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kelyon · 4 years

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Nephila 3: Birthmom

Belle gets to Australia and continues to deal with her feelings about having a spider-baby.

A/N: An “ice cream spider” is literally just the Australian phrase for and ice cream float.

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Belle French had lived in Maine for too long. Even though she was a native Aussie, her time in college and grad school had gotten her used to thinking of November as cold and rainy, even snowy. Autumn in the northern United States was a time for sweaters and boots and pumpkin-spiced hot drinks.

But here, at David and Mary Margaret Nolan’s sheep station in western Queensland, November meant that anyone who had the option stayed inside with the air conditioning on full blast, even at night. It had been sweltering when Belle had arrived earlier in the day, and even after dinner it was only just starting to cool down. In the clean, spacious kitchen, Mary Margaret Nolan was scooping ice cream into tall glasses and pouring in clear, fizzy lemonade.

It was hard not to think of her as ‘Mrs. Nolan.’ Mary Margaret wasn’t old, but she was older than Belle. She practically vibrated with a cheerfulness that reminded Belle of a kindergarten teacher, and consequently made Belle feel like she was about five years old. Being given ice cream only made the feeling worse.

“I hope you don’t mind lime spiders,” Mary Margaret said. “I’d offer you something more adult, but we got rid of all the liquor when--” she spread her arms to show off her bulging belly. In Australia, being six months pregnant was pretty much the only excuse you had for not drinking.

Belle wrapped her arms around her own, smaller, bump. She was still at the stage where wearing loose clothes just made her look fat, not pregnant, and that was fine by her. The longer she could go without advertising her condition the better she would feel.

Had Mary Margaret been showing when she had been here in August? Had Belle just not noticed because pregnancy had been the furthest thing from her mind? If she had picked up on Mary Margaret’s condition, would that have given her a subconscious warning to be careful about who or what she allowed into her vagina?

She swallowed down her questions and her regrets. She wanted to be polite to her hosts. “Ice cream is fine,” she said. “Spiders were always my favorite when I was a kid.”

Taking her glass, Belle looked down into the clear soda and watched the vanilla ice cream react with the carbonation. Slowly, thin cracks appeared in the ice cream, branching out until the whole thing did indeed look like a spider. In a sudden burst of emotion, Belle grabbed a spoon and furiously mixed the two ingredients together until they were a blended mess. Spiders of all kinds were the last thing she wanted to think about right now. She gulped down her glass and didn’t stop until it was half-empty.

Mary Margaret sat down on one of the bar stools surrounding her kitchen island and took a dainty bite her of ice cream. “I am so glad you were able to come back, Belle. I was really worried when we started losing sheep again.”

“I was worried too,” Belle said. That was not a lie. She had been very worried about what kind of plausible reason she could make up in order to justify another trip from Storybrooke to Queensland.

But when she had called the Nolans, they said that they were just about to call her. It seemed their sheep were being attacked again, and since she had fixed it last time, would she be willing to help them again? For the same rate?

And that had solved two of Belle’s problems at once.

“What did you say was the name of the thing that you killed before?”

“A golden silk orb-weaver,” Belle answered, not revealing that reports of the spider’s death had been greatly exaggerated. “The genus is called Nephila. They can grow to be exceptionally large.”

The largest species on record was Nephila Komaci. It was recently discovered in Madagascar and the females were roughly the size of any human hand that would try to squish them. That was very big for a spider, but the creature that had really been killing the Nolan’s sheep was about three meters long from face to spinnerets, with a leg span that even Belle didn’t want to contemplate.

And that thing was the father of her child.

“Do you think there is going to be more of it?”

Belle looked down at her stomach. “I--uh. Maybe. It is an animal, after all. There’s a biological imperative to--” Belle gulped, “--continue the species.”

Mary Margaret put her hand on top of Belle’s on the stone countertop. “God, you look so pale. That flight must have really worn you out.”

“Something like that, yeah,” Belle admitted.

Airports and customs and security and car rentals were exhausting even on a good trip. But now she had several metric tons of mental anguish weighing on her. The thought of going through the full-body X-ray in the TSA line had almost given her a panic attack. Sure, a human fetus might not show up in a security scan, but what about a fetus with an exoskeleton? In the end, Belle had asked for a pat down instead, just to avoid the whole issue.

More than psychologically, Belle was physically run down. Pregnancy made her tired and hungry and nauseated all the time. She was never comfortable anymore, no matter what she was doing.

“Let’s take these to the living room,” Mary Margaret suggested, picking up her lime spider. “That way it’ll be more comfortable if either of us falls asleep in the middle of talking.”

Trailing behind, Belle watched Mary Margaret walk to the living room. At six months, she wasn’t quite waddling yet, not like pregnant women did in movies to show off that they were about to pop. But there was still a heaviness about her footsteps, a slightly-awkward sway that made her condition obvious, even from behind.

Was Belle going to start moving like that in a few months? Her free hand twisted in her loose T-shirt. She couldn’t hide forever. Soon, people would know the second they looked at her that she was going to have a baby.

Would anyone be able to guess what kind of baby she was going to have?

“Come on in!” Mary Margaret said once they got into the living room.“Put your feet up.” She nodded to an easy chair and an ottoman, while she followed her own advice and stretched out longways on the floral-patterned sofa.

Belle sank down into the easy chair and--God, it did feel good to relax! “Is this David’s chair?”

“Yeah. Sorry he had to go to bed so early. Farmer’s hours, you know.”

Closing her eyes for a moment, Belle nodded. “Usually when I come home, jet lag keeps me up all night, but I am just so tired.”

Mary Margaret made a sympathetic noise. “I was the same way during my first trimester.”

Belle jerked up so quickly she almost spilled her spider. “I--What?” She thought about denying it, but Mary Margaret’s expression was completely calm and non-judgemental. She looked happy for Belle. “How did you know?”

“You wore tighter tops on your last visit. I wasn’t the only one who noticed.” She raised her eyebrows, but if there was a deeper meaning to that last sentence, it went right over Belle’s head.

Belle was too busy putting her feet on the ground and her head between her knees. “I--I didn’t know people could see it.” She turned to Mary Margaret, her eyes wide and more than a little teary. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“Oh, honey!” After a bit of hefting, Mary Margaret got off the couch and plodded over to sit on the ottoman in front of Belle’s chair. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I didn’t know it was a secret.”

“Well, obviously it’s not, if you can tell just by looking at me.” Belle spat out the words, feeling her anger so she wouldn’t cry. It was so hard not to break down, not to show every bit of hurt and fear that swirled around her hormone-addled brain.

Mary Margaret just put her hand on Belle’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” she said gently. “I know how scary this is. I really do.”

How would you know? Belle wanted to snap. And how would she know? Mary Margaret Nolan was in her late thirties, with a mansion and a sheep station and a human husband. How the hell would she know what Belle was feeling? Right now, Belle had nothing. She had never felt so young, or so weak, or so alone.

