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worldismyne · 1 year

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Almost Home Ch 7

Summary: Harv takes shelter in a strange castle in the middle of the woods on his way back home. He only planned on staying one night. It’s just, there always seems to be a reason why it’d be a good idea to stay just one more night.

AU - Finn and Harv meet years after graduating.

Rating: M

Pairing: Harv/Finn

Series: Warrior U

Ao3 link

Finn grumbled when cold air hit his skin as Harv got out of bed. He'd been rather content treating him like a weighted blanket up until now. He reached out, blindly fishing for something to replace him with, but by then it was too late; he was awake again.

"Sorry, I was trying not to wake you." Harv picked his clothes off the floor from last night and dressed himself. "It is midday though."

"It's a holiday." Finn rolled over, watching Harv with a pout. "Does that mean you're going downstairs already?"

"I was hoping to get some breakfast, yeah."

"And tea?" Finn asked. He wrapped himself in a bundle of covers and nestled into the pillows. Harv crawled back onto the bed to get a better view of Finn's face.

"I seem to recall a certain someone promising to make me tea every morning." Harv teased, catching a fold of the blanket as Finn tried to pull his head under the covers.

"But it's cold and you're already up." Harv pecked his forehead.

"You want me to bring it to you in bed?" Harv asked, but the question petered out oddly at the end. Like he had thought of saying something more afterward then changed his mind.

"If it's not too much trouble." Finn batted his lashes. Harv rolled his eyes and slowly scooted toward the edge of the bed. Over exaggerating each movement as if it was the most labor-intensive thing he'd done in weeks.

"I guess I could." Harv said, laughing when Finn gave his thigh a playful shove to hasten him off the bed. "I'll just go by myself... alone..." Finn threw a pillow at him as he slowly got toward the door. "The things I do for love." He sighed and exited the room. Finn pushed himself out of his cocoon looking at the door in shock. Of all the times to just blurt something out like that only to just run out of the room afterward. Coils of energy started to tighten in Finn's chest with nowhere to go. He threw himself face first into the pillow and let out a joyous scream. Then, gasping for air, pulled himself up to a sitting position.

It was hardly an elaborate affair, but it was a confession.

Eager ravens that quoted bars of his unfinished songs at the windowsill no were longer his only companions. Having someone downstairs felt warmer and brighter than the sunlight streaming through the curtains. He pulled himself out of bed to the window with a puzzled expression. Birds did not sing sweet songs during a snowstorm. To his dismay, the sky was still, not a single snowflake in sight. If the storm had truly passed, it would be safe for Harv to leave tomorrow. Finn clutched the curtains in his hands.

What was he doing holing away up here when this could be the last day?

He threw on his thickest robe and thundered down the stairs, almost tripping as he tried to run into his slippers. Harv was standing in the kitchen in front of the fridge with a puzzled, distant look on his face, the kettle screaming on the stove.

"You just open the door and food will be there." Finn sighed. "It won't bite." Finn picked up the kettle and poured them both a cup. Strong arms wrapped around his waist and Harv buried his face in Finn's neck. "What happened to getting food?"

"Got distracted." Harv voice was muffled against his skin. "Figured since it's John's day we could bring out wine or ale, but don't know where you keep it."

"With breakfast?" As much as Finn loved having someone pressed up against him, Harv was making it difficult to get to the sugar. The jar was up against the wall, just a foot out of reach.

"Dawn til Dusk." Harv let Finn go after feeling him claw for the sugar jar. "It's how we did it on the front at least. There are not too many days you can just slack off, but no one wants to fight during the holiday. We'd all get sloshed around the fire and you could hear enemy camps singing the same songs in their own language across the way." Finn couldn't fathom this man willingly holding a weapon against anyone, even though logically he'd have had to. He was a soldier at the end of the day.

"As touching as that is, there's no reason to drink to forget here." Finn handed him his cup of tea with the milk and sugar mixed in already.

"It's not to forget life... It's to celebrate it." Harv smiled at the cup fondly. "Like, no matter what life threw at you this year, you still made it through the whole way. It's a chance to laugh at the things that tried to pull you down. Helps you let go of it."

"I'm not going to stop you." Finn sauntered over to the slate to summon some drink. "It's just, I'm a lightweight, so I won't be able to partake until later." Getting stabbed in the liver also didn't help his cause, but that tale was a little too somber to tell today. He pulled out a few bottles and set them on the counter.

"I can wait." Harv downed his cup of tea.

"Harvey..."

"I can."

"We can still tell stories though." Finn smiled a little. "Now that I know you're a local I can get you caught up on all the hot gossip you missed out on." He was looking forward to cozying up next to Harv on the couch, sharing little stories and trying to block out that the snow had stopped falling. He gathered little sandwiches and other things made with leftovers from the holidays. "Grab the biscuits, will you?" It wasn't the heartiest of meals, but Finn wasn't interested in drawing out conversation across the table.

Finn arranged things on the coffee table, all little pinches of things that would be easy to reach from the couch. Harv looked over the bookshelf next to the hearth and puzzled over the titles. Some of the spines had long words in florid gold calligraphy that was hard to read, but he recognized enough to piece together how Finn had organized everything. Long multivolume epics were clumped together at the bottom shelf and some classics at the top, but the grip of them were things Finn had deemed comedies or romances all scrambled together in with tragedies. Harv tilted one of the spines forward, admiring how the golden ends of the pages formed pictures of iconic scenes.

"You put the Greene Knight next to Sir Degrevant?" Harv put the book back where he found it.

"Why not?" Finn asked. "They're both chivalric romances." Finn dusted off his hands and joined Harv at the bookshelf. "See, it goes from boring Arthurian legends into romances with happy endings." He ran his finger across the spines. "Then the Greene Knight marks the start of the tragic romances, and those slowly lead into the comedies as a palate cleanser. Many of the best love stories end in tragedy it seems."

"Yes, I figured that, but my question is more about how you've put the Green Knight in as a romance." Harv said. Finn rolled his eyes, pulling the book off the shelf and flipping to a well worn section of pages.

"-the deer Bertilak presented was cleaned and skinned, a finer gift than any Sir Gawain had thought he'd receive. In exchange he had but a chaste kiss, its origins he dared not speak, and laid his lips against the lord's enthusiastically." Finn slapped the book shut. "By the end of the story, he could have had an oath of devotion and wedding ring to exchange. Need I go on?"

"That didn't sound anything like a quote from a poem." Harv went to reach for the book, but Finn pulled it out of reach.

"Bards get special privileges, like choosing which parts of the story to focus on." Finn ducked and slid the book into its place on the shelf, only to block it with his back. "And in all the best versions I've heard; Lady Hautdesert tries to foist her marital duties onto Sir Gawain and it's up to him to chivalrously avoid committing adultery without breaking the lord's heart. He could have revealed her to be unfaithful or taken her place, but instead he throws the game in the lord's favor. But not before giving him three final kisses. Kisses he could have withheld since he already chose to lose the game by withholding the green girdle he was given, but he didn't."

"Did you make that copy then?"

"Well, yeah... I made all of them." Finn watched as Harv pulled a different volume off the shelf. "It's the only way I can make sure the best version of the story gets saved."

"Even the little paintings?" Harv admired the work fondly.

"It's like you know which ones will embarrass me the most." Finn felt his face heat up. "That's one of the first I decorated."

"Which one's your favorite then?" Harv put the book back.

"The Story of Silence," Finn hesitated, "but if you're looking for something to read, I'd prefer something with a happier ending today. Maybe even something silly." Unfortunately, he was struggling to find anything that fit the bill. He instead grabbed something a little more childish in nature; of people adventuring in far off places. It was short, but that just meant they'd be able to finish it in one day. He grabbed Harv by the arm and started leading him toward the couch.

"You're not going to sing it?" Harv was practically shoved into the corner of the couch.

"I'd love to, but then I'd be over there," Finn turned to face the standing harp across the room, "and you'd be over here." He sat on Harv's lap and rested his back against Harv's chest. "This is better." Two strong arms wrapped around his middle as he opened the book. "As long as you don't get crumbs on my head that is." Finn said as he noticed Harv reach for one of the sandwiches out of the corner of his eyes. "Once upon a time..."

As the evening rolled around, there was still no fresh fallen snow, and Harv could see Finn struggling to maintain a chipper air. The best Harv could do was offer him wine and good company. A few anecdotes about his peers mucking up during training was enough to have Finn in stitches. He only hoped Finn would have the sense not to shovel the stories off into his next song.

"So, he has us traipsing around the woods right? Looking for this big ferocious dragon." Harv said and downed his goblet. "It's shadow crawling up the mountain side with every sunrise just to disappear without a trace, and the sound it made. It was like the firing of a canon mixed with a hungry donkey, absolutely awful. So, we finally track it down and it's this big." He held his hands five inches apart. "This fuzzy lizard looking thing, the noisiest little monster, but clearly harmless. It's hard to feel threatened by something you can accidentally sit on." Harv spread out his arms wide and accidentally knocked over a glass. "Then he goes, that's the baby. The mother must be nearby!"

They were sitting on the floor now. Hardly enough room on the narrow fancy couch for two men to roll around laughing at each other. Finn sopped up the spill with a tea towel.

"I still wanted that."

"That one was mine." Finn giggled. "Go on, what happened next?"

"Right, so he's got everyone armed and ready for action, but I'm looking at this noisy thing thinking, that's not a sound an animal makes to call for its momma. Too angry sounding." He tried to tap his temple, but missed every time. "That's when I see em." He made a circle with his thumb and finger to look through. "Lil puff balls in a den below the tree, and they were moving around up and down. So I told em- well you can't tell knights anything. I asked him, don't you think those are the babies right there? Does he listen? Nooooo, he tries to scare the thing off so the 'mom' doesn't spot us hiding and it attacks him. It attacks only him, pulling out his hair and stumbling head over rump over a stump into a different one's nest. There were at least five of them in the clearing." He fumbled for the bottle to refill his glass. "He had a bald patch on the side of his head for weeks, serve him right if you ask me." When he looked up smiling at him thoughtfully. "What?"

"What was the name of the knight you served again."

"Oh gosh, mouthful of a name, no one could get it right. Didn't want to bother..." Harv rolled the thought in his head a bit. "Most of us called 'em Sir Sadnerd."

"...Radner perhaps?" Finn's smile grew. "Darren Radner?"

