreams assurèd were Of the Spirit that plagued us so; Nine fathom deep he had followed us From the land of mist and snow. And every tongue, through utter drought, Was withered at the root; We could not speak, no more than if We had been choked with soot. Ah! well a-day! what evil looks Had I from old and young! Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung. PART III There passed a weary time. Each throat Was parched, and glazed each eye. A weary time! a weary time! How glazed each weary eye, When looking westward, I beheld A something in the sky. At first it seemed a little speck, And then it seemed a mist; It moved and moved, and took at last A certain shape, I wist. A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! And still it neared and neared: As if it dodged a water-sprite, It plunged and tacked and veered. With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, We could nor laugh nor wail; Through utter drought all dumb we stood! I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, And cried, A sail! a sail! With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, Agape they heard me call: Gramercy! they for joy did grin, And all at once their breath drew in. As they were drinking all. See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more! Hither to work us weal; Without a breeze, without a tide, She steadies with upright keel! The western wave was all a-flame. The day was well nigh done! Almost upon the western wave Rested the broad bright Sun; When that strange shape drove suddenly Betwixt us and the Sun. And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, (Heaven's Mother send us grace!) As if through a dungeon-grate he peered With broad and burning face. Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) How fast she nears and nears! Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, Like restless gossameres? Are those her ribs through which the Sun Did peer, as through a grate? And is that Woman all her crew? Is that a DEATH? and are there two? Is DEATH that woman's mate? Her lips were red, her looks were free, Her locks were yellow as gold: Her skin was as white as leprosy, The Night-mare LIFE-IN-DEATH was she, Who thicks man's blood with cold. The naked hulk alongside came, And the twain were casting dice; 'The game is done! I've won! I've won!' Quoth she, and whistles thrice. The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out; At one stride comes the dark; With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, Off shot the spectre-bark. We listened and looked sideways up! Fear at my heart, as at a cup, My life-blood seemed to sip! The stars were dim, and thick the night, The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white; From the sails the dew did drip— Till clomb above the eastern bar The hornèd Moon, with one bright star Within the nether tip. One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, Too quick for groan or sigh, Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, And cursed me with his eye. Four times fifty living men, (And I heard nor sigh nor groan) With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, They dropped down one by one. The souls did from their bodies fly,— They fled to bliss or woe! And every soul, it passed me by, Like the whizz of my cross-bow! PART IV 'I fear thee, ancient Mariner! I fear thy skinny hand! And thou art long, and lank, and brown, As is the ribbed sea-sand. I fear thee and thy glittering eye, And thy skinny hand, so brown.'— Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest! This body dropt not down. Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide wide sea! And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony. The many men, so beautiful! And they all dead did lie: And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on; and so did I. I looked upon the rotting sea, And drew my eyes away; I looked upon the rotting deck, And there the dead men lay. I looked to heaven, and tried to pray; But or ever a prayer had gusht, A wicked whisper came, and made My heart as dry as dust. I closed my lids, and kept them close, And the balls like pulses beat; For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky Lay dead like a load on my weary eye, And the dead were at my feet. The cold sweat melted from their limbs, Nor rot nor reek did they: The look with which they looked on me Had never passed away. An orphan's curse would drag to hell A spirit from on high; But oh! more horrible than that Is the curse in a dead man's eye! Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, And yet I could not die. The moving Moon went up the sky, And no where did abide: Softly she was going up, And a star or two beside— Her beams bemocked the sultry main, Like April hoar-frost spread; But where the ship's huge shadow lay, The charmèd water burnt alway A still and awful red. Beyond the shadow of the ship, I watched the water-snakes: They moved in tracks of shining white, And when they reared, the elfish light Fell off in hoary flakes. Within the shadow of the ship I watched their rich attire: Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, They coiled and swam; and every track Was a flash of golden fire. O happy living things! no tongue Their beauty might declare: A spring of love gushed from my heart, And I blessed them unaware: Sure my kind saint took pity on me, And I blessed them unaware. The self-same moment I could pray; And from my neck so free The Albatross fell off, and sank Like lead into the sea. PART V Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing, Beloved from pole to pole! To Mary Queen the praise be given! She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, That slid into my soul. The silly buckets on the deck, That had so long remained, I dreamt that they were filled with dew; And when I awoke, it rained. My lips were wet, my throat was cold, My garments all were dank; Sure I had drunken in my dreams, And still my body drank. I moved, and could not feel my limbs: I was so light—almost I thought that I had died in sleep, And was a blessed ghost. And soon I heard a roaring wind: It did not come anear; But with its sound it shook the sails, That were so thin and sere. The upper air burst into life! And a hundred fire-flags sheen, To and fro they were hurried about! And to and fro, and in and out, The wan stars danced between. And the coming wind did roar more loud, And the sails did sigh like sedge, And the rain poured down from one black cloud; The Moon was at its edge. The thick black cloud was cleft, and still The Moon was at its side: Like waters shot from some high crag, The lightning fell with never a jag, A river steep and wide. The loud wind never reached the ship, Yet now the ship moved on! Beneath the lightning and the Moon The dead men gave a groan. They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, Nor spake, nor moved their eyes; It had been strange, even in a dream, To have seen those dead men rise. The helmsman steered, the ship moved on; Yet never a breeze up-blew; The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, Where they were wont to do; They raised their limbs like lifeless tools— We were a ghastly crew. The body of my brother's son Stood by me, knee to knee: The body and I pulled at one rope, But he said nought to me. 'I fear thee, ancient Mariner!' Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest! 'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, Which to their corses came again, But a troop of spirits blest: For when it dawned—they dropped their arms, And clustered round the mast; Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, And from their bodies passed. Around, around, flew each sweet sound, Then darted to the Sun; Slowly the sounds came back again, Now mixed, now one by one. Sometimes a-dropping from the sky I heard the sky-lark sing; Sometimes all little birds that are, How they seemed to fill the sea and air With their sweet jargoning! And now 'twas like all instruments, Now like a lonely flute; And now it is an angel's song, That makes the heavens be mute. It ceased; yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon, A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune. Till noon we quietly sailed on, Yet never a breeze did breathe: Slowly and smoothly went the ship, Moved onward from beneath. Under the keel nine fathom deep, From the land of mist and snow, The spirit slid: and it was he That made the ship to go. The sails at noon left off their tune, And the ship stood still also. The Sun, right up above the mast, Had fixed her to the ocean: But in a minute she 'gan stir, With a short uneasy motion— Backwards and forwards half her length With a short uneasy motion. Then like a pawing horse let go, She made a sudden bound: It flung the blood into my head, And I fell down in a swound. How long in that same fit I lay, I have not to declare; But ere my living life returned, I heard and in my soul discerned Two voices in the air. 'Is it he?' quoth one, 'Is this the man? By him who died on cross, With his cruel bow he laid full low The harmless Albatross. The spirit who bideth by himself In the land of mist and snow, He loved the bird that loved the man Who shot him with his bow.' The other was a softer voice, As soft as honey-dew: Quoth he, 'The man hath penance done, And penance more will do.' PART VI First Voice 'But tell me, tell me! speak again, Thy soft response renewing— What makes that ship drive on so fast? What is the ocean doing?' Second Voice Still as a slave before his lord, The ocean hath no blast; His great bright eye most silently Up to the Moon is cast— If he may know which way to go; For she guides him smooth or grim. See, brother, see! how graciously She looketh down on him.' First Voice 'But why drives on that ship so fast, Without or wave or wind?' Second Voice 'The air is cut away before, And closes from behind. Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high! Or we shall be belated: For slow and slow that ship will go, When the Mariner's trance is abated.' I woke, and we were sailing on As in a gentle weather: 'Twas night, calm night, the moon was high; The dead men stood together. All stood together on the deck, For a charnel-dungeon fitter: All fixed on me their stony eyes, That in the Moon did glitter. The pang, the curse, with which they died, Had never passed away: I could not draw my eyes from theirs, Nor turn them up to pray. And now this spell was snapt: once more I viewed the ocean green, And looked far forth, yet little saw Of what had else been seen— Like one, that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread, And having once turned round walks on, And turns no more his head; Because he knows, a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread. But soon there breathed a wind on me, Nor sound nor motion made: Its path was not upon the sea, In ripple or in shade. It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek Like a meadow-gale of spring— It mingled strangely with my fears, Yet it felt like a welcoming. Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, Yet she sailed softly too: Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze— On me alone it blew. Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed The light-house top I see? Is this the hill? is this the kirk? Is this mine own countree? We drifted o'er the harbour-bar, And I with sobs did pray— O let me be awake, my God! Or let me sleep alway. The harbour-bay was clear as glass, So smoothly it was strewn! And on the bay the moonlight lay, And the shadow of the Moon. The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, That stands above the rock: The moonlight steeped in silentness The steady weathercock. And the bay was white with silent light, Till rising from the same, Full many shapes, that shadows were, In crimson colours came. A little distance from the prow Those crimson shadows were: I turned my eyes upon the deck— Oh, Christ! what saw I there! Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, And, by the holy rood! A man all light, a seraph-man, On every corse there stood. This seraph-band, each waved his hand: It was a heavenly sight! They stood as signals to the land, Each one a lovely light; This seraph-band, each waved his hand, No voice did they impart— No voice; but oh! the silence sank Like music on my heart. But soon I heard the dash of oars, I heard the Pilot's cheer; My head was turned perforce away And I saw a boat appear. The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, I heard them coming fast: Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy The dead men could not blast. I saw a third—I heard his voice: It is the Hermit good! He singeth loud his godly hymns That he makes in the wood. He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away The Albatross's blood. PART VII This Hermit good lives in that wood Which slopes down to the sea. How loudly his sweet voice he rears! He loves to talk with marineres That come from a far countree. He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve— He hath a cushion plump: It is the moss that wholly hides The rotted old oak-stump. The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk, 'Why, this is strange, I trow! Where are those lights so many and fair, That signal made but now?' 'Strange, by my faith!' the Hermit said— 'And they answered not our cheer! The planks looked warped! and see those sails, How thin they are and sere! I never saw aught like to them, Unless perchance it were Brown skeletons of leaves that lag My forest-brook along; When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, That eats the she-wolf's young.' 'Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look— (The Pilot made reply) I am a-feared'—'Push on, push on!' Said the Hermit cheerily. The boat came closer to the ship, But I nor spake nor stirred; The boat came close beneath the ship, And straight a sound was heard. Under the water it rumbled on, Still louder and more dread: It reached the ship, it split the bay; The ship went down like lead. Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, Which sky and ocean smote, Like one that hath been seven days drowned My body lay afloat; But swift as dreams, myself I found Within the Pilot's boat. Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, The boat spun round and round; And all was still, save that the hill Was telling of the sound. I moved my lips—the Pilot shrieked And fell down in a fit; The holy Hermit raised his eyes, And prayed where he did sit. I took the oars: the Pilot's boy, Who now doth crazy go, Laughed loud and long, and all the while His eyes went to and fro. 'Ha! ha!' quoth he, 'full plain I see, The Devil knows how to row.' And now, all in my own countree, I stood on the firm land! The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, And scarcely he could stand. 'O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!' The Hermit crossed his brow. 'Say quick,' quoth he, 'I bid thee say— What manner of man art thou?' Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched With a woful agony, Which forced me to begin my tale; And then it left me free. Since then, at an uncertain hour, That agony returns: And till my ghastly tale is told, This heart within me burns. I pass, like night, from land to land; I have strange power of speech; That moment that his face I see, I know the man that must hear me: To him my tale I teach. What loud uproar bursts from that door! The wedding-guests are there: But in the garden-bower the bride And bride-maids singing are: And hark the little vesper bell, Which biddeth me to prayer! O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been Alone on a wide wide sea: So lonely 'twas, that God himself Scarce seemèd there to be. O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 'Tis sweeter far to me, To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company!— To walk together to the kirk, And all together pray, While each to his great Father bends, Old men, and babes, and loving friends And youths and maidens gay! Farewell, farewell! but this I tell To thee, thou Wedding-Guest! He prayeth well, who loveth well Both man and bird and beast. He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all. The Mariner, whose eye is bright, Whose beard with age is hoar, Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest Turned from the bridegroom's door. He went like one that hath been stunned, And is of sense forlorn: A sadder and a wiser man, He rose the morrow morn.