Now Mary Margaret was rubbing small circles into Belle’s back. “It’s okay,” she kept saying over and over. “It’s going to be okay.”

After a deep breath, Belle wiped her eyes and looked at the other woman. “How can you be so sure?”

With one hand still on Belle, Mary Margaret put her other hand on top of her own belly. “Little Neal here isn’t my first baby,” she said softly.

Belle gaped. “What?” She didn’t know the Nolans well, but they had never mentioned having children. In the photographs around the house, the only pictures of kids were class groups on field trips to the station.

Mary Margaret just smiled. “I think I was younger than you are now. I found out the spring of our freshman year of college--David’s and mine.” A dreamy look floated over her face as she remembered. “Yeah, I was only nineteen. And we were going to get married, but we hadn’t yet because we didn’t have any money. We were living in the States then. David had a scholarship, but he was working two jobs just to pay for textbooks and ramen.”

Belle blinked back her tears. Befuddlement had taken over sadness’ spot in her brain. The Nolans owned a thousand acres of farmland. They had hundreds of sheep and paid good wages to seven shepherds to take care of them. It was impossible to imagine them poor and desperate, microwaving instant noodles in a ratty dorm.

“What about you?” Belle asked. “What were you studying?”

“That’s the funny part, I was studying early childhood development. I wanted to be a teacher. I loved kids, I always have. But I knew how much work it takes to raise them right. And I was studying and reading reports about how even the first few months are crucial for learning and factors that will set a child up for success or failure in later life. And I could see how the education system, especially in America, is just stacked against poor kids from the very beginning.”

She shook her head. “We lived in this terrible studio apartment. The kitchen sink and the bathroom sink were the same thing. And David was talking about selling his plasma to buy a crib!”

Now it seemed to be Mary Margaret’s turn to cry. She kept shaking her head and rubbing her belly. “I wanted more for my baby. I had to give her better than that. I wanted to give her her best chance.”

Belle leaned forward, closer to Mary Margaret. She had never much liked her crappy apartment, but at least she had a bathroom.

“Wasn’t anyone able to help you? Your parents or…?”

Mary Margaret just shook her head. “David’s mom was sick and just as poor as we were. My parents both died before I turned eighteen. My dad left me a trust fund, but my step-mother had control of it until I turned twenty-five. She was very clear about keeping me away from my inheritance for as long as she legally could.”

There was clearly a story there, but Belle wanted to focus on the pregnancy. “So what did you do? About the baby?”

“I was pretty far along when I realized that we couldn’t keep her.” Tears flowed freely down Mary Margaret’s round face. “We had been to the ultrasound. We knew she was a girl. We knew we wanted to name her Emma. I had even started making her a blanket. During my eight-A.M. lectures, I would knit to keep myself awake.” She smiled through her tears. “I didn’t want to get an abortion. I wanted my baby to live, and have a good life. I just… I just knew she wasn’t going to get that if she was stuck with us.”

Belle let out a stream of air at that. On the one hand, she understood what young Mary Margaret had gone through. She understood wanting to give your child the best chance you could. And she understood the practical, financial limitations of being a teenager in college and trying to also be a mother. Even with a devoted partner like David Nolan, that would have been an uphill battle.

But it still hurt to hear another person say that their own child would be better off without them. The love Mary Margaret had had for this baby was palpable, every bit as palpable as the desperation of their future prospects. Belle’s heart ached to think of this young girl, all full of hope and dreams, who wanted to be a mother--but not yet. Not so soon.

“I can’t imagine making that kind of decision,” Belle said.

“It was hard, yeah.” Mary Margaret looked around the room, she seemed to be searching for something. Belle followed her gaze until it stopped on a box of tissues on the mantle.

“I’ll get them,” she said as she got out of the easy chair. “I think we both need them tonight.”

“Hormones and trauma are a great combination!” Mary Margaret laughed. When Belle offered her the box she took two tissues--one for her eyes and one for her nose. “I cried so much the first time I was pregnant. I think it was every day. And David helped, he tried his best. But even with him by my side, I still felt like it was the three of us against the world.”

Belle put her hand on her belly. “Yeah, that’s how I’ve been feeling. Except I don’t have a David. At least… not yet.”

She didn’t know what the creature in the cave could do for her, or if it would even want to help. All she knew was that she had to try. She had traveled halfway around the world just for the chance to see him again and let him know about the baby, his baby. Their baby.

Mary Margaret put her hand over Belle’s. “I can give you Clay’s cell phone number, but I think he said something about going to Nepal.”

Blinking, Belle looked up. “Who?”

Mary Margaret looked as confused by Belle’s question as Belle was by her statement. “Clay?” she said. “Clay Gaston? From last time you were here. Isn’t he the… Isn’t he why you came back here?”

“Oh!” Belle tried to cover her surprise. She had pretty much forgotten about Gaston, the big game hunter who the Nolans had hired along with her to take care of their pest problem. Mary Margaret seemed to think that they had slept together.

That possibility was the only thing she could think of that was worse than reality.

“No!” Belle said, a little too loud. “No, Gaston is--no. He’s not the father.”

“Oh.” Mary Margaret sounded like she was trying to hide her disappointment. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed. I just saw the way he looked at you and thought, maybe you had looked back.”

Belle shook her head. Gaston had made no secret of the fact that he would happily give her the most adequate sexual experience of her life. But Belle had never had any desire to take him up on that. It seemed she was destined for someone who looked at her with more eyes than Gaston ever could.

“Yeah, no. I--I do want to reconnect with the father. But that’s not Gaston.”

“Who is it, then? Somebody from around here?”

There was no doubt that Mary Margaret had a rough idea of all the men who lived within fifty kilometers of her station. Belle couldn’t say that the father was a Queensland local. She had never expected to have this conversation, so she had never thought up a cover story for why she needed to meet someone on a part of the continent where she basically knew no one.

“I… actually met him on the flight on the way in, before I got to the station all those months ago. So I thought maybe he lived somewhere around here.”

Mary Margaret’s eyes went completely round. “On the flight?”

Belle could hear all the words Mary Margaret was heroically keeping to herself: You slept with someone you had just met? Without exchanging phone numbers? Without protection? In an airplane?!

“Yeah…” Belle said. While the reality laid out in this lie may have been more pleasant than the truth, it didn’t make her look any more responsible than what had really happened. A person who had a one-night stand and joined the Mile High Club at the same time was not exactly a paragon of fit parenting.

“I mean it’s okay,” Mary Margaret assured her. “I’m just worried that you’re pinning a lot of hopes on this person you don’t know anything about.”

“I don’t,” Belle admitted. “I don’t know where he lives or even what his name is. I--I have no idea how to find him.”

“Well, it’s like I always say, if you love someone, and they love you, you’ll find your way to each other.”

Belle tried to believe that. Tried to believe that love could be any part of what was going on.

“But--we were talking about your baby, the first one.” Belle shifted the topic from one unplanned pregnancy back to the other. “What did you end up doing?”