"Yeah, that's the one. Such a little ponce." Harv shook his head.

"Okay, stop me if you've heard this one." Finn scooted in a little closer and whispered. "I heard that they found a woman in one of his platoons."

Emet.

Harv felt a sobering chill settle in from his scalp to the pit of his stomach. So, word had already traveled faster than he had. Finn was none the wiser, gossiping with the same glee he had when talking about circlets and who held petty grudges against one another in the court. They hadn't been there, hadn't seen someone get thrown less than half dressed in the snow in front of their fellow soldiers with a blade at their throat.

"Harv, tell Rhodri I'm sorry will ya?"

"Yeah, I know right." Finn, content with Harv's silence, forged ahead with the story. "She got accused of being a witch or something, very scandalous. But... the soldiers mutinied against him and let her escape. I guess the leader of their little coup got the boot afterward. Sound familiar?"

"Yes Finn." Harv went to down another glass but was blocked by Finn's hand.

"You want to know how I know that?" Finn batted his lashes. "Well, other than being my personal tailor, she was also the princess's handmaiden." Harv nearly dropped his goblet. That he hadn't known. "Oh yes, she had the princess's personal stamp of approval to enlist too, and the princess was furious when she found out her royal decree had fallen on deaf ears. I'm sure you can imagine how frustrated she was to find out the person responsible for saving her dear friend's life had also gone missing." Finn leaned against the couch with a smug grin. "Last I heard, she was desperate to get any information on his whereabouts since she wants him present for Darren's punishment. Oh and that's not even the best part! Guess what his punishment's supposed to be, just guess."

"I don't know Finn." Nobles didn't usually get severe punishments for lapses in judgment or misunderstandings. It just wasn't how the world worked. He was mostly glad the story didn't sully Emet's reputation; they were a good soldier.

"Go on, guess."

"A fine?" Harv sighed. Finn shook his head. "Come on Finn, just tell me." Finn scurried in close and cupped his cheeks.

"He's supposed to get his knighthood stripped from him and..." Finn kissed his forehead. "Watch the soldier he fired get knighted."

Harv's mind went blank.

"No." Harv watched Finn emphatically shake his head yes. "No way." Finn let go of his face and embraced him fully. "There's no way the other knights would permit-" Finn pulled back to look at him.

"Shiel has been trying to get engaged to Emet for over five years now, he's just as pissed about what Darren did, I assure you." Finn said. He lovingly stroked Harv's cheek. "Harvey, you're going to be a knight." Harv gently pushed Finn away so he could stand. "Harvey?"

"Is this some kind of joke?" Harv grabbed the wine and drank straight from the bottle.

"...no..." Finn pulled his arms close to himself. This wasn't the reaction he'd been hoping for.

"A lie then."

"Harvey, if I was going to lie to you, I'd tell you something wretched, so you'd stay." The thought had crossed Finn's mind the minute he suspected Harv might have been the soldier from the rumors. It would have been so easy. It just wouldn't have been fair to Harv and equally heavy on his heart. It wouldn't feel as good if Harv chose to stay out of fear.

"Please do." Harv looked at him, a broken man. "Say it's awful out there, or say I still haven't repaid you yet, or that you need me here with you. Give me a reason I have no choice but to stay."

"Harvey, I want you here, isn't that enough?" Finn gently took the empty bottle from his hands. "You're welcome to stay, I've made that much clear."

"It'll be six against one." Harv pulled Finn in close. "There'll be something they need me to do, there's always something. And then another something and another. It was supposed to be over when Big was old enough to care from himself, but there's going to be another baby. I felt guilty enough up and leaving when it was just for a few years, it was the hardest thing I ever did."

"What other baby? You said-"

"My brothers."

"Right..." Finn rubbed Harv's back, still locked in the man's arms. "Well, it's not like you'd never see them again, you'd still be close. They'll be okay." He could feel Harv shake his head 'no' into his shoulder.

"If I go back... I'm afraid I won't be able to leave again, even if I wanted to." He pressed a clumsy kiss against the shell of Finn's ear. "You're so beautiful and infuriating all at the same time. If I could just take you with me..." Finn wriggled to loosen his hold. The playful tone Harv spoke with was a bit jarring coming from a man who just a few seconds ago had been close to tears. "I know, you don't have a single pair of decent walking shoes, but I could carry you! Yeah! Once you meet everyone, they'll see what a treasure you are, and they'll understand why I have to stay here." He let go of Finn ready to go upstairs. "I'll help you pack and-" Finn held Harv's hand to keep him from going.

"Harv, we talked about this, I can't leave." Finn said. He frowned to himself, knowing that for Harv it would be easier if he came out of hiding. "Especially not tomorrow, with as much as we'd been drinking, one look at the morning snow would give us a massive headache-" He saw Harv's shoulder's slump. "You noticed it too, didn't you? The storm stopped." Harv sighed and sat down on the couch, looking up with guilt and sorrow. "And I suppose you couldn't possibly leave tomorrow if you were, say, hungover?" Finn counted the goblets in his head, realizing it would be easier to count bottles. It didn't matter that Harv was stroking his hand with his thumb, he'd been trying to black out all night. "Tradition be damned, you were looking for another excuse to stay."

"Are you mad?" Harv pressed a small kiss to the back of Finn's hand and nuzzled it with his forehead. "You sound mad."

"And you sound drunk." Finn wanted to be mad. He knew he should be mad, especially if Harv needed 'real reasons' to stay when he clearly wanted to. "Too drunk to be making plans like introducing me to your parents and carrying me miles in the snow."

"I knew it." Harv pouted.

"What was your first clue? The second or third bottle of red?" Finn kind of wanted his hand back.

"You didn't say it back." Harv slowly let go of Finn's hand. "I told you I loved you, you still haven't said it back."

"You said you did things for love, you never said it was for me." Finn tried to argue, but even in his own ears the reasoning sounded hollow. "There's a reason for that too. We've only known each other a few days; we have our own lives outside of all this. Lives that clearly do not mesh well together, no matter how nice it would be if they did." He hated sounding over emotional and vulnerable, especially now. "One of us would have to compromise, and I'm not interested in being on everyone's hit list again just because some handsome stranger came into my life for a week. I have to stay here where it's safe."

"But I love you."

"And you're more than welcome to stay, I've said that several times." Finn felt Harv tug him closer, and Finn stumbled into the couch, half in Harv's lap. "It's not that I don't like you." Harv's other hand traveled up Finn's thigh, trying to coax him further into his lap.

"I love you."

"You're drunk." Well, technically they both were, but Harv was slipping faster into nonsensical speech. "And if you really loved me, that would be enough for you to have to stay, but even half gone you have doubts."

"I. Love. You." Harv stared at him, no more tricks or wandering hands. He waited patiently, as if Finn had been asked a question. Finn squeezed the arm Harv had been using to pull him into his lap. Saying things like this out loud would just make it worse, he knew that.

"I love you too." What he hadn't wanted to know was if that wasn't enough to get Harv to stay. The warrior was able to sneak in a kiss before Finn released Harv's arm and put a hand to Harv's lips. "But you're still too drunk to be making decisions. We should go to sleep."

"Stop being right." Harv scowled back like a child. "...fine... but I'm gonna miss you."

"You can still sleep in my room if you want." Finn didn't want to think about if Harv had meant something else by that. "I'd prefer it, actually... If that's okay with you." Harv nodded and scooped him up in his arms bridal style. "That's all we're doing." Finn squeaked, a little surprised Harv was still steady on his feet. "J-just to be clear."

"I know, I know." Harv started to march up the stairs with him. "See? You're super easy to carry, totable, I could do it. It's only three or four miles." He made it to Finn's bedroom with ease. Finn decided rather than argue with him now, it was best to catalog everything to harp on him about tomorrow.

"If you throw up on my floor, you're dead to me."

#warrior u #harvfinn #little finnharv things

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guessillcallitart · 2 years

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Rainy days

I don't feel like celebrating. We trudge along the cobble stone street packed with colorful people. "Oops, I'm so sorry!" I flinch as I pumb into a beautiful girl around my age with green tinted skin, and bright red hair nearly reaching her ankles. She has freckles on her face and bare arms, all the colors of the rainbow. Her purple eyes are full of mischief and merriment. She seems to really be enjoying herself even if the pouring rain has plastered her hair curled over green pointy ears to her forehead and face and her clothes - a long floral hippie styled skirt and a pink tank top - are drenched. Her head is adorned by a flower crown. She takes it off hastily and with a joyous, little girlish laugh, she places it on my dark, curly head. "Hope this makes you happy!" she exclaims and prances off. I feel Hestia's gaze at me. "What?" I blink some water from my eyelashes. "Nothing", she says with a shy smile. "You just look cute."

"There's a festival going on." I feel my face growing hot as I turn back to Florence. "On every rainy day of the year, the people of Mystery Shore host the most colorful parties and hang up lights", she gestures to all around us. There are houses with balconies shining like lighthouses out in the sea and just people singing, dancing, kissing and just having fun. "Are they celebrating something special?" Hestia inquires. There's an oddly hopeful smile on her freckled face. "They survived another day." Florence smiles, swiping some bright green hair off her dark brown face. "Let's go in here." She yanks open a random door and we find ourselves standing in a dingy stairwell. It reminds me of the time I lived in New York. "Where are we going exactly?" I ask. I trail my hand along the wall painted navy blue with tiny diamonds like stars embedded on it, as we climb the stairs. "My friend, Tyche lives here", Florence explains. "Is she hosting a party as well?" Hestia asks a bit happily, a bit worriedly. I bet she's screaming internally. I squeeze her hand quickly and she turns to me with a grateful look as we climb the rickety stairs. "Yeah", Florence says happily. "So, no lifts, huh?" I ask, panting slightly as we reach the first landing. "Lifts?" Florence asks. "Nevermind." I hold my sides. "Isn't there a magical way to climb stairs?"