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occupationalhazards-series · 6 years

Text

Zero Hour: Track One (A Side)

[image- a drawing of a vinyl record with “Zero Hour A Side” and “Ciela, The Heir Not Quite Apparent” as the text in the center.]

Content Warnings: blood, self injury (in a non self-harm context), referenced child abuse and kidnapping, referenced abusive food restriction

In a stone lined room, a small girl lies in a bed. Her slick navy horns turn indigo in the first hints of sunlight, and the light casts a similar bright violet hue to her aubergine hair. Even the small disturbance of natural sunlight is enough to wake her, eerie mercury eyes snapping open even as her body stays stone still. Her breath pattern changes, but only barely.

She tenses minutely, and waits.

One breath, two, each nearly as silent as the last. Even with her vigilance, she hears no approaching guards and fails to sense the approaching magic of her attendant.

This small assurance is all it takes for her to spring into action, shoving a light blanket and sheet to the foot of the bed. The plain night clothes she wears don’t change at all in the light of the rising sun, their muted cream color remaining dull and boring. Her skin, however, does, the soft bronze shining a bright, magical copper in these few minutes she has to herself.

She drops to her hands and knees just as quietly as she had woken up, and reaches out under the bed. In one smooth motion, she slices her left ring finger on the prepared razor blade and smears the bloody digit on the hidden compartment under the bed. She catches the journal when it falls from the compartment, and shimmies back onto the bed, crossing her legs and settling herself into her morning routine.

First she closes her eyes, recalling and reviewing. Judging by the angle of the sunshine coming through the window, her attendant shouldn’t arrive for at least an hour. It is day four of the week so far, which means... breakfast, then free archive time. After that comes etiquette review, and that precedes sword training.

Joy.

She lets out a sigh and resigns herself. This is the day’s routine, and knowing is far better than not.

Especially on weeks when Lord Prince is around. Her huff isn't even forceful enough to move the longest part of her bangs, but her eyes flash a bright platinum.

Onwards, then. She opens the precious journal far more delicately than necessary, unable to stop herself from feeling the all too important inscription on the inside cover as she reads it aloud.

"To Our Beloved And Adored Hatchling-

May your scales grow strong,

may your magic grow true,

may your stories be told.

We love you."

Her voice is airy, but not light. It has the soft tone of someone who has had cautiousness beaten into them, and the surety of one reading an absolute truth. At this moment, the very edge of night conceding to day, only the latter sentiment matters.

Her steady breath wavers, shaking as she remembers. She wishes she was older when she left (when she was taken)- there simply aren't enough days to recall no matter how far she reaches back into her memory.

Nine years just isn’t enough, especially for her kind. (Yet four years is far too many. Funny how that works.)

She has to steel herself- mentally, of course. The strict dietary regimen Lord Prince makes her keep leaves her far too underweight to brace herself with a full body of scales like her mother.

Every day is too much, and every memory is not enough. It's not a surprise- nothing that happens near daily can truly be labelled a surprise- but it cuts jut the same.

One breath, then another. Moving on, she flips to the back of the book, and then carefully flips forward by several pages. There isn't a single word on any of these pages- just hundreds of tallies, carefully, furiously scratched in. They total in the thousands, and each one represents one day away from home.

Ciela leans over the bed and nearly falls off in her rush to grab the last hidden item from underneath it- a slick and elegant metal dip pen.

She settles back into position, noting the time as she carefully presses one preternaturally sharp fang into her left palm, slowly pulling her palm away and letting the blood well in her hand.

There is no way in all the Courts she'd use something as easily manipulated and identifiable as ink.

The blood of any and every Drake is a powerful magical artifact in and of itself, but the actual substance of an individual Drake's blood is even more useful than that- any Drake could and frequently did hide their secrets with it. (Blood is home. family. secrets. love. self. ancestry. futurepastnow.)

Blood casting is an instinctual, near primitive form of magic, taught to the youngest of hatchlings. But it WORKS.

The simplicity rebounds into strength- there must be a Drake, of sound enough mind to channel magic, and something important enough to spill blood over. Will and blood.

They are all that saves her.

One breath, then another. Focus. She writes in her journal while she can.

Dearest Elders-

I have no good news. I’m not sure I have any news at all. My attendant continues to give me leniences and graces that are sure to get them in trouble. I don’t know why. They gave me a whole bunch of ambrosia berries yesterday. My magic feels bouncy and airy and like I could fly.

I want to unbind my win

Why can’t my magic feel like this all the ti

IM SORR

I am growing, but not enough. My wings are so small I’m worr

I am small even for a human my age. I know I won’t be as big as you, Mother, but you and Father are not small people. My fourteenth winter approaches, and yet the ten-summer children of the archivist are taller. As Dauphin never ceases to mention.

The ambrosia berries were good. I’ve never had something so sweet. They taste like ceremonial wine and frost lightning and honey (It’s no wonder Dauphin pays so much for their wine.)

I want to taste some properly grown by sky fae one day. I’ll share some with you too, I promise. I haven’t grown into a selfish person without you. Not yet

I’m trying so hard , please believe me

I suppose I did have something to tell you today. I’m sorry it wasn’t important. I have to have faith that you still care about unimportant things

me my day.

I love you

-Ciela

She doesn’t cry. There is no one to trust with her tears.

Nothing to do but hide her secrets once more. She cleans her dip pen with the pitiful flames she can muster from her lungs she slips it back in its makeshift hiding place along with the journal. One more drop of blood and a burst of wild magic makes the whole thing disappear to the senses. Her hand twitches, spasming into a fist.

She can’t get rid of her rabbit pulse heartbeat.

So she takes a deep breath, and as she slowly releases it her eyes widen. Her primary, secondary, and tertiary eyelids open, and her irises glow a brilliant platinum.

The world comes into preternaturally sharp focus. Every color, every detail, stands out in sharp relief. It’s not just enhanced vision- truesight reveals magic, hidden or unhidden, wild or controlled.

Ciela takes four careful turns. Nothing can be suspect. Nothing is.

She had to be sure. She nods, satisfied, and changes the flow of excess magic to heal the small abrasions on her hand. It only takes a few seconds- they were no more severe than a papercut.

Pacing and preparations done, she heads over to the window. A hop and a scrunch and she’s settled into the rim of the bay window. She tries to look at the sky, tries to feel the clouds and calls of her own from within her cage. They don’t come to her, and it’s no surprise. She has been looking and reaching for one thousand four hundred and thirty eight days, and the closest she’s come is feeling the faint echoes of a Wyvern Call.

Either the wards are that strong, or the closest of her kin was over a hundred clicks away.

Whatever. At least she can see the sky in this room placement.

She’s too tired to glare, but the look on her face as she stares at the sky she hasn’t felt in years is withering none the less. Ciela sits near perfectly still in the closest thing she gets to tranquility for twenty eight minutes before she heads back to her bed. The stone floor is cold, and she pretends not to feel it.

A soft “pat pat pat” marks her elegant trudge back to bed. Her attendant will be in soon.

She doesn’t sigh as she pulls up the covers. Tears don’t escape without permission. Her mattress isn’t stiff, her blankets aren’t too thin, her skin doesn’t feel frail.

She thinks she’s pretty good at lying these days.

She nods off before long.

When its time for the attendant to come by, Ciela is still dozing. She wakes up just as the attendant reaches out to touch her shoulder. This is no surprise to the attendant- they have been stationed over Ciela for nearly two years, and are well aware she is a light sleeper. “Your schedule has likely been moved around, but your meal is still first on the agenda.”