Gracefully, Mary Margaret accepted Belle’s abrupt change of subject. “There was a convent a few towns over from the college. We talked with the Mother Superior and she helped us make arrangements to place Emma for adoption.” She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the memories. “There was a stack of books that the families had made--like photo albums, where these couples and sometimes their kids would introduce themselves. They would say who they were and what they were about and why they wanted to adopt. We picked out a nice couple from Florida. I wanted to find a good fit for our daughter, people that would love her and raise her the way David and I would have raised her. We weren’t going to just leave her on the side of the freeway!” She smiled weakly at her own joke.

Belle tried to smile back. “How long did you have with your daughter? Before they…” She didn’t want to say the words took her, but it was hard to think of it any other way.

“I went to the hospital, and Emma was born on October 23. David got someone to cover his shifts at work so he could help with the birth. I tried to tell him not to, that it would hurt too much for him to be there, but he wouldn’t leave my side.” Mary Margaret took another tissue and just held it in her hands for a moment. “We had about a day, when we were a family. Emma never slept in her bassinet, both of us never wanted to stop holding her. I had finished the blanket by then, and we wrapped her in it. For a little bit, we thought we could maybe make it work. And if love was all you needed to feed and clothe a child, that baby would have wanted for nothing.” Still holding her tissue, Mary Margaret let her tears fall freely. “But then David had to leave to work an overnight shift. And I was all alone with her in the hospital, and I knew that this couldn’t last. And I wanted her to go with her family. I knew they would love her and take care of her. I knew that this was her best chance.

“But that night, the last night I had her to myself, I didn’t sleep a wink. I just held her, and fed her out of bottles, and sang to her. I knew my time with her was running out, and I didn’t want to miss a second of it. I didn’t even want to close my eyes.” She closed her eyes now, putting her face in her hands in grief.

Belle put her hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t imagine doing that.” Her own feelings toward her offspring were nebulous, but there was no doubt that Mary Margaret had loved her baby, and that she had chosen to give her up as an expression of that love. “That was so… brave.”

Mary Margaret gave out a bitter laugh. “It didn’t feel brave. Or at least, it didn’t feel good. No one ever tells you how much doing the right thing can hurt.”

“I’m sorry,” Belle said again. She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“I got so depressed,” Mary Margaret went on. “I barely scraped by that semester, and the next one wasn’t much better. David was the only thing that kept me from dropping out altogether. David, and… thinking about Emma. I wanted her to be proud of me, to think that her birthmother was someone worthwhile.”

“You are,” Belle said immediately. “Your daughter has a lot to be proud of with you and David.”

Mary Margaret nodded. “It took so long for us to get to a place where we felt comfortable having kids. Not just financially, but emotionally, trying to process all this grief about losing our chance with Emma.”

“Did you ever get to see her?”

“A few times, while we were still in school. It was an open adoption. Her parents would meet us at a park or a children’s museum. It hurt, every time. And then we moved here, and they mailed us pictures on her birthday.” Mary Margaret’s voice faded away. “But that all stopped once she turned eighteen.”

“Why?”

“Well, she’s an adult now. She can make her own decisions about if she wants to contact us. And… she hasn’t. Her birthday was just a few weeks ago. She’s nineteen now, the same age I was when I had her. I guess she doesn’t want to have anything to do with us.”

“That’s not true,” Belle said automatically. “I mean, I’m sure things are mixed-up in her mind too. Or she’s just busy with her own life. Or she doesn’t think you want to see her. It doesn’t mean that she’s hostile to you. I promise, Mary Margaret, you’ll see your daughter someday.”

Mary Margaret smiled and held Belle’s hand. “Thank you,” she said. “Even if it’s not true, just believing in hope is a powerful thing.”

“You and David are good people,” Belle squeezed her hand. “Good things will happen to you. Maybe you’ll get to show Emma her little brother.”

Mary Margaret looked down at her bump. “Yeah,” she said, so softly it almost seemed like a secret, a hope to be shared only between mother and child.

As much as she sympathized with the other woman, Belle couldn’t fight a twinge of resentment. At least Mary Margaret had adoption as an option. And she had known the whole time that her daughter would be a normal, human girl, and that even with this other family, she would be taken care of. Baby Emma would be much easier to love than whatever was growing inside Belle.

“No one else would want my baby.” She hadn’t realized she’d said it out loud until she saw Mary Margaret’s shocked expression.

“Oh, don’t say that!” She clutched her hand. “Your baby is going to be wonderful!”

“What if it’s not?” Belle gave voice to fears she had never expressed to another person. “What if there’s something wrong with this baby? What if it’s deformed or… or sick or something?”

She couldn’t admit that the baby would take after its father--a half-human spider-monster. That wasn’t an abstract fear, but a biological certainty. Belle feared she wasn’t able to care for such a creature. Was she giving it the nutrients it needed to develop in the womb? Would her body be able to go through labor to birth something so inhuman? And what would it be like once it was born? How could she feed and raise her offspring? If the role of a parent was to help a child grow up, how could she possibly know if she was helping this thing grow into the best version of itself?

“Every pregnancy is scary,” Mary Margaret said. “There are so many things that you don’t know--can’t know. All you can do is try your best and keep going and rely on the people that love you to help.”

“I don’t know if he loves me. The father, I mean. We didn’t exactly get to talk much.”

“Well that’s why you’re here now,” Mary Margaret assured her. “You’re going to find him, and you’re going to tell him about the baby, and then you’re going to see what he says. And it’ll probably be terrifying, I won’t kid you about that. I was nervous when I told David, and I trusted him as completely then as I do now. But it’s still scary.”

“There are so many unknown variables,” Belle said. “It’s impossible to theorize the outcome.”

“And that’s why you need to get more information!” Mary Margaret took Belle by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. “You won’t know until you talk to this man. So when are you going to start looking for him?”

Belle looked into Mary Margaret’s eyes, and summoned up all the courage she could muster. “Tomorrow,” she answered. “I’m going to start looking for him tomorrow.”

****

It was actually the day after tomorrow when Belle loaded up her rental car with supplies and headed out to the wildness of brush and abandoned opal mines. The morning before, when she had been planning on heading out, the jet lag had finally hit. The time difference combined with pregnancy fatigue led to her spending a solid twenty hours in one of the Nolans’ guest bedrooms, either sleeping or too zonked to move.

But the day after that, Belle was up before the sun. It was cool in the morning, and she wanted to get as much of her mission done as it was possible to do before the summer heat kicked in. The Nolans had loaned her an Esky, and Belle had filled it up with ice, sandwiches, and Watermelon Chill Gatorade.

Though she had told Mary Margaret that she was in Queensland to look for the father of her child, it was still understood that they were paying her to track down the overly-large spider that was attacking the station’s sheep. That had to be her first priority.

Only Belle knew that her sex partner and the spider were actually the same entity.