"You have legs don't you? Some people fly, though." We reach the top, fifth floor. Florence knocks on one of the doors. It jerks open and we face a girl with a stern look on her heart shaped face. Strands of golden blonde hair fall over her shoulders messily. Her eyes are a shade of dark brown, much like the one's I see every time I look into a mirror but there's a ring a lilac around the irises. "No." She utters the word carefully, sternly. She's about to slam the door to our faces when Florence raises her hand and blows on it. The next moment we see Tyche spitting flower petals out of her mouth. "Fine", she grumbles. We step into a corridor lined with mossy stones and colorful pebbles like in a fairytale forest. The walls are adorned with colorful lights and polaroid pictures of happy people. There's a skylight above and gentle moonlight is pouring through. Wait what? "Let it go." Hestia punches me into my left arm like knowing what I'm thinking. "Laws of physics", I grumble and receive a cute, little grin from Hestia and an eyeroll. We follow Tyche into a small den lined with small colorful armchairs. There are fairylights everywhere. Soft music is blaring from somewhere. Tyche plops down on one arm of one of the chairs while looking at us quizzically. She's wearing a pair of dark green cargo pants and a lilac T-shirt with a glittery, purple unicorn on it. She has several golden bangles and bracelets on her arms and a matching heart shaped locket on her neck. "Well?"

"They're not criminals." Florence takes a seat and gestures for us to do the same. "In front of the Council, they are", Tyche argues. "So, what did we do wrong exactly?" I ask

"You had no business coming to the school like that. You shouldn't have even been able to", Tyche says sharply. My gaze drifs to Hestia who's hands are gripping the edge of her seat with white knuckles. "Well, we were", she says bluntly. "Are you going to help us or not?"

"No." Tyche shakes her head. "I don't aid criminals." Suddenly I feel like a criminal. "But..." A gentler look passes her eyes. "I won't turn you in either. I can send you back to wherever you came from." She opens a set of powder blue curtains with snow white feathers hanging above. Behind the curtains there is a grand mirror with gilded frames. "Just think about where you want to go and walk through", Tyche says surprisingly softly. "But..." I glance at Florence. "We've lost enough time already, we can't risk you being here any longer", she says apologetically. Me and Hestia get up, resigned and head for the now shimmering glass. "Together?" I look at her. She grabs my hand. "Together." We walk until our foreheads touch the glass and then... nothing whatsoever happens. We turn around. Tyche looks shocked but for some reason Florence doesn't. "It didn't work", Hestia says. "But we shared this dramatic and romantic moment", I blurt out. Hestia laughs. I glare at her. "I'm sorry, honey, you just sounded so pathetic." Someone glides past me. "A drink, sweetheart?" I spin around and see a woman with blue skin and deer antlers soaring from her raven black hair. She's holding two champagne glasses full of bubbly, pink liquid in her long, dainty fingers. Her nails are black and bird like. She's wearing a long, golden dress with pearls embedded in it. "It might bring some color to your pale cheeks." She caresses my face with one of her long fingers. Something tells me I'm not so pale anymore. "N-no thank you", I stammer. "But thanks!" She looks a bit disappointed but glides forward in the room. I turn back to Hestia. She laughs. "Glad to see I have some entertainment value in me left", I say sourly. "Oh, lighten up, Samuel", she says punching my arm once again. "We're fugitives in a strange town. Gods, Skai, Cassie and Percy would have loved this. This town is so beautiful." She's sober again. "Yeah." I swallow a bitter feeling building up in my throat. "We're stuck here", Hestia says slumping back into the sofa. "Yeah." I sit down next to her. "I wonder what's the legal system like in here? Like are they going to throw us into a volcano or somethimg?"

"The worst criminals are cast into exile to Echo Valley or Elora." I look at Florence. Her eyes are closed and she's moving in the rhythm of the music. She already has a drink in her hand. "Great." I lean back in my seat. "So, what do we do now?"

"I think we should go back to Rose Garden. Your aunt was right, Samuel. You can get help from there. Tomorrow. You can stay for the night. I'll convince Tyche. You'll just need to lay low. Someone might have already turned you in."

"Hey, Flo!" A girl with flowing red hair, freckles and seagreen eyes, embraces Florence. She laughs. "Nemesis! We only saw each other yesterday!" With a pang I realize the redheaded girl reminds me of Cassie. "I know, Flo but I still missed you." They part and Nemesis doesn't seem embarrassed at all. "I missed you too." Florence gives her a lovely smile. Nemesis looks at her friend with a happy, approving smile. "You look festive." Florence smoothes out her flowy, floral skirt and her yellow and black flannel shirt. She has a black T-shirt underneath it. "I could say the same about you." She grins at Nemesis who's wearing a pair of ripped jeans, a green T-shirt and a black leather jacket. "Anyway..." Florence turns to us. "The fugitives." Nemesis grabs a champagne glass from a table near her and takes a sip. "And the portals don't work."

"How did you know?" Florence raises an eyebrow at her. "I don't use my feet a lot. I use portals." Nemesis twirls the glass in her fingers. "Right." Florence falls silent. "Don't you want anything to drink?" Nemesis asks us. "What is in that exactly?" I gesture to the half empty glass she is holding. "It's a potion that will turn men into toads. You should try it. Would be an improvement." Tyche glares at us. I flush. "You're the cutest man I've seen." Hestia presses a kiss on my cheek. "Thanks." I smile at her awkwardly. "You have to let them stay, Tyche", Florence says grabbing us by our shoulders. "Look at them, they're adorable." Tyche rolls her eyes. "Fine but I'm only doing it for you, Flo."

I creep softly over the landing with the mosaic floor. I peek over the banister of the stairs to my dad's bedroom. A tear seeps down his cheek as he swipes the dust off an old framed picture with the sleeve of his plaid flannel shirt. I spot the tiny tv on the dresser with a soap opera on. I can't hear a thing, the tv must be on silent. I descend the stairs as softly as I can. Blinking back tears I unlock the front door and bolt out. With wet eyes and cheeks I run, dodging other people on the street, until I'm out of breathe and feeling like I'm dying.

I stumble over a wooden, rickety fence. "Cassie!" A scream echoes from my mouth as I stumble upon a redheaded woman. But then I notice her eyes are bright blue and her skin is much lighter. There are freckles all over her face. She doesn't seem to see me. A man appears from the shadows of the nearby forest. His hair is a mess of copper coloured curls. His eyes are wily and dark grey. "I knew you would come back to me." He grins smugly. "I own you, little demon." He reaches to caress her chin. "Better draw your hand back, little boy if you don't wish to lose it", she snarls. "And no one owns me. I own me." The man draws his hand back. "Very well", he says sourly. "I need your help", Annie admits grudgingly. "I figured." The smug expression is back. I'm starting to understand why Annie might want to rip the man's arm out. "I need a portal. Someone told me you've traveled between dimensions."

"Ah." The man leans his hand on the fence. "I know of a portal in this town but the problem is dimensions are locked from travelers."

"What do you mean they're locked?" Annie asks. "Portals don't work", the man explains like he's talking to a little child. "Then how do I get one to work?" Annie raises one arm and tiny, bright flames begin flutter at her fingertips. A strange look passes the man's eyes as his feet give away and lift off the ground for a few inches. He lets out a choking noise at the back of his throat. "Why do you want to leave this dimension so desperately?" he manages to sputter. "That's none of your business, Finch." Annie's face contorts with anger. "What would you do to escape?" Annie lets him fall and with a malicious grin she utters a single word. "Anything."

My dad is standing over my bed. He's smiling and holding the hand of my mom. "What? How?" I sputter looking at her. "You died." You left me. "We'll take you home", she says gently. "You'll be safe, Sammy", my dad says.

My eyes flutter open and it takes a while for me to remember where I am. I am lying on a bed in a small room with walls painted a shade of turquoise. The faint moonlight pouring from the small window dances on the wall, changing the color into lighter and then darker. Like an ocean, I realize. I slide out of the bed and walk through the room. I yank a door open I hope leads to a balcony, and don't feel surprised when I find Hestia standing there leaning on the railing. "Hi." She turns around. She must have heard me. I look at her, really look at her, those gentle, light brown eyes, her freckles, her sandy, unruly hair on her shoulders. Before I realize what I'm doing I've surged forward, cupped her face and pressed my lips against hers. She kisses me back sliding her hands into my hair. When we part there's a wide smile on her face. "Weird dreams?" she asks. I nod. "You?"

"Yeah."

"Do you want to talk about them?" we ask in unison. "Not really", she says. "Me neither", I admit. "Then let's just watch the stars." Hestia grabs my hand and we look up into a brilliant dark sky full of stars.

Hestia

It's raining again. Raindrops drum the window. I look at Samuel sleeping soundly in the bed next to me with affection. His black curls are messy against the pillow and he drools a little. The door creaks open. "It's time", Tyche says rather harshly. "Wake up your boyfriend. Here's some clothes for you. You'll get your uniforms from the school." She throws a heap of clothes on to my bed. "What's wrong with our clothes?" My voice sounds defensive. "These repel rain so you won't get wet on the way", Tyche explains impatiently.

I tie my hair in a high ponytail and examine myself from the mirror. "You look beautiful." Florence sits cross legged on the window sill. "Thanks." I give her a quick smile. "What's going to happen when we'll get to the school?" I ask. "Mrs. Pines, the headmistress isn't crazy about the Council so she'll protect you. You'll be sorted into houses and be real students", Florence explains. "Everything will be clear when we'll get there." I look at my outfit: a pink hoodie paired up with ripped jeans. Luckily there isn't anything glittery on it. "So, will we take the bus or something?" Samuel asks leaning in the window sill. "The bus?" Tyche asks. "Why doesn't anything you say make sense?"

"Well, excuse me we're not from here", he retorts. He sticks his hands into the pockets of a bit too small jeans he's wearing. "And you have a shower and a toilet. Sounds pretty modern to me. Plus your clothes are modern." A girl with chin lenght, dark blonde hair with turquoise highlights hands me a mug full of steaming liquid. "It's almost as good as coffee. It gives you energy", she assures me. "I'm Annabel." Her seagreen eyes dance in the sunlight pouring from the windows. "I come from your world. I sort of lead a double life."

"Like Hannah Montana", I say. "Yeah." Annabel grins. "Tyche is my roommate", she explains taking a seat. She's wearing a yellow jumper and a neat pair of jeans. She crosses her long legs. I tilt the mug back on my lips and let the warm liquid pour down my throat. I swallow and a nice, fuzzy feeling fills my insides. I can't really describe the taste but this is sunshine, rainy days and sitting by the fire on a cold winter day tastes like. I look into the mirror. I have a daft, goofy smile on my face. A figure, like a ghost from the past, creeps up behind me. Cold fingers wrap around my throat. A let out a whimper. I'll find you. A whisper fills my head. A shiver runs through me and my chest feels heavy. The girl has light brown, long hair with blonde highlights and bright blue eyes. She's wearing a dark red dress with fishnet stockings and black combat boots. The figment glides and aligns with my slender form. I'm you and you are I. How does that sound like to you, ghost girl? I shake my head. "No", I whisper. And I feel normal again, well as normal as I can. Samuel places his hand on my shoulder. "You okay, Hes?" he asks with his dark brown eyes full of concern. "Yeah", I lie.