Ciela nods and walks over to the closet to grab her formal day attire, assigned by the Dauphin’s attellier. She grabs an undershirt and bloomers first, one each out of the twelve identical garments in the wardrobe. Next comes the loose floor length trousers. A dull navy, they match the dark grey hip length wrap blouse’s accent and ties.

“Why? My schedule was just revised.” They turn towards the opposite wall while the young girl dresses. Their voice is low and smoky and androgynous . It seems to echo and gain volume and clarity the closer they get to the shadowy corners of the room.

"Why else? Prince is in a mood today”, they murmur. “He’s always in a mood. My lessons don’t usually get changed because of it.” They sigh, and the shadows around their cloak seem to ruffle. "Mmmm. True. It will hit the public announcements later today-the Crafter's Guild has decreed that all Ranked Crafters are prohibited from engaging in business with the Prince family. Apparently, they’re concerned about the implications of Lord Prince’s recent land acquisitions."

This warrants a pause from the younger of the two- “Really?”

“Mmm. Well, nearly every consultant Lord Prince has warned him against it.”

“ I remember overhearing something about it. Didn’t Lord Prince bid rather aggressively for an old manor that was seceded to the Fair Folk territory nearly three centuries ago?”

“Yes, and he won, too. All of his other bids have been close to Ley Lines, or near enough to another Court’s sacred territory to be just this side of politically... impolite. No one knows what he’s up to, but it doesn’t matter in the short term. This embargo will be a major blow to the business deals his family and the Court of Graves have that are in negotiations.”

Ciela makes an intrigued noise as she pulls on the blouse to tie it. "Wait. I thought that guilds couldn’t declare grievance against specific families without violating Court Law?"

The attendant hums and counters "Service embargoes technically aren't, but they tend to be risky enough anyway. I'd be surprised they had the temerity, but this isn’t a standard case. Can you tell me why?"

Ciela opened her mouth to respond, but remembered to stop and think it out first. Her brow furrowed as she carefully detangled her hair from her horns. Tight, unrelaxed curls at the scalp of her horns always tangled with the wayward stretched waves. "Because... they didn't declare a formal grievance? No, as a guild they couldn't anyway. Not against a whole family... although some might argue that the rule doesn’t apply if there’s only one person left in the family line."

"True, although any of the leading members of the guild could, and that would have it’s own implications." They said this mildly, patient enough to let the kid reach her own conclusions.

She sits down to tie the blouse and mull over her answer.

“Oh! I got it I got it! Because the Crafter’s Guild only forbid their ranking members from collaborating with the Prince family directly, and not every guild member or a specific person.”

She’s finished getting ready, but flexes her hands so she can focus to get a more complete answer. “Prince has been very aggressive in his politics lately. Is it possible the Crafter’s Guild was looking for any way they could find to keep their most skilled members from a contract with Lord Prince? Formal service contracts are supposed to be voluntary; each individual trades-person could choose to interpret such an embargo as ‘the head of the Prince line and all of his close associates.’ That leave most of the Society of Magisters leaders and management without access to some of the most reputable trades-people around.”

The shadows deepen with her attendant’s pleasure at her analysis. Encouraged, she goes on. “ I’m not sure why ethical disputes over land purchases was the thing that made them take such drastic action? If they really wanted to avoid dealing with our guild couldn’t they have publicly taken issue with... most anything Prince has done in our name for the last few years?” Her consternation isn’t all over her face, but is in the increased speed of her hand flexing, her lightly furrowed brow, and the rigidity of her shoulders.

Her attendant sits down with her, warning that they have to leave soon before explaining. “The Crafter’s Guild is one of few guilds that is politically friendly with, but not a subset of, any particular court. They are also one of the most diverse guilds, with members of many Courts, backgrounds, and specialties. The land disputes were probably picked because they would be the most plausible reason on paper. It is well known in certain circles that the heads of the Crafter’s Guild have a grudge against key Grave Court leaders-any other stunt they pull with less legal merit could be construed as as a personal vendetta using a community platform.” Ciela nods, her twitching hands slowing down. “Since they have so many specialists, they can easily claim that associating with the our leader could threaten the livelihoods of the crafters within their own guild by consequence or association.”

Ciela gets up to prepare her school supplies for the day. Some in her bag, for using in the classroom after first meal, the rest laid out on the pitiful desk adjacent to the window. “That sounds like a lot of ‘maybe’. Is there another reason this happened?”

The shadows fluttering around the attendant’s floor length coat seem to languish with their amusement as they too head towards the door. “One of the leaders of the guild flat out hates Lord Dauphin, and the other is loyal enough to her and dislikes our Lord enough to back her up.”

Ciela almost smiles before she steps out the door. Lord Prince hates that nickname. She never has the courage to say it out loud.

It doesn’t last for even a second after she crosses the doorway’s cold vacuous energy. The child’s head dips, her back straightens. They both quiet, and prepare to play their roles.

Both of them know that this fleeting moment of peace is the closest she’ll get to happy for the day.

Both of them will take it. For now.

Thank you for reading this debut! Zero Hour is brought to you by:

Ash Pana (Writing, Design, Pencils)

Jessica Song (Design, Inks, Tones)

Sasha Reneau (Zine/Print Formatting)

#zero hour #light novel #occupational hazards #fantasy #original series #black main character

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lala-kate · 6 years

Text

Frost

This is my story for @onceuponanadvent 2017. Many thanks to @lillie-grey--the best beta out there and also my friend and sister. I do hope you enjoy it and have a most blessed and wonderful Holiday Season!

You can read it here or on ff.net.

Knees sink into snow that nearly reaches his thighs, but he keeps moving forward, determination his sole emotion as mind-numbing cold seeps in through layers of fur from every angle. He is certain that his skin is now the same shade of blue as his eyes, but he refuses to dwell on that likelihood as he trudges continually upward towards a sky as white as the snow that paints its landscape. He ceased feeling his feet hours ago, but he knows that they work, so he persists, in spite of the blasts of snow pelting exposed skin with the ferocity of miniature daggers.

He must do this. There is no turning back, for this is for his son. All for his son. Every step. Every breath. Every blink when he would rather surrender himself to exhaustion’s alluring offer of rest rather than continue to fight winter’s punishing onslaught.

He cannot see how his beard sparkles, nor does he know how close he is to his destination. He simply knows that he cannot stop, for if he does, he will die. And if he dies, then so does his son, and his son’s life is what has brought him here to the brink of ice-encrusted nothingness, a wasteland where most men would have given up and turned back long ago.

He will not turn back. He cannot lose his little boy just as he lost the child’s mother.

He stops at the top of the slope he’s just conquered, trying to breathe air littered with miniature shards of ice. His lungs sting, and he winces, narrowing his eyes until they focus on what lies before him, his heart cinching inside his chest.

The tundra ahead is flat and treeless, marked by snow-covered figures that appear far too human for his liking. Does she store bodies here as well as souls, he wonders? Does she mark her territory with frozen corpses who had once been warm with life? Or are these sentinels in disguise, guardians of the goddess of eternal sleep? Could they be the remnants of men such as he, men who have sought to defeat her but were captured and placed under a spell? If so, killing her will be even more of a pleasure than it would have been only moments ago.

His fingers twitch, longing for the comforting weight of his bow.

The Frost Queen, they call her. The Thief of Souls who strikes when her victims are ill and releases them at her whimsy, if she releases them at all. Many of those she captures are condemned to eternal sleep, including the one healer of renown who could have most assuredly helped his son.

A head injury. Something beyond the skills of the holy man from his village. An injury too grievous for the red witch of the lake whom he’d sought out as days became weeks and his boy still refused to open his eyes. Only the Great Healer could help him, the witch had said, but the healer been asleep for as long as anyone could remember, her body frozen in time, her soul seemingly lost.

Perhaps today he can release her soul as well as the soul of his son.

Roland’s skin had become colder by the day, as his own heart continued to burn hot with anger in his chest. He’d lost a friend whom he’d counted as a brother because of the accident, his fury at William for allowing his five year old son to mount a steed far too spirited for most grown men still as fresh as if it had happened but hours ago. Some mistakes can never be forgiven, not if the consequence is losing the soul of a child. He fights back tears, knowing they will freeze to his cheeks within seconds if he allows them to fall, so he sucks them into his body, their saltiness stinging the still gaping wounds inside his soul.

He must control his anger and focus his rage. If his tread is light and his arrow true, then the lives of many will be restored and families released from the bonds of grief and uncertainty. That is, if the old woman is right. But if she’s wrong, or if he is caught…

He must not be caught. It’s that simple. And she has to be right.

The old woman had been the one to tell him of the Frost Queen, of how she captures the souls of the sleeping and keeps them captive in her frozen lair. The man she loved had died, or so the old woman had told him, so she collects the souls of those too weak to fight back to keep her company in her world of glacial solitude. He doesn’t know if this is true or not, nor does he care. He just wants his little boy to open his eyes.

He takes a step towards the frozen sentinels, his bow now poised for battle, an arrow pulled taut in his grip. He’d been warned of her traps, of a frozen lake that thawed whenever human feet dared to step onto its surface, plunging its victim into icy depths from which no mortal could escape. Of a deadly crossing, a valley between mountains which buried trespassers under an avalanche from which there would be no resurrection.

He’d bested the lake by donning the grizzly hide he’d purchased from the old woman with two copper shillings, one whose paws were still intact and allowed him to cross the lake on all fours with the lumbering gait of a bear. To his amazement, the ice held, and he reached the other side unscathed. He’d avoided the valley altogether by choosing to traverse the mountains instead. The journey had been perilous, and he’d nearly fallen to his death more than once, but he hadn’t. No-he had lived.

He still lives. He can still fight for the life of his son. And he will, whatever the cost might be to himself.

He now stares at the open landscape before him, noting that there is nothing to keep him hidden besides the blizzard-like snow and the eerie ghost-like figures, and he wonders if this is a final trap set by The Frost Queen to protect herself from exposure. He considers his options before dropping to all fours and rolling in the snow. His body protests, but his mind tells him that only snow can serve as camouflage for this final trek. So he covers himself in winter’s rain until his teeth cease to chatter and everything is numb save his will and his heart.