She drove along the same route she had taken with Gaston when they had first gone out to find the creature. All the Nolans’ grazing lands were on top of abandoned mines. The cave where Belle had first met the thing was an underground space the size of a cathedral. Remembering it, Belle couldn’t help but romanticize the place--shafts of light streaming through the boarded-up mine entrances; golden webs as thin as threads, but strong enough to keep her lifted up in the air; the darkness where the creature hid, a threat, yes, but mostly a mystery to be uncovered.

Butterflies danced in her stomach, and Belle had no way to describe what she was feeling. Nervous, certainly. She was just as afraid that she would find the creature as she was that she wouldn’t. Would it remember her? Would it care that she was pregnant? Or would it just try to eat her? Last time she had made a deal with it, that she would be its mate instead of its meal. Maybe it wouldn’t make her the same offer this time. Animals didn’t have to be sentimental, or fair. Especially with arachnids, cannibalism was not uncommon.

It might not make a difference that she was carrying its young.

Despite her fears, Belle pulled off the dirt road at the first abandoned mine opening she saw. She parked the car and took a Gatorade out of the Esky. Pregnancy played havoc with her blood sugar and she needed to stay hydrated in this heat. Watermelon Chill hadn’t been her favorite flavor growing up, but she couldn’t get it in Storybrooke so now it tasted like home.

Last time she was here, she had found a dead sheep and a trail of golden thread to let her know that she was on the right track. Now she had no such luck. There was nothing along the ground except for a collection of old boards hammered to form a gate to keep animals from falling into the mine below.

Cautiously, Belle circled the covered hole. The morning sun didn’t let much light into the darkness below. Even when she brought out her torch, the electric beam only waved uselessly in the black abyss. Belle was just about to give up when the light finally caught on something. Something glinting.

Belle rested her full weight on the boards, trying to get a better look at the glint. Was it shining gold or silver? Was it just a mineral deposit? Or was it… Could it be a thread?

Suddenly, the boards broke and Belle collapsed forward into the darkness. She didn’t have time to think, didn’t even have time to scream before she was falling down into the underground cavern.

Just as fast as she had fallen, something caught her. Strong arms wrapped around her body and held her close. Belle pressed her face into the safety of the unknown. Something rough and hard rubbed against her skin, but the feeling was warm and dry, like a wool blanket. The smell of it was earthy, with a little bit of mustiness. She felt like she had been caught between the pages of an old book.

Belle and her rescuer swung in the air, propelled by the inertia of her fall. They whipped around a central point over and over, like a carnival ride on steroids. Were they tethered on something? Swinging on a string? Instead of looking out to see, Belle buried her head in the chest of the dark figure that protected her. She tried to contain her screams--and her nausea.

Gradually, they began to slow. Their transit became smaller. It felt more like rocking now, a gentle, soothing motion. Belle took a shaking breath. It seemed to be the first time she had breathed since she’d been on the surface. She wasn’t surprised to find tears in her eyes when she touched her face.

Once the spinning stopped, the arms relaxed their hold on her. Belle felt herself and whatever held her slowly lowering to the ground. The arms loosened, but didn’t let her go. Instead, they lifted her up into a shaft of light and a happy, familiar, inhuman voice cried out:

“Belle! Belle is back!”

#Nephila #rumbelle #rumbelle fic #rumbelle fanfic #spider

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herald-divine-hell · 5 years

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A Soothing Touch

A/N: Since my depression hit me like train today, again, I decided to write some fluff, with some slights hints of angst. Because I can. Sorry if this isn’t any real good. I’m not that good at writing when I’m really down, but I just needed to write something.

Summary: The Inquisitior is struck low from her duties. Leliana is there to pick her back up.

The air was thin up in the Inquisitor’s chambers, brittle and chilly. Leliana could hear the hallowing screech of the wind slashing at the walls, trembling over the stony surface like a cool wave of mountain air.

It was quiet in the Inquisitor’s secluded tower, with only a sprawl of crows filling the silence with their pitchy screeches and cries. Leliana felt the cold slip through her armor, glazing across her face like a sharpen, brittle blade. That hole was meant to be sealed up weeks ago, she thought, side-glancing the rubble and wood that let in watery golden sunlight. A crow caught her eye, tilting it’s head as it stared at her with it’s small black eyes. It fluttered it’s wings, before settling down to peak at one of its brethren. Leliana could not stop the shadow of a smile to rise on her face, her lips curling upward in silent amusement. But they could provide a level of enjoyment.

The Inquisitor’s chambers were lowly lit, with only a scatter amounts of candles - six or seven, at the least - sprawling out messily. Some rested on a round table near the white couch that Leliana was well acquainted with. Others sat on wooden nightstands glided with gold that cast a shimmering light over the surface. The rest sat on the Inquisitor’s desk, brimming with scattered and torn and rustled parchment that laid limply on the surface and empty inkwells that were thrown lazily onto the floor. Leliana’s nose scrunched up at the sight of the mess. She was no stranger to a disorderly workplace, she herself worked with ravens that well left their markings upon the stone floor in the Rookery, but she had expected more from the Inquisitor, a woman whom she noted to be more orderly in her appearance, prim and proper when spoken too. The sight before her seemed to eradicate that in it’s entirety.

The woman was sitting with her head in her hands and her black hair, long and curled often neat and perfected with what Leliana could only assume was magic, was in disarray, with random locks looking tied and twisted. Often, lords and commoners alike spoke of the Herald of Andraste as the Black Lion, but know, Leliana herself could see it.

Her lips thinned, her mouth set as her eyebrows knitted together. She placed the parchment that she carried onto the table. She had long rid herself of sending her agents and scouts to deliver the reports. It only seemed fair to personally informed the Inquisitor on certain delicate matters that may had been otherwise compromised with any rogue scout. Like Butler. She pushed that thought away with a soft shake of her head.

Leliana’s feet took her without her permission, stepping delicately onto the soft carpet. And, once at the side of the Inquisitor’s chair, her hand reached toward the Inquisitor’s slight shoulder, covered with a purple stash embroiled with golden trimming, lacing up and down the silk. “Ma amour,” Leliana softly whispered, shaking her shoulder with the gentlest of touches. “What’s wrong?”

A silence fell, and Leliana wondered if the woman had fallen asleep. No, she thought. Her posture was too stiff, as was her shoulders. Clenched and tight, not in anyway shape or form to indicate a passing of slumber. She shaked her again, with a little more strength behind it. A mumble echoed from the Inquisitor’s chest, and a sharp shrugged her shoulder caused Leliana to recoil her hand back. “What?” a voice called, dripping with irritation and a heaviness that Leliana could not name.

“What’s wrong?” Leliana asked again, tucking her arms behind her waist. The tone was foreign to Leliana, harsh and seemingly unpleasant compared to the softness and enthralling nature of her lover’s voice. Her stomach churned and curled sharply, but Leliana tightened her jaw and swallowed hard.