Florence

Thin clouds like a bride's veil drift over the bright blue sky. Rose Garden with its many turrets rises in the middle of lustrous, green grounds. We walk by the stables. I long to go inside to greet the horses but I know I don't have enough time. A middle aged severe looking woman walks to us in a rapid pace. "Come on now, we don't have the the whole day." She takes Hestia and Samuel by their arms. "She's the headmistress", I say. "You're in good hands."

"Thank you Miss Dracaena. You're excused."

"If 'good' means 'someone who looks like a raven but not in a flattering way.'" I spin around with a grin. "I heard that, Miss Dracaena." I flash her a brilliant smile. "Good. So, you AREN'T deaf. Good for you. I'll be with the horses." I begin to walk but it seems like my feet are glued to the ground. I find myself turning around. "Why do I even bother with you?" Mrs. Pines asks. "Well, Ellie." I pretend to ponder over the matter. "I think you secretly like our daily debates. I'm a very fascinating person." Mrs. Pines sighs. "You shall give a visit to the stables but you may only rouse the students from Adeter and you", she gestures to Annabel, "shall join her and make sure she doesn't get into any scrapes."

"Yes, m'am." Annabel performs a mock bow. "I am not paid enough for this job." With another sigh Mrs. Pines turns around and gestures for Hestia and Samuel to follow her. "Ms. Rivers, Mr. Baker, a word was sent to me that you would come back. I'll escort you inside and tell you everything you'll have to know."

After sending our mates away, we head for the stables. We yank the door open and duck under the wooden doorframe. I inhale the lovely, familiar scent of horses and hay. I watch as the dust dances in sunlight pouring from the high windows. We walk through the stone floored corridor and stop by the last pen before the ladder to the artic. I unlock the hatch and Annabel begins to climb the ladder. I unlatch the door. Students of Adeter usually sleep in the attic amongst all the hay. Hiro sleeps in a pen with his palomino mare. I find him curled on the floor his cheek against the mare's. "Hi, sweetheart." I hug the mare while she searches for food from my pockets. I reach out my hand. "Wait", I whisper shutting my eyes. A tingling sensation takes over under the skin of my palm. My eyes flutter open and I watch as a brilliantly shining, yellow dandelion grows on it. I feed it to Goldie.

Honestly I live more magical stuff like in this chapter🌙✨ Hope you like it! I saw a writing prompt on Pinterest once, I got the idea for the rainy days festival from it.

Hannah Montana mentioned (a character from a show with the same name created by Michael Poryes, Rich Correll and Barry O'Brien)

#original story #original character #victorianshannon #fantasy #fiction #original characters #ocs #wattpadstories #wattpad #writerblr

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outofsstyles · 4 years

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i wish u would write a fic where reader is also a famous singer whos label sets up a collab with the two of them and they meet and write a love song and its a HIT and they PERFORM IT and realize they be SMITTEN with each other and the internet totally knew before they did and this is weirdly specific but it popped in my mind and i love your writing !!! okay bye 😎

Okay i’m actually embarrassed of how long it took me to write this but writer’s block hit me like a bunch of bricks this past month, still i’m so sorry!! But anyway here’s around 2.6k of famous!reader for you anon!! Hope you enjoy it!!

Also this is not really proofread cause i wrote it all in one sitting after a boost of inspiration so uh chile anyway so...

One could think that you’d have grown past the nervous set of butterflies that come by before stepping out on stage. They wouldn’t be entirely wrong, you like to think. Sure, there’s still an anxious feeling that bubbles up in the pit of your stomach like the drops of air in a sealed bottle of rosé (much like the one sitting inside a bucket propped on the center table of your dressing room). It’s normal, you tell yourself, part of the process, even. The clammy palms of your hand and the rapid thumping of your heart will soon be replaced by the thrill of stepping in front of a crowd of people, eyes wide, and voices loud. All waiting for you.

When Harry invited you to join him tonight, just for a song, there wasn’t a single ounce in your mind that thought of declining it. After all, you had spent months traveling around with him as his opening act of the American leg on his first tour. It’s not even the first time you’d share the stage with him, having joined him on a live cover of Eternal Flame at the very last date of the tour. His fans are also familiar with you, most of them seem to like you, even (and you don’t bother searching for the ones who don’t, much preferring to preserve your peace of mind). So there’s really not a reason for you to feel as if you’re about to throw up, is there?

Except this time is much different than all the previous ones you had to do this. No one out there is expecting you to step on stage. Much less for a song you’d thought you’d never sing it live.

It started as a forgotten draft you found in one of your old journals, and sometime between Chicago and Vancouver, after long nights and shared bottles of wine together, it turned into a duet. There wasn’t any intention of recording it initially, being born in hushed drunken confession at wee hours in the morning, and shared stories of heartbreak and yearning, you figured it would just stay between the two of you. It was a vulnerable song, after all, one in which both of you poured your heartaches in.

But Harry loved the song. In fact, barely a month after the tour was wrapped up and everyone had tucked themselves back home to a well-deserved break, he invited you for dinner at his and, after one or two margaritas, you were standing on his home studio singing the words you’d written with him on quiet hotel rooms. And it didn’t take much convincing from his part for you to release it months later as part of your first studio album. Harry’s a charming man and he always finds a way to get what he wants. Not to mention the glimmer in his eyes and the set of dimples on his cheeks appearing as he heard the final cut were enough for you to convince you (not that you’d ever say this out loud).

So it’s not hard to understand why you agreed in a heartbeat to sing it with him on the opening night of his tour.

Your leg is bouncing in a nervous tick, and you have to stop yourself from chewing on your bottom lip as to avoid another scolding from Amie who’s just applied a thin layer of lipstick over it. There’s a bundle of voices sweeping around the room, all much familiar to you, as they’re all part of your team. But you can’t help but zone out, pushing the noise to the back of your brain and letting it become faint background noise as you take in a deep breath to ease yourself down.

The concert has started around an hour ago, meaning you have just a few minutes before you have to head to the side of the stage, waiting for Harry to announce your name. He made sure to stop by your dressing room after soundcheck was done, greeting everyone from your team (they’ve all grown fond of him after the last tour, but then again, it’s hard not to) before making his way to you, a grin taking over his face as he approached, arms opening and not wasting a second before pulling you into an embrace. You smile to yourself, recalling his words from earlier.

“How are we feeling?” He pulled away, holding on to your shoulders and you can’t help but focus on the way his thumbs caressed you over the thin fabric of your shirt.

“Uhm like I could pass out at any second, but other than that I’m fine.” You let out a dry laugh as an attempt to mask the truth of your sentence behind humor.

“Nothing to be nervous about, love.” His hands squeezed you gently before dropping down and you chewed on your bottom lip at the warmth left from his touch. “S’just you and me and the guitar.”

“And thirty thousand people.”

“You’ve played for bigger crowds.”

“I know, it’s just…” You sighed, gazing down at the champagne flute in your hands before shrugging. “Never sang something this personal, I guess.”

“Hey, it’s alright.” He moved a strand of your hair from your face, taking a small step forward as his voice droped down slightly so you’re the only one hearing his words. “Know you’ll be brilliant, there’s nothing to worry about.”

“What if I cry?”

“Nothing wrong in crying, love.” He said in a beat, shaking his head softly. “I’ve shed a fair amount of tears on stage as well, just shows how much it means to you.”

Relaxing your shoulders you didn’t even realize were so tense, you exhaled. “You’re right.”

“I am.” He humored, dimples poking at his cheeks as he bumped his shoulder against yours. His expression softened, “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, okay?” He said truthfully, eyes flickering between yours to show you he meant it. “I don’t want you to do something you’re not comfortable with just for my sake.”

“Thanks, H.” You smiles. “But I’m fine, really, just nervous.”

His lips parted to answer you, but before he can do so someone shouted from the doorway, “H, you gotta go to hair and makeup.”

“I’ll be right there.” He called over his shoulder, then turned his attention back to you. “I’ll see you on stage?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Hey,” he says as he started walking backward. “Just you and me alright?”

“Right.” You giggled watching him throw you a wink before turning around and stepping out of the room.

Downing the last bit of champagne on your glass, you rest it on the counter next to you before stepping up from your seat completely. A few pairs of eyes settle on you from the sudden movement, but they quickly turn back to their previous conversations as you don’t meet their gaze, only making your way o the full body mirror that makes the door leading to the bathroom.

Your glittery eyelids call your attention first as you examine yourself, making you blink a few times just to see them shimmer. They match the two-piece that hugs your body in a lavender tone, the same one of the boost you slipped in just a couple minutes ago. You move your hips around softly, watching the way the skirt dances around your thighs and smoothing your hands on it to feel the soft fabric under your fingertips. You have time to adjust the top one last time before someone from production calls your name at the doorway, indicating it’s time to head out.

The whole way goes in a bit of a blur, you adjust your earpiece and try to smile at words of encouragement that are thrown your way as you walk towards the side of the stage where you’re supposed to make your entrance. Your heart thumps in your chest, almost loud enough to swallow the screams of the crowd that gets louder every step you take. Harry comes into view, along with the whole arena as you pass through a double door. His back is turned to you when you come to a stop but you can make out the guitar in his hands, his voice blending with the echo of thousands of others, screaming back at him the words he wrote. It’s Fine Line, one of your favorites from his sophomore album, and you can’t help but mouth along to it as the bridge comes up.

It helps to calm you a bit, the melody along with his voice setting the atmosphere of the whole place to a joyous state. It was clear at the glossy eyes you can catch in the crowd looking back at him, cheering as the song comes to an end, and Harry bows in gratitude and you watch as he steps back in front of the mic stand but doesn’t say anything. For a moment he just stays like that, you can’t catch his face from this angle, but you gaze up at the big screen and, just like you predicted, you can see the admiration on his expression as he takes in the crowd in front of him. You wish you could know his thoughts, but the smile that takes over his lips gives you everything you need to know, and you can’t help but let one tug on your face as well.