For his heart is his boy, and his boy’s soul lies just ahead.

The Queen of Souls be damned.

He forces himself to stand, his legs quivering, his gait unsteady, but he presses forward slowly, hoping that he blends into the landscape or that perhaps she isn’t looking his way. Is it possible for sorceresses such as herself to become complacent, to be lulled into believing that they’re untouchable by mere mortals or simply forgotten by mankind?

Such thoughts get one killed, he reminds himself, remaining as alert as he can when his limbs are most assuredly frostbitten and his senses as frozen as the ground.

He is approaching the first huddled figure, a gray and white monolith that appears more rock-like than human the closer he gets. It’s far taller than a man, and broader as well, and he sighs in a measure of relief as he presses his back into the cold, rigid surface, thinking that it seems as though he’s still undetected, wondering if this field of stones is simply that. Then snow falls from a part of the figure, and he sees something that makes his entire body shudder.

A hand. A hand sculpted out of rock.

He steps back, putting distance between himself and the figure as the realization dawns that he’s come upon some sort of statue garden. The placement of the figures makes sense, now, their regularity and sequence no longer a mystery to him as he surveys what lies ahead. Had this been another sort of garden once, he wonders, noting smaller shapes that resemble what could be the skeletons of bushes and shrubs now completely covered in snow?

Had life once bloomed here?

This part of the world has been frozen for generations, but he wonders for the first time if perhaps it hasn’t always been so. Had the earth iced over when The Frost Queen forsook her humanity? Does the cold somehow preserve souls detached from their bodies, or is it merely a fortress meant to keep mortals out?

A gust of wind strips the front of the statue nearly bare, and he moves until he’s staring at an homage to a young man dressed in the clothes of a commoner, his eyes and smile ironically hopeful as they face a barren world devoid of any semblance of joy.

At the base, a word has been etched into the stone, and he brushes off layers of snow until he can just make out what has been written.

Kaerr. Beloved.

He recognizes the ancient tongue and is thankful for his grandmother’s insistence that he be taught the language of his ancestor’s even when he’d believed its study to be a total waste of time. Being able to read the old language might just mean the difference between life and death for him today, so he breathes a word of thanks to his Amma and hopes that perhaps her spirit will stand with him as he fights to bring back the soul of her great-grandson.

He looks again at the statue, wondering how long ago it was constructed, wondering if the young man’s soul actually resided inside. Is this the queen’s lover, then, the one the old woman had told him about, the man whose death had broken her spirit and spiraled her into her unquenchable quest for souls? If so, it wouldn’t make sense for her to lock his soul into stone when it was the loss of it that spurred her into this treacherous existence. No, his soul would be free to hover near her, he reasons, to comfort her even after being torn from its body, to assure her of his love until it departed earth for other realms.

And if this man was her beloved, then who are the others figures hewn out of rock?

Curiosity mingles with determination as he turns away from the man and presses forward, cutting through snowy depths with a renewed surge of energy. He reaches the next statue and discovers that this one is shorter than the first. A woman? Or a child, perhaps? No, it’s too tall to be a child, but as he stretches up to brush off clinging snow, he sees an older face emerge, one of a man with round cheeks and a balding head.

Her father, perhaps? The wind answers his question, blowing snow away from the base of the statue where yet another word is carved in the ancient tongue of his people.

Pabbi. Papa.

The word hits him where it hurts as he hears it chanted in the sweet voice of his son, and he nearly falters, his knees threatening to buckle into the snow as he struggles with the need to weep and to remember. He himself had called his grandfather Pabbi, the one who’d taught him to hunt and track, to carve wood and start a fire, the man who’d raised him along with his Amma after his parents and brother had been slaughtered with the rest of his village by the king’s soldiers.

He stares back at the statue, trying to make sense of it all.

She’d called her father Pabbi, had chosen the familiar over the more formal term Fadir when memorializing a man who was clearly very dear to her. She--the Frost Queen--a woman devoid of all decency and bent on destruction. This evidence of her humanity does not fit with the image of her he’d burned into his psyche.

For this garden is a memorial, he deduces, an homage to those who have meant something to her, and he closes his eyes as confusion strikes him hard. He’s envisioned her as a sorceress devoid of feeling, an inhuman monster with no regard for human life. Yet would a woman without emotion erect a statue of her Papa, a man of means, it would appear, with eyes full of both sadness and wonder? Or her dead lover, a young man who seemed to come from a lower class than the man who’d given her life? There is more to The Frost Queen than he’s been told, a fact which fills him with both hope and dread.

He swallows before pressing on to the next figure, not even bothering to hide his progression as he reaches a distinctly feminine outline already half-stripped of it’s snow by the punishing wind. A young maiden looks over her shoulder as if she cannot decide in which direction she should go. Long wavy hair has been sculpted to forever be swept away by the wind, and large eyes hold both secrets and wonder now locked away with her in a frozen world.

Lata Nipt. Lost Sister.

Had this young woman died, he wonders, this lost sister of hers? Or were they separated for reasons unknown? She is looking away, as if she knows her path will diverge from that of her sister’s, and he questions whether or not she was a sorceress, as well. Does magic run in families just like stature, complexion and talents? Is this lost sister still living, perhaps practicing magic in another part of the realm, or was she a mere mortal like himself, a girl now long dead remembered only by a woman who collects the souls of others?

The lone statue remaining gives him pause.

He can already tell that it’s far smaller than the others, and he begins to tremble internally as he marches towards it, knowing before he even arrives that it’s a memorial to a child. Had the queen been a mother, he wonders? Had her own child’s life been stripped from her arms? Was it grief that compelled her to claim the souls of children like his own?

He reaches the stone and moves around to brush off the snow, his throat thickening at what he sees. It’s a fresh-faced boy around the age of eight or nine, smiling up at the sky and pointing to something only he can see.

Minn Hjarta Sonr. Son of my heart.

The child’s features are so buoyant, he almost looks alive, as if he could spring off the stone podium and bounce through the snow. He can nearly hear the boy’s laughter, can almost sense his hair being ruffled by the wind even though his mind knows that stone can neither laugh nor move. But here, in the queen’s lair, he believes anything can happen.

Is his son carved in stone somewhere he has yet to find? Has his name or description been etched into rock just as this boy’s had?

Roland. Sonr ór Rodbin.

He will not allow that to be his child’s fate, but as he stares into the face of the boy of stone, he cannot help but wonder at the depth of feeling that produced this statue. Son of my heart--which to his mind means that the child was not of her womb. These statues speak of a woman far different than the one described in legend, for these seem to identify her as a mother by choice and not circumstance, a lonely sister, a beloved daughter, and grief-stricken lover.

Perhaps The Frost Queen is not a woman devoid of emotion at all, but rather one consumed by it. Can he kill such a woman, he wonders?

He can if it will save his son’s life.

He reminds himself of her many crimes, of the fathers such as he who have lost children to the eternal sleep to which she curses them, of the great healer who could help none of them because her own soul was trapped in the ice. He reassures himself that to kill an evil queen is an act of a hero, not a villain, yet his footfalls feel heavier with each step forward, his heart thawing in realms where it should remain frozen.

He cannot afford to feel either conflicted or remorseful. He must steel himself to the task that must be done.

His feet hit something hard under the snow, and inches forward, realizing that he’s found stone steps long buried by winter. He looks up, only to be blinded by white light reflected off of snow, and he squints and shades his eyes, but it is to no avail. To move forward, he must step into the unknown.

For Roland, he breathes as he forces himself to climb. This is all for Roland.

The wind grows stronger the higher he climbs, and he leans into the steps, fighting nature itself as he struggles to go on. But move on he does, until he finally reaches the top of the stairs which opens up to the entrance to what appears to be a large, natural cave. He steps into its mouth and out of the wind’s fury, only then daring to look back to see just how far he has climbed. The reality of just how high his current elevation is nearly sucks the air from his lungs.

He is a man of the forest, not of the skies.

A torch comes to life as he steps closer to it, and he halts in place, shaking off snow as he forces sore, stiff muscles to move his bow and arrow to the ready. Either she knows he is here, or the cave is enchanted.

Or possibly both.

He steps forward, deciding that if she’s already aware of his presence, there is no need to hesitate any longer. He looks around him at every angle, seeing nothing but the cave wall as torches seemingly light themselves to mark his progression. His tread is light, his senses on high alert as the walls around him begin to narrow in scope, drawing him to an opening he will have to crouch low to get through. Doing so will mean lowering his weapon, and he spins around to see if anyone or anything has crept up behind him.

He sees nothing but eerie shadows cast onto the cave wall by lit torches.

He reluctantly lowers his bow and tries to bend his knees, wincing at how rigid they’ve become in the cold. His bones pop and crack as he bends over and moves through an opening about the height of a ten year old child, and he thinks to himself that if she hasn’t been aware of his approach until this moment, she certainly will be now.

The room into which he steps is eons away from the natural cave he left behind. It has been crafted into a great hall with high ceilings and wall sconces, lit by what appear to be ice chandeliers which hover magically in the air above him, attached to nothing at all. He wonders if one will crash down and kill him at once, but he passes under them unscathed, which allows him to see four majestic portraits that line the wall to his left.

They are of the same people whose statues he saw in the garden.

The first portrait is of the lost sister. In this rendition, she is older than she was in her statue and has become quite physically stunning, but a hard glint has taken root in eyes the color of crystal, eyes that contrast brilliantly with hair the color of a sunset. He wonders again at the story behind these two women, the queen and her sister, and whether or not this sister is now dead. He is almost certain that she is.

Does her soul reside here, in her portrait? Is she watching him with the same intensity with which he currently studies her, communicating in secret with her sister the queen, plotting his demise even as he plots hers? That thought jostles him into motion, and he continues down the hall’s expanse, his feet padding quietly on cold rock hewn into a smooth, level surface.