Her head rose, and Leliana caught glimpses of vibrant green eyes, flecked with slivers of gold, in the bushes of the Inquisitor’s raven locks. There was a flame, not warm and tender and passionate in it’s flickering, but hard and sharp as it danced and flickered. “Nothing.” Her head rose further, and Leliana saw the purple shadows clinging beneath her eyes, which was cradled with a narrow red, the red of her flush cheeks, moisten with what appeared to be tears. “Just tired.”

Leliana frowned, her lips tightening even further. “No person cries over just being tired.” She bent down, cupping her lover’s cheeks, so soft but so wet, in her gloved hands. Her gloves, leather and thick, was barely inflicted by the tears, but she could see the brown darkening into a deeper brown, near black. “Something else is on you’re mind.”

They stood there, blue-gray eyes meeting golden-green, lost in a realm entirely not connected to their world. After a few moments, the Inquisitor’s lips, soft and full, trembled as newly freshen tears formed at the corner of her eyes. She glanced down, hiding her face beneath the shadowy locks of her hair. Leliana did not want that, Leliana could not see that. Her heart felt as heavy as an orb of led, pulling down a hole of nearing despair. “I-I.” The Inquisitor’s voice trembled, quivering and quaking and cracking with every effort to form the correct words. Leliana did not weaver. She simply held her love’s face in her hands. Holding my entire world, a voice whispered in her mind, echoing like it was formed in a great mountainous land. I’m entire purpose. Once, she would have recoiled at that; that dependency, but now, Leliana relished it in. It was a feeling no words in any language could ever describe, those tender feelings which she only held for the Inquisitor. “I can’t, Leliana. I just can’t. This, all of this.” She waved her hand absentmindedly over the crowded desk. “I’m drowning. I can’t breathe for a second before another one of Josie’s servants or Cullen’s scouts coming rushing through my doors handing me some reports.”

Or me, Leliana thought in dread, but she kept those thoughts to herself. She was no innocent in that matter. Even if she wanted to spend more time with her love, and the reports gave a legitimate reason for vising her when she could, Leliana did not think about the strain it might had held over her love during those many hours of tireless work that was overshadowed by the Inquisitor’s magnificent deeds.

The tears fell flowing and free, with no fear of discrimination or humiliation from Leliana. She simply nodded her head and hummed as she listened to her love rant. She needs this. Leliana would gladly be at the end of her rage, as long as she did not need to see her weep. Her wraith she could handle, but not her tears. Leliana swore to herself and the Maker that she would not make another one of her love ones weep for her. Justinia did, as did Josie. I refuse to let that happened.

“Go one,” she said. “Continue. I’ll be here to listen. And when you’re done, I’ll help you finish this Maker-forsaken work; and I’ll go and get you some food.” She leaned forward and grazed her lips over the Inquisitor’s. “I love you, always remember that.”

She pulled the Inquisitor into a hug, pressing a kiss to the side of her head, taking in that pleasant scent that was the Inquisitor. “I love you,” she whispered, holding back tears that threatened to spill as she felt her love shake in her arms. “From now and forever, my guiding light.

“I love you.”

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nauseateddrive · 3 years

Text

4 POEMS by Jake Sheff

Elegy for Dog I: A Failed Acrostic

January was tired when it became king. Apples here love being red in the spring, Casting shadows against the stone architraves our Kapellmeister will never live down. You Stole Apollo’s cows, and let them graze to show me Heaven’s template. Where do failed heroes go? Eucalyptus cupolas and polar icecaps Frame the downtrodden gods. But you weren’t Freakishly wrong, as I so often am, on your

Joyride through nearly twice eight years, Á la someone far from beauty’s stepmom. Copper coin or grimacing sun? I’ve got 20,000 Kor of crushed grief on this threshing floor. Shark-sparks of sadness flood the impetiginous air… How, and why, do clouds cobblestone Entire days, and lakes, when you’re not here? Fixing every broken thing, poets go where Ferns and geraniums baptize the morning.

“Jur-any-oms,” is how you’d spell it; After all, a dog’s a dog, and wisdom knows futility. Cassations make a rusty brew, to drink the truth of truths, and Kill whatever ceases wanting to be new. Stewardship, the color of gravity’s silence, naturally Houses every “glur” (a glittery blur); go chase what plays Eternal games. I hear the swans by Rooster Rock. Your handsome Face, its happy handsomeness, in memory’s eye, goes in and out of Focus; in love’s better eye: your goodness neath its everblooming ficus.

Gravity and Grace on SW Murray Scholls Drive

“Impatience has ruined many excellent men who, rejecting the slow, sure way, court destruction by rising too quickly.” Tacitus, The Annals of Imperial Rome

The traffic lights control the people’s actions, but Not their feelings, as the limits of philosophy Collide head on with the nose of a Dalmatian.

I tell you, the day is stress-testing itself, and these Sidewalks wish that it’d just gone straight. Geese Take this sky-hairing wind for granted, as they

Land on the lake like memorable speech on The sensitive soul. Time is never sharp, but it’s Cutting something in the credit union. Maybe

It’s dancing a back Corte for the woman in line Thinking about the taste of limes from Temecula As she waits for the teller. Air Alaska and that

Haunted pie in the sky are not the only reasons For all the volatility in the air today. Rushing And perfectionism both produce a loss; behind

The Safeway Pharmacy, you’ll see the small Smells of both, sloshing around to the ticking- Sound of the ocean’s tides. I must admit, I am

Frozen in place by the sight of steam from Joe’s Burgers; it is poetry’s pale tongue, rising in And arousing the air. This neighborhood’s street-

Lights are more serious than kokeshi dolls. Lights From its windows outshine poison dart frogs. Maybe to forget about life for awhile, the lamps

Are focused on The Population Bomb? ‘Easy Tiger,’ all these incidents whisper. Each day’s A sign twirler’s dais; each corner a promise

Of something more in a different direction: it isn’t A marriageable daughter or impoverishment, But inguinal ingenuity plays a part, and that isn’t

Bad at all. What oaths and paths went here Before Walmart? What voices were voided by The liquor store? What are vague’s values

When the library shares a parking lot with a 24- Hour gym and a cargo cult? Gas stations satirize The Queen of Hearts; I tell you, it makes every

Question seem incidental. Treaty-breakers in Pajamas swing on the swing sets. Was August That full of angst? It feels like autumn went too

Far on accident. Desertification, in a sugar tong Splint, takes a shot of ouzo and talks shit About the death of Brutus, but my Bible-thumping

Memory – on a ski hill in Duluth – is also too busy Watching some ducks on the lake to notice; and Desertification makes a face at me like a Swedish

Film. Poets make for poorly picked men to Familiarity’s paymaster-general. The Calvinistic Rain is an ill-starred attempt to make mayonnaise-

Fries just for me, but I must admit, it all seems – You know – cybernetic. And step-motherly as all Get out, if you ask the trees. They prefer “You

Can’t Hurry Love,” by The Supremes, to any Changes that take effect in one to two pay periods. Pretext ricochets; a perfect reverse promenade.