Before you know it, he leans into the microphone again, the screams quieting down as he starts speaking again. “I don’t think I’ll ever find enough words to thank you for your support, and sharing such special moments like this with me,” he begins, one hand moving to his chest as he pauses when the crowd roars again. “I love you all very much, and I thought maybe I could bring someone here that also holds a special place in my heart.”

You can feel every cell in your body freeze once you realize he’s talking about you, and it’s only when he turns around, eyes finding yours as he motions for you to walk in that you start moving. Keeping your gaze trained on his, you approach him, the hollering sound becoming almost faint in your ears as you focus solely on Harry. He pushes his guitar to the side so he can give you a quick hug before turning back to his mic.

“So, this lovely lady and I happen to have a song together.”

Your eyes scan the crowd for a moment, catching the awe in people’s faces before finding him again. Bringing your own mic to your lips you speak up, “We do, actually.”

“And we never sang it live before, is that right?”

“You’d be correct, yes.”

“How do we feel about singing it tonight for the first time?” He asks more to the audience than to you, wanting to get a reaction, and as if on cue their screams take over the space at the mention of the song.

“I think they like the idea.” You smile, letting your eyes wander around the arena. Thanks to the bright spotlight set on you, you can’t make out most of their faces, but each one of them still makes themselves present, being with their flashlights turned on or their voices joining in with the others. A familiar electric spark shoots down your spine, the buzz making you forget all the previous nerves that were taking over your mind.

The sound of the strokes on the guitar strings bring your attention back to Harry, and when you look back at him, he’s already watching you, a smirk threatening to poke at his lips as he nods at you. It’s a silent gesture of reassurance, and you’re thankful for it, smiling back at him.

Once the intro is over he steps towards the stand again, his lips brushing the mic but his eyes still glued on you. It’s hard not to feel the chills rise on your skin at the sound of his voice. You’re close enough that if you focus, you can hear him under the reverberance of the loudspeakers. The realization makes your hand come up almost instinctively, removing one earplug so you can listen to him better. He smiles midword at you once he realizes what you’ve done, his eyes closing for a moment as he feels every word that comes out of his mouth.

Joining him for the chorus, you realize how astute he was when suggesting doing an acoustic version. The sound of your voices together slowed down by just the guitar background sounds even more intimate. It’s gentler. Softer. And you can’t help the step that you take towards him, feeling an urge to get closer.

You don’t dare to break eye contact going into your solo, he moves back from his mic just a bit, giving you your moment and nodding along to the words. Unlike you had thought before, you don’t feel a knot forming on your throat or burning in your chest as you proclaim words of an old broken heart. Harry’s face is enough to keep you at ease, his irises seeming so green under the stage light that you can’t help the stuttering of your heart.

He melts his voice on yours again, bringing you back to all the sleepless nights you spent together, singing the same words to one another.

You’ve heard people say about being with someone that makes you feel like you’re the only people in a room, and it’s always made you roll your eyes at the cliche aspect of it. But standing here with Harry, on stage, eyes set on each other as you sing the words straight from your heart, you start to understand where those people were coming from. There are thousands of other eyes set on you, but his are the only ones calling your attention. Everything else seeming unimportant as you find yourself stuck in a trance with him.

The last chorus rolls around and you only register him moving once he’s right in front of you. His guitar is the only barrier between your bodies as he leans into your microphone, and you move it down so it stands under both your lips. He’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath on your cupid bow. You could touch him with the smallest of movements, and you want nothing more than to rest your forehead on his and meet his mouth with yours. But you hold back, closing your eyes as you’re afraid of what the effect of his own can do to you, letting the last words come out in a breath.

The roaring crowd reminds you of the people watching you, and almost as if you’re broken out of a spell, you take a small step back, turning to the audience to give them a wave. You feel Harry’s arm wrapping around your shoulder and pulling you against him. His lips press a single kiss on your hair as you thank everyone with a smile, still taken back by what just happened.

Turning to Harry, you give him one last hug, this time lingering for a beat too long, enjoying the feeling of his arms pressing you closer to him. He pulls away first, announcing your name again, and you spare him another look before waving your way out, with shaky legs and a speeding heart.

#harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles writing #harry styles fanfic #harry styles x reader #concept #anon

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invincible-selfxmade-punk · 3 years

Text

My So Called Rise Against Life

All lyrics written and owned by Rise Against

No band, not even AFI, sings the soundtrack of the last 20 years of my life like Rise Against has. I was dragged to my first Rise Against show by Emily. Emily, the suicide girl, quite possibly the hottest girl in Corpus Christi, barely 5'1 and 98 pounds soaking wet, covered in tattoos and with Angelina Jolie's lips. To this day I cannot imagine why a girl who looked like that wanted to hang with me. I had never been to a gig at that little club called The Underground where the disenfranchised youth of Corpus Christi congregated. This was the very cusp of my punk rock midlife crisis and I went in scared to death because I'd heard concerts of this nature were violent.

At this point I was already considering the decision to become straightedge. I was curious but knew little about it. The sum of my knowledge was this: two of the guys in AFI were, and the guy at the mall was. The memory of this guy never leaves me. Like a stray dog with a tennis ball, catching a welcoming scent on the air, then chasing after a passing stranger who never looked down, I chased after him and each year I spent in that fruitless pursuit felt like seven. His friendship I would never win, but he would remain on the outskirts of my life, like the brass ring I reached for again and again only to fall on my face. I would see him that night too, but I didn't know this when Em invited me out. It was billed as a hardcore show. I had no idea what hardcore was back then, I just assumed it meant a rough crowd of millitant straightedge vegans that would have a sixth sense that I wasn't one of them and chase me out the doors. Rise Against was headlining and an equally unknown band called Avenged Sevenfold was opening. I'd never heard of either. Emily wanted me to go and I wanted to get out of the house for the night so it wasn't that hard for her to twist my arm in the matter. I met her at her apartment which was filth ridden, with drug paraphernalia everywhere, a wall size Misfits poster that took up the entire SIDE of her apartment, and electric guitars propped next to skateboards. As she slipped out of her clothes and into something slinky much to my viewing pleasure, she pointed me to her freezer with a purloined bottle of tropical Schnapps from the liquor store she was working for. Toasting in miniature tea cups I downed the bright blue liquid. I remember it so well, the frost covered bottle, cold in my hand, the electric blueness pouring into what looked like a child's tea party set up. This wasn't the last drink I would take, that would come two months later, yet I remember every detail of the experience. Suited up in skimpiness, we were off to the races. We hauled ass in Emily's SUV and she sat behind the wheel, dwarfed by it's hugeness and her smallness, joint in hand, careening down the expressway and swerving around orange construction barrels. As we exited into the worst part of town I had ever seen I must have looked uneasy. She turned to me and proudly exclaimed "Don't worry, I know this place! I used to score crack here!" We walked in and the first person I saw was the straightedge boy, who was taking money at the door. It was a good sign of things to come. It would also mean I would completely ignore Avenged Sevenfold's set in s stupid quest to get his attention long enough to make conversation. But Em was a champ, she stayed with me through the whole thing. In fact, I don't remember having the guts to say a word. She talked to him, I watched him talking to her and twenty feet away M. Shadows was screaming his sexy, tattooed, egotistical lungs out but I was utterly oblivious. From there we went to the merch booth where Em bought me an Avenged Sevenfold poster that I kept for years on my wall before finally giving it away right on the cusp of actually starting to listen to them. She also bought me a Rise Against patch that is still on my Dickies bag today though it is nothing more than a mess of black thread. We wandered over to the PETA booth, watched some gruesome videos, signed up for mail and picked up a cookbook I would later use to make one of the mall kids a vegan birthday cake. Then Emily spied someone she knew and I followed her over, still looking suspiciously through the crowd sure someone was just going to come up and punch me for no apparent reason. Still following, I watched as she struck up a conversation with this cute guy in glasses. I politely listened in as they talked about how they haven't seen each other since Warped Tour. For the life of me I can't remember what they talked about. I was distracted by a guy that looked like Davey Havok. Their conversation muffled to a drone until the guy looked at his watch and said "Oh crap!! I need to be on

stage! I'll talk to after the show!" and it was at that moment I realized Emily had been talking to Joe Principe of Rise Against. This was our cue as well though there was already too much of a crowd to get near the front. There were maybe one hundred people there and Tim held every one in the palm of his hand. I was amazed. I had never heard them before in my life so I can't tell you the set list but I knew from that time on I wanted to hear more. At the end Emily and I waited at the stage to talk to Tim. I had no idea what to say so I just shook his hand and now I wish I had held on a little longer. Emily got a shirt signed and talked to him for a while. Again I was too preoccupied with the AFI look-alikes in the crowd that I wasn't paying much attention. To this day I wonder if the dude I thought looked like Davey was actually Zacky Vengeance. I'll never know for sure. Soon enough Joe was with us again and he and Emily were engaged in conversation when he turned to me and said "Did that hurt?" I had NO idea what he was talking about, I was too overwhelmed by his very presence. I actually thought he was pointing past me to the PETA booth and I stupidly sputtered "What KFC is doing to chickens?" I swear to god when I'm miserable and in need of cheering up sometimes all it takes to make me smile is thinking "Hey, Joe laughed at my joke." The night drew to an end, Emily went out with the band, and being married, I went home. Next to singing a line with Dave Peters of Throwdown, that first night with Rise Against was the best night of the last ten years of my life. The next time I would see Rise Against they would be back in Corpus, opening for Bad Religion. This happened during what I call "The Emo Dave Era". I met Dave because of Rise Against. He was a little emo boy wearing a Rise Against shirt, skipping school at the mall. I stopped him and asked him about it and well that was it, he just kept coming around. I would end up knowing him for five years and eventually hiring him to work for me. By the second time they came to town Siren Song of The Counterculture was out and I remember bragging to Dave that if it was any other band I would have just downloaded it, but for them I would actually spend my hard earned money. I remember DRINKING in the songs, trying so hard to memorize all of the tracks before the gig hit. I remember the second Rise Against gig for many reasons. It was the first gig I went to alone at a time I was in the grip of panic attacks whenever I had to be in wide open spaces by myself. Two of my "mall daughters" met me at the gates and stayed with me the whole night. I remember that. I remember Dave hitting the merch table before me and buying me Rise Against stickers that I regarded like they were jewels and kept them in some special place until I hid them so well I hid them from myself. Dave and I and the girls were in the front row together, and sadly none of them I am in contact with now. Not only that, but Dave and one of the girls I was up front with would end up working for me and stealing over $1300 from my business during their tenure as my employees. Years from knowing this though we happily stood side by side and sang along for the whole set. What I remember most about that second gig was standing in front of Joe and when he sang "Single file like soldiers on a mission." I saluted him and he saluted back. Tim was wearing the exact same shirt he wore at the first gig but I was probably the only one to notice it. And when Tim asked "Who was here at our first gig when only 20 people showed up?" I proudly raised my hand. All the memorizing I did was pretty much for naught because I was so excited to be in the front row I damn near forgot every word to every song, but for some reason I knew every word to 1,000 Good Intentions. The first Rise Against show was in August, I can't tell you the date of the second one. I made my commitment to becoming straightedge sometime between December and January. I don't know the exact date because I was so scared about the whole

thing I kept it to myself "You're the new revolution The angst filled adolescent You fit the stereotype well..."