The lover’s portrait hangs beside the sister’s, and he pauses but a moment to look into the gentle blue eyes of a young man clearly besotted with an unseen woman. In the painting, he stands by a rather grand set of stables, but he is dressed for work, not for riding. He was a stable boy, then, a working man in love with a woman who moved in very different circles than he.

His own heart cinches as he remembers his wife, the daughter of a wealthy landowner who had defied her father and chosen a meaner and simpler life than the one into which she was born when she’d run away with him. How they’d loved and lived, embracing every second of a future they believed to be limitless, cut short with the birth of the very son he now seeks to save.

He moves forward, looking up at the father’s portrait as he walks past it. The man’s clothing reflects wealth but manages to not be pretentious, and he can’t help but respect that fact. Dark eyes peer down at him, almost as if they’re encouraging him forward, onwards towards a fate he can only hope to predict. If the old man only knew his purpose here, he would be trying to stop his progress rather than encouraging it.

For a moment, he feels convicted of his actions rather than justified.

This makes it particularly difficult to look at the boy’s portrait, the final painting hanging on the wall, but look he does, and he regrets it almost immediately. For the boy once again appears so full of life and joy, almost as if he could leap from the portrait and scamper through the great hall on legs meant to carry him on many grand adventures. He can almost imagine a mother figure scooping the child up into her arms, swinging him around as peals of laughter echo off walls currently devoid of life. He sniffs and shakes his head, remembering doing the very thing with Roland just before he’d fallen from the horse, just before he’d….

He must focus. The time for action has almost arrived. It won’t do for him to second-guess himself. Not now. Not when The Frost Queen lies ahead.

The great hall empties into a round chamber which is breathtaking in its beauty. For out of sheer rock and ice has been crafted what appears to be a throne room, one surrounded by great columns that cast shadows upon the floor. Scattered lights flicker from large torches, adding a touch of warmth to eerie blue lights which emanate from small alcoves carved into the walls above him. They remind him of the colored, floating lights he’s watched dance in the sky at night along his journey, lights that brought him comfort as he continued to trek through the cold.

Could those be souls, he wonders, his breath freezing as it hovers just above his lips? Is his son up there, held captive in this frozen fortress against his will? He pulls back his bow, his arrow ready to fly at the first sign of danger.

But there is none. He is surrounded by cold and silence.

A frozen podium glistens in the center of the room, and he squints as he studies the details of the imposing throne sitting atop it, one forged from iron and marble, he surmises. But he cannot find the one thing for which he came: The Frost Queen herself who has thus far remained elusive and far too quiet for his liking. The legend must be true--she must dwell here--for who else would create a castle here in the midst of this vast, icy wasteland but a villain keeping watch over her domain?

He steps towards the throne, scanning the room around him, his mind and body on full alert. A chill races up his spine, and he nearly laughs at the irony of it, that he could feel an actual chill when his body is practically numb from cold. Nevertheless, the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, and he turns around, searching the room from all angles until he’s stopped dead in his tracks.

“I assume you have come here for me?”

The voice is low and husky, and he wheels around to face her, having to drop the trajectory of his aim. A woman stands just in front of him, a petite and breathtakingly beautiful woman, one with hair the color of a raven’s wings and lips the color of blood. Her skin is nearly as white as the marble of her throne, but her eyes are black, dark, soulless depths into which a man could readily fall.

“I have come for my son,” he replies, startled by how loudly his voice echoes in this chamber. The blue lights above them swirl in some sort of dance, but he keeps his eyes fixed on her, his arrow poised to fly. “I believe you hold his soul captive.”

Her face shows nothing as she takes a step towards him, and his finger twitches, but he hesitates, knowing that if he kills her now, he’s uncertain of how to retrieve Roland’s soul.

“I guard many souls,” she states, assessing him as one would a prize stallion. “What makes you believe that your son is one of them?”

“Because he sleeps the sleep of the cursed,” he answers, fighting to keep his mind and voice steady. “Because his body is in a perfect state of preservation, but he will not awaken.”

She moves closer, blatantly examining him as if he is a curiosity that has her full attention.

“How old is your son?”

The question is unexpected.

“He is but five years old,” he answers, his shoulder beginning to twitch. “He should be running and exploring the world around him, not sleeping while his soul does your bidding.”

The blue wisps above them shimmer as they flutter, and he dares a glance upward, wondering if his boy can hear his voice.

“A child, then?” Her voice is soft, yet steady, her face devoid of emotion. “I guard many children here.”

“Guard them?” he questions. “Is that how you justify stealing them and holding them captive, by telling yourself that you are guarding them?”

Her opaque eyes flash for a mere second as her hair billows in a breeze he cannot feel.

“I am no thief,” she returns. “In fact, you are the one who dared to sneak into my palace and stand here now threatening me with a weapon. It would appear you are the thief here.”

Ire straightens his spine.

“Reclaiming my child hardly makes me a thief,” he hisses.

“And is that all you’ve come here to do?” she asks, the challenge that has crept into her voice now unmasked.

“I have come to rescue my son,” he answers. “And I shall do whatever it takes to do so.”

“Even if it means killing me?”

He pulls his arrow back a fraction, his skin alight with trepidation.

“Even if it means killing you,” he says, gazing back at her without blinking.

Her eyes narrow before a slow smile creeps across her face.

“You’ve made it further into my kingdom than any man,” she states, beginning to circle around him with a grace that borders on feline. “I’ll give you that, Thief. Most are killed or give up before they ever reach my garden.”

“I am not most men,” he replies, watching her eyes flicker in what resembles admiration.

“Apparently not,” she concurs. “For here you stand, arrow poised to kill me so you can claim your prize.”

“My son is no prize,” he argues, fighting back emotion that would put him at her mercy. “He is all that I have.”

A hint of sadness flits across her features, and he knows she’s thinking of the boy in the portrait, the one whose statue identifies him as her child by choice. He then swallows, dares a step towards her and adds, “He is my heart.”

She steps back as if he’s burned her, and her eyes flash back at him in anger.

“Attempting to use my own feelings against me?” she asks, resuming her walk around him. “That won’t work, you know.”

“So you have feelings, then?” he retorts. “I wasn’t sure if you did or not.”

She stops mid-stride just right of his shoulder.

“And you believe I do not?” she questions, seemingly unfazed by this assumption. “Do you believe this so you will have no compunction in killing me?”

“What makes you think I have any in the first place?” he tosses back, turning his stance to follow her circular path.

“Because you haven’t killed me yet.”

Her words are spoken matter-of-factly, and he flinches at their truth as he draws his bow taught.

“That is simply because I am unsure what will happen if I do,” he asserts. “Because my primary aim in coming here is to retrieve my son’s soul, and if I kill you--”

“You don’t know what will happen to him,” she cuts in, stepping close enough to lay her hand on his arm. “You’re afraid you will lose him forever.”

He flinches at her touch, tightening his grip even as she steps right into contact with his arrow.

“You can put your bow down, Thief,” she says, raising a brow in his direction. “I’m not going to kill you.”

“And I can trust you because…?”

“Because if I’d wanted to kill you, you’d be dead by now,” she states, her tone straightforward.

“Are you so lonely that you find even my company welcome?” he queries, lowering his arm with a measure of reluctance.

“And what makes you think that I’m lonely?” she asks, removing her hand from his sleeve once his bow rests by his side. “Or that I’m so desperate for company that I’d welcome yours?”

“Isn’t that why you plunder the souls of the sick?” he questions. “Because you were crushed by the death of your lover?”

Her face flinches a fraction.

“Do you really believe that plundering the souls of people I’ve never met will take away my grief?” she counters. “If so, then you’ve obviously never lost anyone whom you loved.”

His fingers tighten around his bow.

“I lost my wife,” he says. “The woman I loved. I lost her when she gave birth to our son, the very son whose soul you took from me!”

He’s trembling now, and she lays her hand on his arm again. He draws back, but she doesn’t react, only stands as still as a statue as the blue lights continue to flutter overhead.

“And you believe I deliberately took your boy’s soul from you?” she asks. “To somehow replace the man I loved?”

“No,” he admits with a shrug. “But perhaps you took Roland to try to heal the loss of your own son.”

She flinches and steps back, the spot on his arm she’d been touching suddenly cold in her absence.

“No one could ever replace him,” she says, her tone low and menacing.

“Not even the multitude of souls you hold here?” he asks, gesturing up towards the lights. “Do you continue to take what doesn’t belong to you until you finally find one who eases your pain?”

She laughs at this.

“My pain can never be eased, Thief,” she practically spits. “It’s part of my curse.”

His breath stills in his chest, as if frozen.

“Curse?” he asks “What curse?”

She steps back before turning her back to him, circling her throne without setting foot upon its pedestal.

“The curse I’ve been living under for centuries,” she finally replies, turning her gaze back to him. “Do you honestly think I’d choose to live like this if I had another viable option?”

He’s frozen, completely taken aback by this turn of events. Is she teasing him--trying to throw him off his guard so she can swoop in and kill him or convince him to change his mind?

“What sort of curse is it?” he asks, pausing to clear his throat.

“The sort of curse that imprisons because you care too much,” she returns, fully facing him now. “The sort that exploits the greatest of all human weaknesses.”

“Greed, you mean?” he asks, feeling rather foolish when she chuckles at his guess.

“Love,” she corrects. “Love is the greatest weakness. We are all made most vulnerable when we love someone.”

He breathes in and out, amazed to find he doesn’t feel cold anymore.

“Take yourself for example, Thief,” she continues, moving back in his direction. “You’ve traversed the vast Northlands, braved a treacherous lake, survived an unstable passageway, and dared to invade my gardens and my home. You did all this for what? Or for whom, should I ask?”

He swallows, finding no moisture in his mouth.

“For your son,” she answers for him. “Because you love him. Because his illness has rendered you so broken and vulnerable that you would risk all that you have, even your very life to bring him back to you. That is weakness, Thief.”