At Summer Lake, When the Vegetables are Sleeping

Cruelty drinks all the wine, and never gets drunk On these shores. When Summer Lake speaks, In every word, an introduction to the world. I am

Easily duped. The greatest duper duplicates my pride, Which always lingers, in the hallways of my heart And beneath the surface of Summer Lake. The sky is

Supplicating, it’s literally shaking. An hour passes Faster here, the hour always held too dearly dear In paranoid and ivied walls. The ducks can do

An unwise thing correctly, and it sounds more like Dusty than Buffalo Springfield to the enokitake Sold in Springfield, Illinois, which is the opposite

Effect it has on the wild mushrooms on these shores. On cables capable of love, the geese convince The weather to taste like kvass today. Basically,

Another Cuban Missile Crisis drowned itself just Now. The clouds might ask themselves, ‘Is lowliness Allowed here?’ To which the crows might ask,

‘Does omertà sound like lightning?’ The answer’s Oubliette is ten times worse than impotence. Summer Lake isn’t smart, but it stays quiet, like

Someone too smart to say all they know. ‘Whoa, Sweet potato,’ the capital gains tax mutters To itself, knowing that what matters doesn’t mean

A thing. Some say the lake bottom’s sands receive Commands from Hearst Castle, others say Its hands are King City’s hands, and still others

Maintain more sins have been than grains of sand Times secondary gains, and that explains The beauty and industry that none can see but

All can feel on these shores. (Some possibilities Play possum, or get opsonized by hate; this one snores Like Rip Van Winkle.) This orb-weaver spider is

The Milton Friedman of Summer Lake, the wind On her web is Grenache from The Rocks District Of Milton-Freewater AVA for the eyes. The day is

Stereotypical, although it feels like three days In one…But for the lake’s good counterfactual Questions, I would forget that some die young,

But most die wrong. I’ve tried to pick up Summer Lake’s reflections in three lines or less, but The hardest truth is your own impotence. Oh,

It’s hard to hand your power over to a thing No one can see. Hopped up on distinctions – not The obvious distinctions – Summer Lake is pretty;

Cold, but pretty! In the distance, with so many Intercessory prayers, hot air balloons are rising; Shaped like teardrops, upside down and rising.

This lake re-something-or-anothered me. Are first Impressions wrong sometimes? I am a season’s Golden calf, according to the sunlight, doing

A prospector’s jig on the surface of Summer Lake. If not for the Weimar Republic’s wooden- Headedness, I’d set down my heart-song and

Listen to reason on these shores. I never trust An activist guitar, if the weather is socially clumsy. The future is reflected on the lake: it always

Laughs at us – between its math and gratitude Lessons – and never thinks of (or gives thanks to) Us enough. The presence in the lake juniors

My ears. The day is not too baffling, nor is it Jane Eyre. Space-themed and spiritual, some autumn Leaves are swimming in the rain. The ducks arrest

My attention in the mardy weather, even though they Must know my attention is dying. The barbed wire Around my stated goal is an outcome out of

Their control. Picnickers picnic with acorns and apricots, On blankets covering Holy Schnikey’s death mask. My unsandaled thoughts thrive and increase on these,

And no other shores. They are pets for the days less Important than love, when Summer Lake says it’s Humble, because it knows the right thing to say.

Summer Lake gives the comfort of commonly held And seriously absurd beliefs to the blue heron. Nothing is wrong with this lake or anything in it,

Not even the ghost of Amerigo Vespucci. It’s all so Simple to the stiff-necked molecules of water, made out Of frogs and snails and puppy-dog’s tails. These thoughts

Are fine manna in a fine ditch. Post-structuralist squirrels Can tell my heart’s in Italy, and I’m in the intellectual Laity. Chivalry’s technician sees my shovel, and they say,

‘You’ve got to hand it to him.’ Neurocysticercosis Sets the bar high; it looks at this park, and thinks The smartest monkey drew the perfect landscape.

That’s this maple tree’s previous disease, its precious One. It unfurls the ferns of my firm and foremost Beliefs, I’m told, to partialize insufferable vastidity.

We Install a Sump Pump on (What Used To Be) a Holiday (Take 2)

The oppressive heat was born a fully grown Man. I admire the result of its effort, but Despise the means of achieving it. My wife Asserts her individuality in the gunk; her Body’s allegations aren’t too soft or hard today. Her self-interest seems to have drowned in the vortex.

Our little garden knows flippancy with regards To privacy is unwise. The stepping stones can Only blather, as slugs draw nomograms on Their faces. My wife’s body speaks Proto-Indo- European in the vortex and denim overalls. Marc Chagall’s The Poet studies her. He calls her

‘Innocence: The opposite of life! A criminal with A badge!’ I hand her the tools of a crude and Rudimentary faith, and she says, ‘Jill, great books Make fine shackles.’ Her arms only have An administrative objective in the vortex, but They are where good things come from.

Jake Sheff is a pediatrician in Oregon and veteran of the US Air Force. He's married with a daughter and whole lot of pets. Poems of Jake’s are in Radius, The Ekphrastic Review, Crab Orchard Review, The Cossack Review and elsewhere. He won 1st place in the 2017 SFPA speculative poetry contest and a Laureate's Choice prize in the 2019 Maria W. Faust Sonnet Contest. Past poems and short stories have been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology and the Pushcart Prize. His chapbook is “Looting Versailles” (Alabaster Leaves Publishing).

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ruffsficstuffplace · 7 years

Text

The Keeper of the Grove (Part 61)

Weiss and Glynda trained through the afternoon and well into the evening, going through a handful of the many, many games/training exercises meant to help weavers improve their skills.

They kept playing Blast Back until Weiss messed up far too often for Glynda's liking, sending the wrong pressures into the rings, missing them entirely, or even failing to catch the water she was sending over in the first place.

After a short break and several canisters of mana-water for the both of them, it was off to the next game:

“Whip-It”

Here, Weiss had to fish orbs of the water, or knock them down from the air with only a water-whip spell, avoiding certain targets, and minding the pressure after she caught the right ones, or else they would burst.

She played a few rounds, until her arm began to hurt from whipping it back and forth and flicking her wrist for extra control, and the fingers on her other hand were starting to get crooked from her using it to control the pressure.

They took a longer break after that, Weiss getting herself examined by Penny as Glynda explained the last game for the day:

“Ripple Rider”

Here Weiss had to maneuver a little boat through a pond littered with obstacles, only allowed to move it with waves and ripples made however she chose. At Glynda's recommendation, she sat on the edge of the pond, stuck her feet into the water, and tried to move the boat using just her lower body, making sweeping movements with her ankles and feet, and precise movements with her toes.

It was all going well, until a mistimed wave got her boat tangled in a mess of weeds. Weiss struggled to pull out, gently nudging it, trying to blast it out with a rogue wave, then attacking from a different side of the pool, but it just ended up getting more and more caught in the plants.

“That's enough, Weiss,” Glynda said as she put a hand on her shoulder.