.All I know for sure was that I'd been edge several months by the second Rise Against gig at Concrete Street in Corpus. he second Rise Against gig also brings to mind another phantom of my past: a girl I was close to named Amanda (not the Amanda I went to Warped Tour w/, that Amanda I've always called Di because her screen name was Dionysus). This was Amanda's first night aout after being kidnapped and raped. Her parents were druggies and didn't want the cops involved so the guys who did it just got away with it and I'd see them at the mall all the time afterward and I couldn't do shit. It was her and her big sister who met me at the gates and stayed with me all night. I loved those girls. . . . Again, digressing. From First To Last opened and we spent the whole set talking about how much they looked like AFI. I ended up leaving the gig early, going to the house of one of them who still lived with his folks, ringing the doorbell and leaving a note in the mail box that said 'YOUR SON RAPES LITTLE GIRLS----just thought you should know'. It didn't really help anything but it made me feel better. During this mindlessly courageous time I was blinded by my commitment. I jumped into being edge with a fervor reserved for things like joining the Hari Krishnas or Jehovah's Witnesses. It was a complete make over of every idea I'd ever held. I didn't know a great deal but once I found it, I knew it was all I had been looking for. The only other person I actually knew who was edge was the straightedge boy, who now had become god-like in my mind. He was the first face of straightedge for me, the ideal, the standard, the one thing I felt I had to live up to. Sadly, by this time he was long gone, moving away from the mall where we worked and on to better things. This fact only drove me forward in a Holy Grail level quest to find him. When he was there I was terrified of speaking to him and then when he wasn't I kicked myself for not having the courage. I was sure that if I did make my way to him, he could impart some knowledge, some advice that would make my whole solitary experience make sense. The soundtrack of that quest was Blood to Bleed: "Steps I take in your footsteps Aren't getting me closer to what is left of the dreams of what I once claimed to know Within my bones this resonates...." Within weeks of each other three amazing things happened: Ceci, my best friend Amanda(Dionysus) and I went to Warped Tour to see AFI and in the process saw Rise Against as well. Then The Sufferer and the Witness came out, and at the same time Jadey and Ceci came to visit me in Corpus for quite possibly the most idyllic summer of my life. It was that summer we saw Rise Against for the third time. At that Warped Tour again we were in front of Joe, and again when Tim sang "Single file like soldiers on a mission... " we saluted Joe and he saluted us back and it was like a little piece of heaven fell to earth, the moment was so perfect. The set was

short because it was Warped Tour but we didn't care. We were together, we loved each other and we sang along with every song we knew. Sufferer and Witness came out in July right in time for Warped Tour and the girls coming down for a visit. I remember this so well because I had a cd of the straightedge boy's band and it seemed so important for me to play it for Jadey and Ceci. Do you remember that line in The Lost Boys: "Now you know what we are, now you know what you are." ? That was how it felt for me, this romanticized notion that my edge was not my own and it was all owing and belonged to someone else. I wanted to be able to trace it like a family tree to say, if I had not met him I would not have found out about AFI, I would not have made my committment, we would have never met, so therefore the life and friendship we have shared has all traced back to THIS. Well, they weren't all that impressed. I have a very clear memory of us being outside the Sonic Drive In and Jadey asking me "Please turn that noise off and put in something else." That something else was the The Sufferer And The Witnessand it stayed in the player for the rest of the trip. Ready To Fall was the song that defined the next year, much later, that I made my edge my own. In my journey I had looked to so many others for advice or reassurance or validation. I did this because I didn't believe in myself. I thought I was weak and sought in others what would make me strong. Sometimes I received it, like messages sent back and forth the guys in Throwdown and the near religious experience of seeing them live all the times I have, of singing a line with Dave, shaking his hand. Most of the time though my search was in vain. I remember very clearly seeking out help online. One guy told me I would never know who I was until I went to a hardcore show. This wasn't exactly bad advice, hardcore shows had the most amazing energy flowing through them and it did feel good to be surrounded by like minded people. The only thing I really learned about myself through going to hardcore shows was that if God had wanted me to hardcore dance, He would not have given me boobs. There was another guy who told me only the most insecure person would EVER wear a straightedge shirt out in public and if you were sincere about it, you'd keep it to yourself. I thought that guy was nuts. The whole POINT of being edge to me was proving I was not like the idiots around me. "With your eyes Glazed and half-smiled Explain to me the details of your God-given right You point your finger In my face but You can't remember what you did last night" I asked another guy what to do if I was tempted to drink again and he told me if I was tempted I was never really straightedge to begin with and I should just do the scene a favor and kill myself already. Then there were the kids that thought I was just the bees knees and were coming to ME for advice. I had no idea what to tell these kids, but I wasn't about to tell them not to wear sXe gear or kill themselves. Because of my own search for answers I refused to turn any kid away. One day they were telling me I was their hero and begging for advice, the next they were telling me I was out of my mind and to get lost. It took a good four years before I learned not to believe them in either case. "This could be my great awakening But how would I know when it's all noise to me? Are these words falling on deaf ears?" Right in the middle of this I had the good fortune to meet a guy named Chris X from Philly. He neither worshipped nor ignored me. He was simply THERE. I have the most vivid memory of this one morning. I had the same dream about the straightedge boy only this time I stepped out and stopped him and asked him if the hormones levels in milk made people more aggressive the way steroids did and asked if I should stop drinking it. Why this popped into my head I will never know. As usual the alarm rang before the blurry form opened his mouth and imparted wisdom. I woke up at 5 am and suddenly HAD to know

the answer to the question. It happened that Chris X was up too. I contacted him and he took the time out of his morning to discuss this with me completely out of the blue. I don't know why this sticks out in my memory but it does: Him being up at five am and taking an hour out of his morning to answer some moronic question from a girl he didn't know and being so nice about it. He is still edge, we are still friends and he is still there when I need him. He is the exception to the rule. Friends fell away and I remained steadfast, yet alone. Slowly though there came the time when I realized I needed to look no further than in the mirror. It wasn't like this was a new thing. I was told this many times and yet I never believed it. Right about this time Rise Against released Ready To Fall: "But here in this moment like the eye of the storm It all came clear to me I found a shoulder to lean on An infallible reason to live all by itself I took one last look from the heights that I once loved And then I ran like hell" The heights I once loved were ego driven, the compulsion to wear a straightedge shirt every day and X's for every gig and dare anyone to tell me otherwise. It was that romanticized notion of my edge,--that it hadn't been mine and all I was, was owed to someone else. It was as if I believed someone had physically stood between me and a fridge full of alcohol that first year and kept me from it. Or that someone had been there to comfort me when my husband was drunk or in a bad mood and was calling me names or throwing me around because I dared come home with a book of Marxist writing or simply did not shut up and go along or renounce my beliefs. I healed myself, I comforted myself and I did almost all of it completely alone. It was slow in dawning but it finally came to me that I was the only one I had to inspire or impress, and my own approval was all I needed. This revelation was scored by every track on Sufferer and Witness. The fourth time I saw Rise Against, I met Ceci in Austin to see them at Stubb's. Stubb's BBQ is a grand place to see any band because if you get there early enough, you can have lunch on the balcony while watching the band's sound check. We found this out the first time we went there, seeing The Rollins Band open up for X. Going to the Rise Against show I told myself "It's not big deal, I've seen them three times before, I'm just going to kick back and eat and enjoy the sound check" but as soon as Tim and Joe took the stage I could barely consume a thing I was so overwhelmed. As we waited in line after lunch for the doors to reopen, I met Ceci's brother Jordan who is, wildly enough, still my friend. Jordan. He hovers on the edges of my life, always there with a kind word whether I actually deserved it or not. He is the only good thing to come out of my friendship with Ceci. Evergreen Terrace opened that show and we were right in front of the guy in the Straightedge Soldier tshirt and that and a brilliant cover of "Mad World" was all I remembered of their set. Circa Survive came on next and Ceci and I took turns booing them and flipping them off. Not that they were necessarily bad, but we were in no mood to entertain the mopey emo set at that point. Soon we were all piled together up front, again in front of Joe. I didn't get to salute him at that gig. Ceci's arms were too tightly around me. Ceci, her girlfriend Grace, Jordan and my husband were tangled in a sea of arms, so tightly that I wasn't sure of whose hand I was holding most of the night. Though by that time I was perfectly comfortable in my commitment, Blood to Bleed still only reminded me of one person and Ceci knew this. I felt she understood me then, I felt she was one of the very few who knew me best. Beside me was my husband, but in my heart was a dream of someone else, of someone who shared my commitment and my ideals, a dream of an idea more than a person, the perfect guy/relationship/life I would never have. Two months later I would find out my husband was seeing a girl from work