She begins to walk away from him.

“I would call it strength,” he counters, his argument making her stop in her tracks. “Love empowers us to overcome obstacles and to fight off demons we’d simply run from otherwise.”

She saunters up to him, so close he can smell a scent he can only describe as winter emanating from her pale skin.

“Is that what I am to you?” she questions, daring to reach out and stroke his lower lip. “A demon to fight and conquer?”

He actually chuckles at this.

“No, my lady,” he answers, registering her confusion at the title he’s bestowed upon her. “You are far too cold to be a demon.”

Her touch lingers, warming him in the oddest of manners.

“Right you are,” she states. “And it’s Your Majesty.”

He smirks, and she steps back.

“Where is my son, your majesty?” he asks, watching as her gaze flits upward towards the blue lights. “If you tell me and release his soul into my custody, I shall be on my way.”

She raises a brow in his direction.

“He’s just there,” she replies, pointing towards the ceiling. “Safe and sound.”

“Safe?” he echoes, shaking his head in frustration. “You claim to be keeping him safe here in your frozen palace? Safe from whom, exactly?”

Her eyes grow coldly distant just before she answers.

“From death, Thief.”

He can’t breathe for a moment, his confusion at her response overwhelming every thought in his mind.

“Your son,” she continues. “Did he simply fall asleep one night and fail to awaken, or did he grow ill before losing consciousness?”

He swallows audibly, the sound reverberating in his head.

“There was an accident,” he replies, blinking back tears. “He was thrown from a horse, hit his head on a rock…”

“And never awoke,” she says, completing his sentence for him.

“And never awoke,” he repeats, meeting and holding her gaze. “But that’s because you took his soul from him. How can he wake up if his soul is trapped here?”

“Has it ever occurred to you what would happen to him if his soul were returned to his body right now?” she asks. “At this very moment?”

He pauses, thoughts tripping over themselves as his tongue seeks to form words.

“He’d wake up,” he replies. “He’d get out of bed and run around our cottage, ready to climb trees and take on the next big adventure he sees outside our window.”

She shakes her head sadly.

“Has his body recovered then?”

He freezes, not knowing what to say.

“For if his body hasn’t recovered and his soul is sent back, it is all too possible that it will decay along with his physical form,” she explains. “That if his brain decides to bleed or to stop instructing his lungs to breath, he will simply die, and you will lose his soul forever.”

He forces moisture down his throat, blinking back words he cannot accept.

“So his soul is supposed to linger here with you?” he hisses. “Until his body heals on his own?”

“Or until a skilled healer can treat him,” she says. “Then and only then can his soul be reunited with his body without risk of certain death.”

His laugh tastes bitter as he shakes his head harshly.

“Then we have a problem, for you see, the one healer of renown in our province has lost her soul to you, as well.” He takes a step closer until they are nose to nose, and he is struck again by how small this queen actually is. “Perhaps you should release her soul to me, as well, so she can live again and heal my boy.”

Her eyes falter but a second.

“The White Witch?” she questions, her tone softer than before. “Is she the healer you’ve been seeking?”

He nods as he looks up at the lights.

“Release her soul to me,” he commands. “I beg you. Even without her and Roland, you have plenty of others here to keep you company.”

She turns away from him and walks towards her throne. She extends one palm from which a pale, silver smoke emerges just before a drop of blue light flitters down from the ceiling, dancing on her hand like an enchanted flame. She turns back to face him slowly, extending her palm in his direction as she breathes in loudly enough for him to hear.

“Here is your son. Take him and be gone.”

He gazes at the light, stepping towards her without thinking, cupping his hands as he holds them out in her direction. Is this really Roland’s soul, this dancing swirl of light she offers him so freely?

“And the healer? The White Witch?”

“I can only release your son into your custody, Thief,” she states, her voice tinged with iron. “The healer is not yours to take.”

“But you said,” he begins, half-afraid of taking Roland from her grasp. “You said that without a proper healer, he will die.”

“I said that he might,” she counters, her patience wearing thin. “I’m not a seer, Thief, only a guardian of souls.”

“And if that’s not a chance I’m willing to take?” he fires back, his hands clenching into fists. “If I’m not willing to gamble on returning his soul only to lose him forever?”

“I don’t see that you have any other options,” she replies. “You can either take your son’s soul with you, or leave him here with me. I promise you that I guard my charges well, Thief. I protect them as fiercely as any mother would. But the White Witch stays.”

“I’m not leaving here without her,” he argues. “If she can help my Roland, then there are others she can heal, as well.”

“You’re quite presumptuous,” she states, extending the light in his direction.

“I’m only taking you at your word.”

She stares at him, her eyes almost begging him to walk away.

“Just go, Robin of Locksley,” she breathes. “And take your son with you.”

Before he can reply, the blue light flies into his hands from hers, and he stands dumbstruck in amazement as childlike joy washes over him like soft layers of fur. This is Roland, he can sense his son’s spirit, and he brings the light to his face as tears break free and sting his cheeks on their downward journey.

“Roland,” he whispers, laughing at the sound of his own voice. “Son. I’ve missed you so much.”

The flame practically leaps from his palms as if responding to his words. He looks up to thank her, but she’s stepped away, her back to him now as she raises one hand in dismissal.

“My lady,” he begins, correcting himself at once. “I mean, Your Majesty. Thank you. Thank you for my son.”

She nods but does not look at him, her spine erect, her stance rigid.

“Please, if I may ask one more thing,” he continues. “The healer. Please release her, too.”

She turns towards him then, her expression almost unreadable.

“I cannot do that,” she states, her words hitting the floor like small rocks. “If you want the White Witch’s soul, you’ll have to kill me to get it.”

His breath sticks in his chest as he clutches Roland’s spirit ever closer to his chest.

“I don’t understand,” he begins. “You just gave me my son’s--”

“Not all souls can be released so easily, Thief. Hers is bound here by powerful magic, and all magic comes with a price.”

He dares a step towards her.

“And the price for her release is your life?” he asks, trying to fit puzzle pieces together in his mind. “Why is that? How is she connected to you?”

She hesitates, her eyes betraying nothing.

“That is none of your concern.”

She turns away from him, making her way towards an exit that has magically appeared in the stone wall.

“Stop!” he yells. “Wait! Please, Your Majesty.” She freezes in place without turning around to acknowledge him. “Won’t you tell me why only your death can release the White Witch?”

“Why do you care?”

Her question echoes in the tall chamber, and the blue lights still in the ceiling above. She turns, then, her eyes appearing more brown than black now, her stature seemingly smaller than it had been but seconds before.

“Just kill me and be done with it,” she challenges. “Or take your son and go. But please, stop wasting my time.”

He cannot explain why her fate suddenly matters or why he feels the need to move towards her until they’re standing face to face, but he’s drawn to her now, as if she holds a piece of his soul, as well. Blue lights dance above them, hovering over her like an eerie protective mist. Her souls, he thinks, not captives, but rather fragile lives that she guards until their bodies can mend. His mind races in time with his pulse as questions tumble over themselves until clarity begins to take root.

“It’s you, isn’t it?”

His question startles her, and she steps back, but he follows and reaches out for her with one hand while keeping Roland’s spirit safe in the other.

“I don’t know what--”

“You’re the healer,” he interrupts, seeing more as words form in his mouth. “The White Witch. Your body sleeps because your soul is here.” His hand moves downward until it stills where her heart should beat, pausing before flattening itself just over her ribs. There is no pulse.

She blinks, trying to keep her face impassive, but he knows he’s struck a nerve, so he pushes onward, stepping into her secrets. “Why would you do that--separate your soul from your body, when you of all people would have the ability to heal yourself of any ailment or---”

He stops, remembering the statues and the portraits, the truth hitting him hard all at once.

“It’s because of them, isn’t it?” he asks. “The statues--the people in the portraits, people you loved and lost--a lover, your father, a sister…”

She breathes in, her skin becoming more translucent even as they speak.

“And your son,” he concludes, raising his hand to cup her cheek. “This is somehow about him, isn’t it?”

She is trembling now, and he knows it’s from pent up emotion rather than cold.

“Tell me?” he asks, and she hesitates, closing her eyes as she breathes in and out.

“I couldn’t save them,” she finally whispers, her words cascading like ice crystals across the room. “No matter how badly I wanted to.”

The lights flicker, almost as if the souls above them give a collective gasp.

“What happened?” he questions, noting that the spirits begin to burn brighter as she opens her mouth to speak.

“My lover, Daniel, he died because he dared to love me,” she confesses, her tone fragmented. “Because my mother believed that I deserved better in life than becoming the wife of a stable boy, so she tore his heart from his body while I was forced to watch.”

His stomach cinches.

“Your mother was a sorceress?” he asks, watching her nod before the words are out of his mouth.

“A very powerful and destructive one,” she confirms. “One the world is far better without.”

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his touch steady, even though his insides are not.

“I vowed then and there that nobody would ever die in front of me again, not if I could stop it. That I would dedicate my life to healing and preserving life rather than to destroying it.”

“A noble decision, indeed,” he states, confused when she laughs bitterly.

“A decision my mother would have none of,” she continues. “And when my father finally stood up to her and tried to protect me from her vengeance, she killed him, too, just crumpled his body before my eyes as if he were nothing more than a rag doll.” She pauses, and he remembers the warm brown eyes from the portrait that seemed to beckon him onward in her direction.

“Once again, I could do nothing. I was powerless against her.”

“That is not your fault,” he says.

“Perhaps not,” she returns. “But he died for me, because he loved me, just as Daniel did. Love is weakness, Thief. You would do well to remember that.”

“Love is strength, Your Majesty,” he counters. “Your father loved you so much that he gave his life to protect you, and I am quite certain he would not want you to blame yourself for the actions of your mother.”

“My mother used his feelings for me against him,” she argues, her entire body shaking. “She thought that she’d finally broken me when she killed Pabbi, that I was finally ready to be taught and molded into her image, to come into my own as a sorceress and ruler, but I ran away from her instead, leaving my older sister alone at her mercy.”