Weiss eyed her boat, almost completely unseen for the weeds, and sighed. “Okay…”

Glynda and Penny worked to pull her out of the water, and they went to towel off and rest one last time.

Weiss supposed she was well on her way to becoming an honourary Fae when she wasn't the least bit horrified by how wrinkled and pruney her hands and feet gotten from being submerged and exposed to water for so long, the way her formerly smooth and supple skin had become tough and calloused like her grandfather's from all her farming and walking barefoot everywhere.

On the bright side, her complexion had gone from “porcelain doll” to “rosy white.”

On the downside, she still felt like she'd just gone through a battery of brutal written tests of all her weakest subjects.

“Gaah...” Weiss groaned as she lay spread out on a dock. “Is it time for yoga, or whatever it is you Fae call it…?” she asked.

“That's for physical training,” Glynda replied as she sat beside her. “We use a different form of meditation for magical training.”

“Well what is it?” Weiss asked.

“Sitting under a waterfall,” Glynda replied.

Weiss paused. “Seriously?”

“There's a reason it's a cliché for every martial arts holo,” Glynda replied.

Once Weiss felt well enough to walk, they headed over to a massive fountain built into a tree, niches carveod out o its trunk, on its branches, and even hidden between its submerged roots.

Numerous waterfalls poured out from it, falling out onto several nests for weavers to sit on. Weiss peered into the water below, noticed some of them were under the water, wearing their masks or enchanted cloth tied around their mouths and noses.

She stopped as she noticed some of them not wearing any equipment at all, be they amphibious Fae like Frogs, or even what looked to be various types of fish and other aquatic creatures—fins for ears, gills on the sides of their chests peeking out of slits in their robes, and even some with “hair” made of tentacles.

“During the Fury, the amphibious and aquatic subspecies of Fae generally live in settlements outside of the Bastion, such as Calmwater Commune near the Timeless Depths,” Penny explained. “Those that do live in the city spend most of their time in the Weaver's Terrace.

“While not impossible nor that dangerous to go on dry-land for long periods of time, and they do have equipment and public facilities for it, it's oftentimes painful, uncomfortable, and/or inconvenient for them to do so, to the point where most just choose not to, until the Flood comes.”

Weiss nodded. “Guess that explains why I've never seen them before...” she muttered they looked for free spots above the water.

Weiss was the only one meditating that time, sitting cross-legged with her head under a waterfall; she closed her eyes as it begin to drip into her eyes, struggled to breath without inhaling it.

Glynda busied herself with fixing her posture. “Maintain your form,” she said as she put her hands on her shoulders, pushed them back down. “You won't reap the benefits otherwise.”

“I'm trying over here!” Weiss snapped, before she regretted it as a mouthful of water poured straight into her mouth.

“Breath deeply and slowly, empty your thoughts,” Glynda said as Weiss spat and gagged. “Don't intentionally think of anything, don't dwell on your emotions, just let them come and go as they please.”

“… And above all, please don't fall asleep.”

Weiss mumbled an affirmative noise as she tried to do just that.

A few moments of silence passed.

“You're still not relaxing,” Glynda said flatly.

Weiss pulled her head out from under the waterfall. “I'm trying to reach a state of calm and peace here!”

“Well don't try, that's ruining the entire point of the exercise,” Glynda said as she gently pushed her head back under the waterfall. “This meditation isn't to calm you down, it's to help you become more attuned to yourself and the Flow.”

“The Flow is how Water Weavers refer to the specific wavelengths of Avalon's magic that naturally resonate with them—your alignment, in other words,” Penny explained.

“And the only way you can do that is if you are able to become completely in the moment,” Glynda said. “The Flow isn't a state of mind, a place you have to go to from somewhere else—you are always in it, you just have to know where exactly at any given time.

“Don't think, just be. And before you complain that nothing's happening: the results don't start to become noticeable until at least a month to a year in of daily practice.”

Weiss sighed heavily.

“Just think of it like your physical training,” Penny hummed.

Weiss made a little affirmative noise, and continued to meditate; she tensed up as she felt Glynda's hands on her once more, fixing her posture yet again.

“Be like the water over your head,” Glynda said, “constantly moving and changing, never static, nor exactly the same drop when it falls on you again. Whatever emotions or thoughts are going through your mind, let them come freely, then go freely.”

Weiss didn't reply, focusing on maintaining her posture, ignoring the strong urges to fall asleep, trying to figure out just what letting her thoughts and emotions come and go actually felt like, so she'd know if she was doing it right.

She could still feel the constant hum of power and energy from the Terrace, same as when she had stepped out the Tube station, but she guessed that wasn't what Elder Goodwitch meant.

The experience didn't improve the whole half-hour of her meditation.

Weiss continued to struggle to breath without inhaling water, fidgeted or unconsciously went out of the proper posture, and Glynda constantly had push her shoulders back down, pulled her back up straight, and even made sure her thumbs were just touching each other than pressing into each.

By the end of it, she was soaked, frustrated, and miserable.

“How are you feeling?” Glynda asked as she helped her back up to her feet.

“Soaked, frustrated, and miserable,” Weiss grumbled. “I thought meditation was supposed to make me all calm and peaceful!”

“It's not, that's just an unfortunately common misconception,” Glynda replied.

“Those who have been practicing them religiously for years generally tend to be much more emotionally stable, happier, and less stressed out, however!” Penny chirped.

Weiss glared at her.

Glynda put a hand on her shoulder. “Don't worry, you'll get it right eventually. Most everyone is terrible their first time meditating—myself included.”

Weiss continued to scowl, before she was just too tired to be angry. “Please tell me there's someplace to eat around here...” she muttered as her stomach growled. “I'll take whatever.”

Glynda nodded, and they headed for the Earth quadrant.

Dinner was a “Forgotten Pot,” a Sekhmet specialty that was a stew of meat, vegetables, animal bones, spices, herbs, and a dash of bacteria culture, before being buried underground and left to ferment for at least a month.

“The original recipe really was a pot of stew that had been forgotten in the wake of a cave-in,” Penny explained as a weaver poured Weiss a bowl. “Three months later, the team in charge of reopening the tunnels managed to find the clay cookware intact, and as it happens, their supplies had been raided by subterranean pests earlier.

“Their mender deemed it reasonably safe to eat still, and a staple of every table and feast spread was born!”

Weiss picked her bowl up, looked dubiously at the bones, the meat, and the vegetables floating in the rich, golden stew. “Are you sure this won't mess my gut up?”

“Positive,” Penny said. “The ingredients were originally imported from Sekhmet, but they have been grown locally in the Valley.”

“Try sucking out the bone marrow first,” Glynda said. “Can't speak for it myself for obvious reasons, but I hear it's quite good.”

Weiss' uneasily fished one of the bones out of her soup, put it to her lips, and did as the carnivores and omnivores among them.