that had got him hooked on heroin. Two months later he would come to where I worked and attack me in front of multiple witnesses and when called, the police would do nothing. Two months later I would sit sobbing in the back of a police car because I was too afraid to go into my own apartment and get my things. When responding to my call the enormous officer would glare down at me and say "Why are you afraid to walk in your own home? Are you on drugs or are you just retarded?" Instead of accompanying me inside to get my things they would search me for drugs. Two months later I would realize why Henry Rollins hated cops so much. Two months later. after ten years together, I would leave my husband. I did not know any of this then. All I knew was that in that instant my heart was bleeding inside of me for want of some friendship I would never have, the one thing I believed would make my life complete. It was that friendship, that idea of a person, of perfection, of everything I wanted myself and my life to be, that seemed like the holy grail of the second part of my life. Looking back, maybe it held value only because it was unobtainable. I had not yet learned to find it in myself so I sought it so furiously in a stranger. So, with the ridiculously angelic vision of the first straightedge boy I ever met in my head, and my unfaithful husband beside me, in that crowd at Stubb's, Rise Against tore into Blood To Bleed. It was our first time to hear it live together as they had not played it at Warped Tour. Ceci looked down at me, wrapped her arms around me and held me tight because she knew exactly who I was thinking of and why. As she held on to me with one hand and ran a hand through my hair, we both screamed out those lyrics that had haunted me and driven me on for years. "This place rings with echos of lives once lived, but now are lost Times spent wondering about tomorrow I don't care if we lose it all tonight Up in flames, burning bright.... Within my bones this resonates Boiling blood will circulate Could you tell me again what you did this for?" And just like I was blind to what was about to erupt with my husband I was just as blind to time bomb ticking inside of Ceci that would turn her into a complete stranger the next time we met, at the very same place it would turn out. Had I known that this was the last time she would hold my hand and sing with me and look down on me with love and empathy in her eyes, I would not have wasted my sorrow in grieving for a friendship that never was and instead would have known to grieve for the real friendship I was losing. I should have grieved for hers, but in retrospect, it was no more real than the idea of the one I chased after so fruitlessly. "I don't love you anymore is all I remember you telling me never have I felt so cold But I've no more blood to bleed Cuz my heart has been draining into the sea...." And the strange footnote to that day, that time, that moment of hope and loss and all that was to come is this: Even though his friendship I never actually earned, in his status of a wise, polite stranger, that straightedge boy I never really knew was far more civil than Ceci. His responses, however short they were, however long it took to get them, were genuine. It is such a small thing, his honesty, yet it is more than I can say for ninety percent of the people I've known in the last several years. Another song we sang together that night was Prayer of the Refugee. I had no idea then but that song was about to describe my life. "We are the angry and desperate The hungry and the cold We are the ones who kept quiet and always did what we were told But we've been sweating while you slept so calm in the safety of your homes We've been pulling at the nails that hold up everything you own."

The split with my husband was brutal. First I had to deal with police that didn't care, who told me at one point "Well, if he tries to kill you, call us back, otherwise there's nothing we can do. He's your husband and he has the same right to live here as you do." Thanks to the police not doing anything, I was thrown out of the apartment I had paid for for ten years. The battered women's shelter was full and I would have found myself homeless had it not been for my friend Lilo. Suddenly I was having to start from scratch and then, upon finding a place, having to pack up ten years worth of my life and move it all by myself. "I hit the ground and I'm still running but I need a place to stay tonight I swear I'll be gone in the morning I just need some place warm to close my eyes." Every day I worked until the afternoon, went home and packed until 2 am, fell asleep until 5 am and then got up and did it all again. Then once I was packed I had to move it all. I can't remember why I didn't ask for help but I moved it all alone except for the bed, entertainment center and tv. "The drones all slave away They're working overtime They serve a faceless queen They never question why Disciples of a god That neither lives nor breathes But we've got bills to pay Yeah we've got mouths to feed I won't go back..." This was such a strange time. There was no way to hide what was going on: my husband came to where I worked and jumped me in front of everyone there, I had to tell my boss "My husband kicked me out and I'm homeless at the moment, could I possibly get my check a day or two early to put a deposit down on an apartment?" and I had to own up to the fact that I was straightedge and my husband was a heroin addict. "We're broken but still breathing We are wounded but we are healing We pick up right where we left off Breathe on the ashes that remain So that these coals may become fire To guide our way.." This made my life suddenly seem a really bad B movie. There was nothing to do but go on. I would have asked myself "What would that straightedge guy do in this situation?" if I'd had any idea. Instead I asked "What would Dave Peters of Throwdown do?" and of course the obvious answer was "punch something". As much as I wanted to, I couldn't do that. However, I knew for sure what he wouldn't do and that was curl up in a ball and cry. So I didn't do that either. It was a such horrible time and yet when I look back all I remember is my own strength and the exhilaration I felt when I finally left. "So give me the drug Keep me alive Give me what's left of my life Don't let me go... Pull this plug, let me breathe On my own, I'm finally free..."

Lilo and Di swore I looked great, like I had suddenly gotten 10 years younger. They said I was glowing, but unless I had come in contact with radium I certainly didn't see how. I remember thinking "Well hell, maybe the Socialists were right. Maybe 16 hour days are the way to salvation." "Wake me up inside Tell me there's a reason To take another step To get up off my knees and, Follow this path of most resistance. And where ever it takes us, Whatever it faces and wherever it leads" As I came into my own power, the straightedge boy who had loomed so god-like over the first years of my commitment shrank back down to human size. Deep down I still hoped that if he was to know of all I had gone through he would be a little proud of me for surviving with my integrity intact. But if he didn't, well that was okay too. Survive I did, survive I continue to. "Somewhere between happy, and total fucking wreck Feet sometimes on solid ground, sometimes at the edge To spend your waking moments, simply killing time Is to give up on your hopes and dreams, to give up on your... Life for you, has been less than kind So take a number, stand in line We've all been sorry, we've all been hurt But how we survive, is what makes us who we are" When I had my own place and my own life again, to celebrate I bought myself a Christmas present: a tattoo of a sparrow carrying brass knuckles in her beak. It reminded me of this lyric that had been echoing in my head the whole time: "And if strength was born from heartbreak Then mountains I could move If walls could speak I pray that they would tell me what to do." I enjoyed more than six months of solitude in my cozy little apartment on Airline. I filled my weekends with walks on the beach, solitary shopping excursions for meatless dinners, and nights were spent at the House of Rock and the Underground watching bands, enjoying the freedom of staying out without getting yelled at or called names. I spent Christmas alone on Lilo's floor stuffing myself with processed cheeseballs and watching movies. It was my first UnChristmas. The Jehovah's Witnesses would have been proud! "Warm yourself by the fire, son, And the morning will come soon. I’ll tell you stories of a better time, In a place that we once knew. Before we packed our bags And left all this behind us in the dust, We had a place that we could call home, And a life no one could touch."

But I am flawed and cowed and crippled by the Christian concept of forgiveness. And by the time I would be seeing Rise Against again, my husband would be back by my side. In West Texas his mom had ran him through the MHMR system, let them start him on 7 different drugs, ---including three different tranquilizers and pills for hallucinations and seizures, which he never once had,--- used him to get on welfare, disability, and Medicare. Once he's served the purpose, she called a friend in the sheriff's department and had him pulled from her house, drugged out of his mind on meds at the time, and stuck on a bus to Corpus Christi. The Glasscock County Sherriff's Department called me at work to TELL me "Your husband is on a bus to Corpus, he'll be there at two am. He's your responsibility now." On the bus, because of his state of stupor, he was robbed of everything but his clothes and as much as I wanted to just shove him into the closest homeless shelter, I couldn't. Had it been me, as unlikely as that would be, I would want someone to have compassion. "We are the children you reject and disregard These aching cries come from the bottom of our hearts You can't disown us now, we are your own flesh and blood And we don't disappear just because your eyes are shut" I took him in. At first it was easy. Thanks to the drugs he was sleeping 18 hours a day. Finally I started to investigate what they had him on, what he could do without and how to get him back to normal. I'm not sure how I did it, but I weened him off of every drug he was on. At first it was out of necessity since I was making too much money for him to stay on state sponsored help and he'd have run out eventually. Looking back though, had he sustained that amount of drug intake for long he would have probably died. So he was back for good and conversely Ceci and Jadey and nearly every other friend I had at the time would have turned their backs on me and flocked to other, cooler individuals. All those kids that convinced me they would have killed themselves, starved themselves, cut themselves to shreds, OD'ed, etc had they not met me, who all imposed their problems and lives on mine for five years or more and took up every spare moment of my time and every inch of my heart all turned 18 at once. In turning 18 they realized they knew it all and I was no longer worth their time. "And if you think your words will ever make a difference Think again and carry on..." My husband and I are still together, but all those friends are long gone. I wish I could say he gave up all his demons, but he didn't. He simply traded the big ones for a myriad of lesser evils. He will never be straightedge. And though he claims to be proud of me, to this day he is convinced, utterly falsely, I am hiding some secret affair with the straightedge boy from years ago. I sat him down one day and asked "Do you get that we are straightedge? Do you get that in being straightedge we could not possibly cheat on our significant others and remain straightedge? Do you get that no matter how much he influenced me I barely knew him and he barely gave me the time of day? Do you get that what you are accusing me of is utterly impossible?”

Despite his insistence on this, the idea doesn't bother him enough for him to give up his own addictions and become edge himself. He no longer asks me to change and he is no longer violent, thank god. I no longer ask him to change, though I pray every day he will. We have been together for twenty years now and I have never been with anyone else. This doesn't keep me from dreaming of some nice sXe man who shares my ideals. But I think of it much like I imagine racing on the autobahn, knowing it will never actually happen and knowing I’d never do it even if I could. "We live on front porches and swing life away We get by just fine here on minimum wage If love is a labor I'll slave til the end..." Things in my life settled down for a bit as we prepared to see the boys again at Stubb's BBQ. Through myspace I found my friend Linda that I had not spoken to in fifteen years. As we sat on the balcony at Stubb's I kept one eye on the stage and the other on the door waiting to see her again. When she walked through the doors it was like the last fifteen years never even happened and instantly we picked up right where we left off and again were tearing through Austin with her at the wheel like we had so many times in the past. Because of this joyful reunion I was not first in line when the doors opened, I was buying rainbow necklaces in the gay shops in town and snickering over whether the guy behind the counter was flirting with my husband or not. - That was a strange memory for me, being in the very back of the audience for once, singing alone as Aaron sat on a rock and read a Robert Jordan novel. I was happy to be there, the music was incredible, but the feeling was all wrong. I was isolated and alone, in the back row with my fist raised and Aaron tugging at my arm every other song asking "What song is this? Do I know this one?". I wondered if Ceci was there in the front row, holding on to someone else and convincing them she would have killed herself if they hadn't come into her life. I imagined others in the front row, in our place, saluting Joe, singing our songs while I was the interloper that did not belong anymore. We walked out of the sold out show before the encore, a long drive home facing us. Aaron never lets me stay for the encores. He always wants to hit the road. As we walked to the car, with Worth Dying For wafting through the air above us, I blew a kiss to the wind and told Ceci goodbye. "Feel me rise in the strength I've found inside the warm embracing air Like a glacier melting watch me dissipate I searched for love in an empty world but all I found was hate" It was the lyrics of Rise Against that echoed in my head when I sat down to read the words of Marx and Lenin for the first time as a whole other world opened up for me. It was Rise Against that drove me on as I worked sixty hour weeks. "We're losing daylight but I can't work any faster Under the veil of dust we go on..." Their lyrics saw me through every major event of the last several years of my life. Appeal to Reason was released in the Fall of 2008 and though the year found me miserably poor and unemployed, I still bought it the day it came out. It was on my mp3 player and as I sat in the welfare office applying for food stamps I would hear the lyrics "Despite these petty fortunes we still can't afford a life...." for the first time and I would pause a moment just for the whole zeitgeist effect of it. For Christmas of 2008 I received an email from Ceci after a year and a half of ignoring my every attempt at contacting her. I had tried everything, even terribly childish measures to get some kind of reaction but every letter---first polite, then angry, then groveling-- every call, email, and package was met with silence. A year and a half passed and then I got the email saying "I got the new Rise Against and it made me realize how much I loved and missed you and loved AFI and I want to be friends again. I know you can't forgive me but can we be friends again? There's this song on that new Rise Against that