Her eyes fall to the stone floor as her forehead creases in agony.

“Mother grew impatient with her, eventually, and banished her into another realm. I’ve no idea what’s become of her, and I can’t help but wonder if things would have been different for my sister if I’d stayed. I do know that she blamed me for her fate.”

“Lata Nipt,” he breathes, and she nods, her chin trembling. “But you must not hold yourself responsible for the actions of your mother, Your Majesty. It was she who banished your sister, not you.”

“I should have stopped her,” she utters, her shoulders slumping in defeat. “Or at least tried to have.”

“And you might have been banished, too,” he states. “Or killed. And you would have never become a healer who helped people when nobody else could.”

“A healer who could not heal the one person who mattered most.”

Her tone is broken, and it whirls around him like ashes tossed into the wind.

“Hjarta Sonr,” he murmurs, a piece of himself cracking open at the expression of raw pain staring back at him. “Your son.”

She nods and attempts to pull away, but he holds on to her, praying to whatever gods are listening that she will stay and explain everything.

“Tell me about him,” he implores, squinting as the blue lights dim and winter’s silence surrounds them. “About your boy.”

“I found him,” she begins, her words forming an icy mist between them. “In a basket by a lake when he was newly born. I searched for his mother in the nearby villages, but to no avail, so I took him home with me and raised him as my own.”

“Son of your heart,” he states, watching as she nods.

“He was my heart--my everything, actually,” she confesses. “He began to learn the healing arts when he was old enough to understand, and he would accompany me on long journeys when I was summoned to someone’s sickbed. I placed protective enchantments around him, ones that would make him immune to the contagious illnesses we would treat.”

“What a gift to give a child,” he interjects.

“It should have been,” she counters. “But one disease took root inside him regardless of my precautions, one that infected his very bone marrow and poisoned his own body against him. This was a disease I could not treat.”

He knows of such illnesses, and his heart hurts at the thought of one eating away the life of a child.

“He became weaker and weaker, and I did everything in my power to help him,” she states, her tone hollow, her eyes weak. “But nothing worked. So I went to see the only person I thought could help him.”

“Your mother?” he asks, almost dreading her response. She smiles ruefully before shaking her head.

“No,” she continues. “I went to the man who killed my mother, a dark wizard of great renown.”

“The Dark One?” he whispers, chilled to the bone as she nods in assent. He shudders as tales of this dark one begin to swirl through his memory, prompting him to gaze around the cavern as if evil could be here lying in wait. She nods again, and he holds her tighter, tempted to draw her into his arms and shelter her from all of the pain she’s endured.

“The very one,” she affirms. “I begged him to give me the life of my son, and he told me that there were ways to spare the soul even if the body is too weak to sustain it.”

He gazes at her, the blue lights growing even dimmer until only a soft glow illuminates the room.

“I needed time,” she continues. “Time to learn how to heal his body, time to focus on finding a cure for this disease.”

“So you allowed the Dark One to separate your souls from your bodies,” he surmises, his tone hushed and reverent. “Your son’s so he had a chance to live, and yours so you had a chance to save him.”

Her eyes round at his understanding, and he swallows as a mixture of pain and awe take root.

“As the years went on, I began to take other souls,” she states, her voice almost numb. “Those whose bodies I knew could be healed with the proper treatment but who could die without it. I brought them here where I could watch over them and…” She pauses, looking directly into him before she continues. “Where they could keep my Henry company.”

Anger and gratitude war within him as Roland’s soul flickers in his palm, releasing a measure of peace he hasn’t felt since the boy fell from the horse. He strokes her cheek, amazed at the warmth lingering beneath his touch.

“Have you found a cure?” he asks, almost dreading her answer. For if she had, she would most assuredly not still be isolated here in her self-imposed prison.

“No,” she admits. Her shoulders slump in defeat, her expression crumbling before his very eyes. “I can heal the body of every other soul in this room, but I cannot help my own son. What sort of mother does that make me?”

“A selfless, passionate, and dedicated one,” he returns. “One who would give up her own life for that of her child, just as your father did for you.”

She sniffs yet otherwise remains motionless.

“And as you are willing to do for your Roland,” she states, smiling ruefully as he nods. “At least your son has a chance to live,” she continues. “The only life Henry has left is here in this frozen cavern with me.”

He looks up towards the ceiling at the myriad of lights that hold back utter darkness.

“Which one is he?” he asks. “Which soul is your Henry?”

She blinks repeatedly before opening her palm and closing her eyes, her lips whispering words in the ancient tongue he can barely make out. Then a light above shimmers before practically skipping through the air into her hand, swirling once around her face and tickling her cheek until she smiles. The love in her eyes when she opens them again nearly buckles his knees, and he wonders if his eyes looked the same to her when Roland alighted upon his palm. Henry’s light seems smaller than the others, he observes, and he gazes at it curiously, wondering at why the very soul that led her to this existence was half the size of his own son’s.

“Hello, Henry,” he breathes, wondering if the spirit can hear or understand him. But the light flickers as if in acknowledgement, and he smiles, wishing he could see the boy in his physical form. She cradles the light in her hands, drawing it to her chest as she closes her eyes once more, and he knows she’s sensing his essence just as he can sense Roland’s.

“What happens to these souls if their bodies die, Your Majesty?”

Her eyes narrow as she inhales.

“That depends,” she answers. “On what sort of life they lived.”

He nods, forcing himself to continue down this line of thought.

“What of people like my Marian?” he asks. “Those with good hearts and noble souls, those who spent their lives trying to do what was right and make the world a better place?”

Her face softens a bit.

“They move on to the next realm,” she states almost wistfully. “To a place of peace and contentment.”

“So they are happy?” he presses. “My Marian is happy?”

He feels Roland’s spirit tickle his hand, watching as it practically flips as if trying to answer him.

“Yes,” the queen replies. “She is happy. You need not worry about her any longer.”

His throat constricts, and he swallows as best he can.

“And children?” he questions, his tone so low he can barely hear it himself. “Do children also move on to this realm of peace?”

He hears her breath catch as her eyes practically catch fire.

“Yes,” she responds, taking a step back from him. “Children are innocents. There is no question that they pass on into the peaceful realm when they...when they die.” The words harden as soon as they’re spoken and hover like icy shards between them. “You cannot ask me to give up my son when you are not willing to give up yours.”

He hurts all over as he considers her predicament, staring from Henry’s beautiful soul to the face of his mother, awash in layers of fear and anguish.

“How long have you been searching for a cure?” he asks, his bottom lip trembling. “How long have you and Henry existed like this?”

She looks at the ground, seemingly unwilling to speak.

“Your Majesty--”

“For centuries, Thief,” she answers, her words darting from her lips in precision. “We’ve been here for centuries.”

He lowers his gaze as he clutches his own son closer.

“And will another century of searching allow you to find a cure?”

She leans in closer, so close he can nearly see through her being.

“I already told you that I am no seer,” she returns, wearing hostility as a desperate shield.

“But you are a healer,” he interjects. “And you know your craft better than anyone. In your best judgment, is there a cure out there that can be found?”

Her eyes fall again, and he waits her out, knowing just how difficult his questions must be for her to process.

“I cannot say--” she begins.

“If it were my son with this illness,” he cuts in. “If Roland had this disease, would you have brought his soul here, or would you have let him die?”

The eyes that finally look back at him are creased and broken, and he knows the answer before it ever leaves her lips.

“I would have let him die,” she admits, her tone barely more than silver puffs of air.

He inhales sharply, absorbing her confession.

“Because--” he prods, feeling Roland ease closer to him as if wrapping invisible arms around his neck.

“Because there is no cure,” she hisses. “Because I am not skilled enough to heal him, and because this life in between is no sort of life for a child.”

Her legs give out, and she collapses onto the floor in a heap. Henry’s spirit flits up to her cheek again before coming to rest on her shoulder, and Robin can picture her holding the child in the portrait against her breast, his head nuzzling in where blue flame now hovers.

“You have come to kill me, haven’t you?” she asks, gazing back at him with eyes now red from grief.

“I did at first,” he confesses, the admission bitter on his tongue. “But I do not wish you to die any longer.”

She draws her legs into her body, her skirts covering her petite form, and he kneels down before her as Roland hops onto his shoulder in a manner nearly identical to Henry.

“Letting go of him will kill me,” she states. “More assuredly than any arrow ever could.”

“Have you ever considered that holding on to him is killing you both?” he dares. “Little by little? Day by day? Until one day there is nothing left of either of you except for memories?” Her expression betrays her, and he sees this is something of which she is aware. “That’s why his light is so much smaller, isn’t it?” he questions, wishing he didn’t have to ask such things of her. “Because he is fading away from you?”

A tear actually falls down her cheek, and he closes his eyes before reaching forward to wipe it away. It glistens in the blue light cast by their sons and the others in the room, others she herself has stated that she could heal if she agrees to leave this place and save her own soul.

“I’m losing him,” she whispers, the words shattering like fallen icicles. “Regardless of what I do, I’m losing him. He is the purest and most beautiful of human beings, and there is nothing I can do to heal his body!”

Henry’s light nuzzles in closer, as if he knows exactly what she just admitted and hates to be the source of her pain.

“What would Henry want you to do, your majesty?”

Her eyes narrow into slits.

“Damn you, Thief.”

“What would he tell you to do?”

“Stop it, Locksley!” she commands, standing again on wobbly legs. “Shut your mouth and leave this place forever!”

“What does Henry want?” he presses, taking a step towards her until they are again nose to nose. “You’re his mother. Why don’t you ask him?”

“Because I don’t want to hear it!” she fires back, her head shaking back and forth in denial.

“But isn’t it his life, Your Majesty?” he dares. “Shouldn’t he be given the final say in his eternal fate?”