The golden marrow hit her tongue, Weiss eyes widened as it all but melted in her mouth, coating her taste buds in a medley of powerful, delicious flavours. It felt like getting smacked in the face with a large rock, except you'd have an amazing taste in your mouth and warm, liquid gold trickling down your throat as soon as you swallowed.

You'd still be plenty dazed, though.

Weiss stared blankly ahead, her bowl resting on the flat slab of rock they were all dining on.

Glynda pulled her bowl from her lips, and smiled. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Holy shit...” Weiss muttered, still dazed.

Glynda chuckled, before she continued eating.

“If you wish to continue training at this intensity on a regular basis, I would highly advise you increase your food intake, especially simple and complex carbohydrates,” Penny said. “Elemental weaving is hungry work.”

Weiss made an affirmative noise before she went to look for more marrow-filled bones in her soup.

The dinner ended with Weiss full and feeling much better, her bowl empty but for the bones sucked clean of fat. As she soon found out, it was polite in Sekhmet to pile them all up in the center, free for those who could to chew on.

The sounds of idle conversation and bones cracking and splintering filled the air, surprisingly pleasant to listen to even if Weiss could only understand bits and pieces of what they were saying.

“Weiss, will you please walk with me?” Glynda asked as she got up.

Weiss looked down at her distended stomach, frowned, and got up. “With pleasure, Elder Goodwitch,” she said as she followed her.

The two of them walked a good distance away from the others, to the side of a cliff-face. It was peaceful and quiet, the weavers meditating in the carved out niches silent like statues, the light-stones and the moonlight beaming through the canopy bathing everything in a soft, friendly glow.

“I'm assuming this isn't just to help our digestion?” Weiss asked.

Glynda nodded. “Weiss, you are aware of the effects our emotions can have on water weavers like ourselves, correct?”

Weiss winced. “I got a firsthand experience of it earlier this morning, yes. Don't worry: I'll make sure to get control over my powers, and wear my gauntlet much more often,” she said.

“It'll take much more than that for you gain full control over your powers, Weiss,” Glynda said as she slowed to a stop. “Your training here is just one half, teaching you the specifics and the techniques to harnessing your power; the other half is for you to master what is much more dangerous and destructive, even more so than that aqua laser you decimated Abner's army of golems with.”

Weiss looked at her, waited for her answer.

Glynda gently touched her on her chest. “Yourself.”

Weiss blinked. “Seriously…?”

“Yes, seriously,” Glynda replied flatly. “In all my years of being alive, I have not met a weaver that didn't have considerable personal issues, and those that seemed completely put together were always just very good at denial and maintaining outward appearances.

“Your powers are not some entity separate from yourself, like the difference between you and Myrtenaster—it is you, making up every single component of your being, physical, mental, emotional, or magical.”

Weiss held back a sigh. “Just get to your point, please, Elder Goodwitch.”

“Have you ever bit back your tongue, and never found a way to say it in a better manner, or just let the impulse fade away? Shied away from anything involving commitment and intimacy like serious romantic relationships, kept parts of yourself secret from others, put up a facade because you were afraid of what would happen if people saw the real you? Kept your feelings all bottled up inside, praying, hoping, it'll never become so much you'll break and it'll all come spilling out?”

Weiss didn't reply, but the way she looked away, and fidgeted was very telling.

“You remember what happened when you first held Myrtenaster?” Glynda asked.

Weiss nodded, her eyes cast down to the floor. “… Y-Yes… I… I completely lost control.”

“And why do you think that happened...?”

Weiss didn't answer.

Glynda put her hand on her shoulder. “There's a saying in Actaeon: 'You always know all the answers to everything—you just keep convincing yourself you don't.'”

“So how do I stop doing that?” Weiss asked as she looked up at her.

“You keep on meditating.

“Fire weavers meditate in extreme heat, to burn away the false and the frivolous, then keep whatever survives.

“Earth weavers meditate it in isolation and silence, to know what they are truly made of without outside influences moulding and changing them.

“Air weavers meditate atop mountains and in forests, to let whatever is holding them down come blowing away until they are weightless and free.

“And we Water weavers meditate under or in water, to remind ourselves that we should let our thoughts and feelings come and go freely, like water flowing down a stream or the tide receding into the sea.”

“But what if those thoughts and feelings are bad, huh?” Weiss cried. “What if they're scary, and confusing, and will only hurt me and other people?!” she snapped, starting to tear up and shake.

Glynda put her hand on Weiss' chest. She felt her magic pour into her, the cold, icy dread gripping her melt and turn a wave of warmth spreading all over her body.

She smiled as she took her hand back. “Then you let them pass, or you turn them into something better.”

Weiss stared at her in confusion, eyes still moist.

“Water is the element of Transformation, Weiss,” Glynda said. “Taking whatever is dangerous and destructive, and turning it into something to heal and protect is our alignment's 'thing.'”

“Now if you'll excuse me, I need to leave now: lots of work for the Eve of the Ether festival here in the Valley, and it goes on till daybreak the next day.”

Weiss nodded. “I understand. Good night, Elder Goodwitch.”

Glynda nodded back. “Good night, Weiss. You can take the teleporter, if you'd like to return to Keepers' Hollow quickly,” she said as she began to walk away. “Don't worry: we have charms to keep you from getting sick.”

Weiss thanked her and watched her go, before she stood in silence for while, lost in her thoughts.

She was brought out of it by by her comm-crystal beeping.

Weiss reflexively answered it. A magical projection appeared just in front of her face.

“Hey Weiss!” Ruby said, waving.

Weiss blushed. “R-Ruby! Hi!” she started to sweat. “Why are you calling…?”

“Just wanted to say 'Goodnight,' since it seems like you and Penny are going to go home late, and I want to get some sleep before the Eve tomorrow.” She rubbed the back of her head. “It seemed like a 'girlfriend' thing to do, you know?”

Weiss smiled awkwardly. “Yeah, it is.”

“And speaking of those... can we talk tomorrow morning?”

“About what...?” Weiss asked, trying to keep her voice level.

“You know, this new relationship of ours, especially because we're meeting you-know-who at Candela tomorrow, and she's going to be all over this. We never really got to discuss it earlier—hard to talk with your lips frozen to your girlfriend's, after all!”

Weiss winced.

Ruby frowned. “Too soon?”

“I'll think back to that and laugh eventually, Ruby,” Weiss said. “Just not any time soon.”

Ruby nodded. “Okay. Well, bye Weiss!” she reached for her comm-crystal.

“Wait, Ruby!”

Ruby paused, looking at her and patiently waiting.

“I love you,” Weiss said quickly, her face burning red. She paused. “Goodnight.”

Ruby blinked, before she laughed. “I love you too, Weiss, goodnight~”

Her comm-crystal automatically shut off. Weiss felt her mouth split into a grin, before she let out a happy squeal as she jumped around in place.

Several pairs of glowing eyes peered out of the caverns, many fanged mouths curling into scowls.

Weiss sheepishly looked at them, made apologetic signs at them, and hurried on back to Penny.

#white rose #fanfic #the keeper of the grove #rwby

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