Her arms drop to her side in defeat, her face devoid of all emotion save despair. He remains motionless as Henry’s spirit flickers to his mother’s ear and brushes against it, circling around her several times in what Robin realizes is an embrace. He watches in reverence as the child’s soul then begins to fly upward before descending to his mother’s shoulder again, repeating the gesture several times before there is no question of what he wants her to do.

“Set him free, your majesty,” he suggests, approaching her as he would a frightened doe. “Set both of your souls free. It’s what Henry wants for himself and for his mother.”

She is weeping now, the sobs of a lost soul, and he gathers her into his arms before he can think better of it, holding her close, breathing her in. Then he feels something strange as smoke fills his arms in her place, and he’s surrounded by a cyclone of silver and purple, one that fills his nostrils and lungs and forces him to close his eyes. His last conscious thought is that he hopes with everything he has that Roland’s soul has survived whatever just took place.

When he opens his eyes, he is lying in his son’s bed.

Roland lies beside him, his small body warm and breathing, but his eyes are still closed. Robin sits up too quickly and feels all the blood rush to his head, making him dizzy and cold all at once.

His soul. Where is Roland’s soul?

He stands and scans the room, reaching up to his shoulder where he last remembers the blue light hovering, feeling nothing but his own skin, and he wonders for a moment if it was all a dream, if the last months of his life have been spent here in slumber beside his boy rather than on a quest for his recovery.

The queen. What has become of the queen?

A noise from Roland startles him, and he looks down in wonder as his boy slowly blinks open his eyes. His own fill with tears as his son’s dark brows crease, and a small hand reaches out for him, one he takes immediately and presses to his lips in gratitude.

“Papa,” the child mutters, and Robin weeps in earnest now, sitting back down on the bed and scooping up his child to his chest. “You found me.”

Small fingers stroke his beard, and he laughs through his tears.

“Of course I did,” he replies. “You’re my heart, Roland.”

Henry’s portrait flashes brightly in his mind, as does the inscription on the boy’s statue: Minn Hjarta Sonr. Son of my heart.

By the gods, he hopes she is alright.

He holds the boy closer, so close he wishes he pull him inside his own skin, and he wonders if Roland’s body is healed now, or if it’s waiting for the healer, the one healer who said she could make him well again.

What happened to the queen and her son? His heart is nearly sick with dread and the need to find out.

There’s a knock on his door, and he kisses Roland’s temple as the rapping sound is repeated. He lays him back down in the bed reluctantly, careful to cover him up with quilts and furs, determined to never let the child even catch a chill again.

“I’ll be right back,” he promises, rubbing a hand through his hair as he pads into the front room and opens the door.

What he sees before him sucks the air from his lungs.

It’s her--the queen--but she’s pure flesh and blood now, her skin still pale but with pink undertones, her lips red, but not overly so. She is dressed in travelling clothes rather than a gown of royalty, her black hair plaited and hanging over her right shoulder, her expression hesitant and unsure. She carries a satchel in one hand and a walking stick in the other, but those fall from her grasp as he reaches out to touch her, to ensure that she is real before pulling her back into his arms where she fits as if she belongs there.

“You’re alive,” he mutters into her hair, feeling something snap into place as her arms slowly encircle him in return. They hold onto each other as he feels her weeping into his shirt, and he pulls her closer, lets her properly grieve the boy she’d set free.

“I’m so sorry,” he breathes into her hair. “For what I said, for pushing you like I did. It wasn’t my place.”

“No,” she agrees, her words muffled against his tunic. “It wasn’t. But you were right.”

“I was an ass,” he says, holding her closer. “I should never have--”

“You’re a father trying to save his son,” she interrupts.

“And you were a mother moving heaven and earth for hers,” he states. They stand in silence as a lark sings just outside the window.

“I let him go,” she manages, her words wet and disjointed. “It’s what he wanted. You were right--it’s what he’d wanted for a long time.” She pauses to sniff and rub her lips together. “He was tired, so very tired, and I ignored it because...because I couldn’t let him go.”

“But you did, and he’s happy now,” he assures her, feeling tears prick his own eyes. “Free and without any pain, watching over you now instead of the other way around.”

She wipes her cheeks with her hand.

“He was always watching over me,” she says. “Even when I couldn’t see it.” Her lip trembles, and he reaches out to cup her cheek, gratified that she lets him. “He would have suffered pain if I’d brought him back with me, and I couldn’t...I couldn’t do that to him.”

“Of course you couldn’t,” he says. “No loving parent would condemn their child to a life of constant pain.” She nods but doesn’t answer, so he waits for her as she cries and sniffs until she’s steady enough to talk again.

“I miss him.”

“I know. And I’m sorry.”

She nods and presses her lips together as he drops his hand from her cheek.

“We’ll come with you,” he says, watching her eyes round in surprise. “Roland and I. We’ll accompany and help you as best as we can as you journey to heal the bodies of those whose souls you once guarded. That is, if you’ll allow us to.”

“How did you know?” she asks, sniffing again. “That that’s what I’m doing?”

“Because it’s who you are,” he states. “A healer.” She wipes her eyes again and exhales through her mouth. “That’s who you’ve always been, Your Majesty.”

He sees the side of her lip twitch.

“It’s Regina,” she mutters. “And you don’t have to come with me, Thief.” He smiles at the familiarity of her barb, even as a tear trails down his cheek.

“I know,” he says. “But it’s the least we can do after what you sacrificed for us.”

She swallows hard and breathes in slowly.

“I was holding on to him for myself,” she says. “If I’d been honest, if I’d been willing to let him go centuries ago…”

“Shhh,” he interrupts. “None of that. There is no limit to the extremes we will go to for the sake of our children.”

She nods, and he aches at how fragile she is, knowing he would be the same way if their roles were reversed.

“Take me to Roland,” she commands, squaring her shoulders. “So I can make certain his body heals properly.”

She steps back outside to retrieve her satchel and walking stick and follows him into Roland’s bedroom. The boy sits up and smiles when he sees her, stretching out his arms in her direction as tears begin to stream down her face again.

“Majesty,” Roland beams, and she sits on the bed and gathers him close, clasping onto the boy as if her life depended on it as the child wraps small arms around her neck. Tears sting Robin’s eyes yet again, and he lets them fall freely as the pair before him lean back far enough to touch each other’s faces. “You’re here. You came to help me like you promised.”

She nods, and he grins, flashing dimples Robin had feared he’d never see again. If only Henry could smile up at his mother the way that Roland was doing now.

“Of course I'm here,” she says, shaking her head as if to settle overwhelming emotion. “We've got to get you all better.”

“Like Henry’s all better now?” Roland asks, his face perfectly sincere in the way only a child’s can be. She gasps at his words, and Robin sits beside her on the bed, touching her arm in support.

“I saw him in my sleep,” Roland continues. “He feels good again, and he says that your sacrifice saved him, whatever that means.”

She nods through fresh tears, and a part of him breaks open, wishing he could take away her pain and grieve in her place.

“Thank you, Roland,” she manages. “Thank you for telling me.”

“When will I be well enough to play with him?”

He touches Roland’s arm, searching for the right words to explain Henry’s death.

“Henry is well again, Roland, because he is gone from this world,” Robin begins. “His body was too sick to hold onto his soul anymore, so his mother let him go. I know this is difficult to understand, but he's whole because he's no longer bound to a body that was hurting him.”

The boy’s face scrunches in confusion as he shakes his head.

“No he’s not,” Roland argues. “His body got well. Some sort of true love’s magic fixed him...at least that’s what I think he said.”

Robin and Regina stand at once, looking at each other in confusion as hope dares to come out of hiding.

“Roland,” Robin begins, “Are you certain this is something Henry actually said to you and not just something you dreamed? You’ve been asleep for a long time, son.”

“Papa, Henry is my friend,” the boy states as if this fact explains everything “I know what he feels like, just like I know what you and Majesty feel like. And I know what he told me. He told me that he's well.”

Robin wonders about souls touching without physical constraints, and it make sense that they would feel rather than see each other. He remembers feeling Roland as his boy hovered in his palm, knowing beyond any doubt that it was his son he held so precariously in his hand, sensing how different Henry’s soul felt even though the boy’s spirit never actually touched him.

“Where is he?” Regina asks, bending over towards Roland. “If Henry’s body is well, where is he, Roland?”

“I'm not sure, but I know he's not far,” the boy states. “He says that you're connected, Majesty, so you'll always find each other, no matter what.”

A pair of tears chase each other down her cheek.

“He used to say that to me,” she states in wonder. “That families find each other, that they're connected in ways beyond what we can see.”

“He sounds like a wise young man, indeed,” Robin says, just as another knock raps at the door.

His head jerks towards the sound before he gazes back at Regina in wonder, his mouth falling open as Roland points towards the door and smiles. She runs as if her feet have sprouted wings, stopping only as her hand grasps the handle and she looks back at him in raw uncertainty.

“What if it’s not him?” she asks, every part of her body trembling. Her fear is so palpable, he can almost smell it.

“Then it isn’t,” he says, stepping towards her to touch and hold her arm. “And we shall move on with our lives, just as we were planning to do. But Regina--what if it is? What if it's your son?”

She smiles then, a breathtakingly beautiful sight that seals his fate to hers forever as she nods and flings open the door. There, on the other side stands her heart, a smile encompassing his freckled face as he reaches for his mother and she envelops him on sight.

“I knew you could do it, Mama,” the boy breathes, clinging onto her with everything he has. “I always believed that you could.”

No tears have ever been sweeter.

Time stands still during the moments that follow as families reunite and souls reconnect, and a sheen of reverence covers the small cottage as the four of them cling to each other in a realm now warm with promise and hope. Hands touch, hearts connect, and as the sun dips behind the hills that surround and protect them, a lone blue iris stubbornly pushes through the snow that lingers beside Henry’s statue, signaling that spring has indeed come once again.

#outlaw queen #Hood Mills family #regal believer #once upon an advent #Regina Mills #Robin Hood #Henry Mills #Roland Hood #Laura writes #Frost

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