reminds me of you." True to the bond we had once held there was certainly a song on the new Rise Against that reminded me of us too: "Identities assume us as nine and five add up Synchronizing watches To the seconds that we lost I looked up and saw you I know that you saw me We froze but for a moment In empathy I brought down the sky for you but all you did was shrug" This was exactly what happened the last time we saw each other when she turned up her nose and pretended not to know who I was, just a week after sending me a letter saying how much she loved me. This led to the year plus of her not speaking to and ignoring all attempts at contact I made, even the immature ones. "And if you see me please just walk on by Walk on by Forget my name and I'll forget it too Failed attempts at living simple lives Simple lives Always keep me coming back to you." But too much time had passed and although that Christian weakness crippled me so with my husband, for once I stood strong and had no trouble in keeping the door to my heart shut. I told her not to contact me again. "I count the times that I've been sorry Now my compassion slowly drowns If there's a time these walls could guard you Then let that time be right now."

That doesn't mean that my mind does not still light to her like a bee to a flower, the years we were friends, that feeling of love and camaraderie and the bond I imagined we had. The last three Rise Against albums play the soundtrack of our friendship whenever I turn them on. When I play Appeal to Reason I wonder if this song reminds her of me:

"It kills me not to know this but I've all but just forgotten what the color of her eyes were and her scars or how she got them" If I close my eyes I am there again in that Port Aransas condo, the night we met face to face after talking online for so long. We are huddled together in the bedroom sharing the earphones of a cd player listening to Placebo's Sleeping With Ghosts. I am pulling down the zipper of my boot and showing her three freshly razored X's cut into my ankle, the blood still stuck to a wad of tissue pressed between my sock and skin. She is crying and wrapping her arms around me and telling me she understands everything and that someday she will show me her scars too. "I'll show you mine If you'll show me yours first Let's compare scars I'll tell you whose is worse Let's unwrite these pages and replace them with our own words..." She never did show me her scars. I wonder now if she even had any. There are lots of songs that transport me back then when she was my world. But now I know nothing about her nor anyone else I knew then was real and I wonder if that song ever reminds her of me and the way she led me to believe I was her lifeline, right up until the moment she cut me off and forgot me like a favorite toy after adolescence destroys the need for such playthings. "As the telling signs of age rain down a single tear is dropping through the valleys of an aging face that this world has forgotten ..." This is the music that accompanied my feet hitting the pavement of park sidewalks and treadmills, it is the melodies that buoyed me through endless work weeks and settled into the recesses of my heart in times of quiet contemplation. As I read words written years ago by writers we were never allowed to study in school, it is the soundtrack that played in my mind when those concepts began to make sense. When I read Ten Days that Shook the World by John Reed, what I was hearing in my head was

"but these ghosts come alive like water and wine walk through these streets singing songs and carrying signs, to them these streets belong.." As I struggled to understand the Communist Manifesto I was thinking to myself: "Unknowing, we lie and wait for the rain To wash away what they have made Face down in the dirt with your foot on my back In the distance I hear thunder crack C'mon Stand up! This system of power and privilege is about to come to an end Here come the clouds The first drop is falling down" I look back at many things and laugh. I remember when I was first looking for straightedge shirts I came upon one that said SUPPORT LEFTIST HARDCORE. I had no earthly idea what it meant and was way too scared to ask anyone. Now I can quote Trotsky. When I first turned edge I stopped eating meat for several months until my husband found out and started calling me a Communist. At the time it seemed like the worst thing in the world to be called. He still calls me a Communist but now with laughable results. I'll cock my head, say something to him in Russian, he'll mumble under his breath 'Yeah you only say that because you've had sex with the entire Communist party!", I'll roll my eyes and we go back to our common denominators of movie quotes, comic books, and making fun of people. I always loved the way the Russian alphabet looked and shortly after we were married I got a tramp stamp with his initials in Russian. He now claims it actually means "Welcome aboard, Comrade." I just laugh and we kid each other and life goes on. In the great Holy Grail of a search for wisdom that I thought could only come from the first straightedge boy I knew, I had one great fear: what if I found him again and he was no longer edge? I was terrified of this, sure that if he fell I would too, that if that touchstone was gone, all would be lost. This no longer worries me. I would be sad if it happened, but it would not affect my journey nor cause me to stumble because I have found my own way. It was hard way full of work, trial and error and pure blind luck. Maybe it would have been easier if things had gone differently and yet it is all mine and no one else's.

I have now seen Rise Against eight times each with its own small dramas, like when I was working for Job Corps, worked an 18 hour day, literally passed out in my car from low blood sugar and exhaustion—luckily before I had started the engine. I somehow made it home, downed two peanut butter sandwiches and went to the show where I had no energy to dance, but just stood there and sang.

The last show was the best in years for me. I was in the second row behind a little boy and his mom. His mom was my age and it was her son’s first concert. He was there to see NOFX. They put on an incredible show and I did my best to keep the crowd off the kid. As a reward, the mother gave me their spot and they went to the back when Rise Against came on. I had not been in the front row since that show with Ceci. I felt like I was twenty again. Rise Against is the music that scores ALL of this in my memory. It is the sound of hope and loss, of new directions and ideas, of the brass ring becoming just another small cog in the great, silent machinations of my soul. It is the music of discovering that the strength of the world lies inside my own heart. It is the sound of me walking away from what I loved, it is the joyous noise of friends you're certain is lost forever coming back to you. This is my so-called Rise Against life

#rise against lyrics #rise against #long post under cut #spilled ink

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the-writing-avocado · 3 years

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Word Search

Thank you for tagging me @zmlorenz these were all from ages ago, so I'm combining them into one long thingamajig

press

“You know,” She snickered, “I wish I had a camera.” Atrix caught her breath and pushed herself off the wall. “The expression you make when you’ve been insulted hasn’t changed a bit!”

Will pressed his lips together. “You would remember that of all things wouldn’t you.” he said, with something akin to disappointment.

bed

From the base of the mountain they had the joyous experience of hiking up muddy mountain slopes in the pouring rain. Atrix had the privilege of drawing runes on everyone's shoes to ensure they didn’t slip, but there was no cure for the cold, and nothing to stop them looking like bedraggled cats.

((apparently I have yet to use to word 'bed' in my second draft!))

shiver

Atrix shivered, curling forward and stretching her arms out in front of her. Elbows and shoulders popping, relief flooding her.

dream

Taking a deep breath, Will dived beneath the waves. Everything was an opaque murky crimson. But that was fine. He had definitely seen worse in two years of doing this. No that he needed to see. Dreams weren’t sight, they were thought. All he had to do was think and no matter what he did, eventually he would end up where he wanted to be.

level

Atrix raced through the tree, laughter and music reaching her ears before she broke through the foliage. Months of running around and frequently using magic had brought her to a level of fitness she was proud of; her arms and legs buzzed with energy, she passed the skate park, pool, and courts and sprinted onto the open field.

broad

“Well, if it isn’t Atrix Destalve, last member of the Phoenix family, next to succeed the head of the magician’s council… and you brought a friend, how quaint.” A stranger's voice leered.

Her body twisted around and she shielded Maria behind her broad figure, turning to where voice had emanated from. “Welcome to my humble abode,” a mock bow, “your highness.”

special

He recoiled, like he had just been burnt. “I’m sorry! I just- you were there-” he growled, running his hand through his hair. “You’re my best friend, I’m not just about to leave you to suffer alone, Atrix! Especially if there’s something I can do to help.”

“What could you possibly do?” she screamed. “This is why I should never have come back! You care too much Will! You can’t do anything, this is my problem, you don’t have to fix it.” She choked.

Will’s own eyes burnt, and he blinked quickly. “You know-” he began, but quickly stopped when he felt his own voice breaking.

((I'm really pushing this aren't I))

heavy

She swallowed, very aware of the dying storm around her, but she continued singing the lines in a rich, strong voice.

It wasn’t even a song! Just a poem, a very long, beautiful poem that she had learnt off by heart a long time ago.

The storm settled, listening as she pushed through every verse, heart growing light and heavy with every note.

cake

“Aww, alright how about this one!” She flicked through the role of pictures until she found one of her in a pink dress that clashed garishly with her hair, and an outrageous amount of makeup caked on her face. Her and Heliar stared innocently at the camera, Will laughed. “I wanted to try on some of Heliar’s clothes, but pink does not go with orange, and my mum’s make up was never going to match my skintone! Stop laughing! It’s not that funny.”

roll

Atrix rolled her eyes. “Oh, I’m sure you don’t, still I insist, you should consider giving Will a job at least a bit more exciting than Furples, they are a nightmare, but they are hardly dangerous.”

Prudence nodded. “I’ll indeed consider it, but I have a condition.” Atrix scowled, but made no other objection so he continued. “The woman that you mention earlier is Jean Mckintosh. She’s on the Magician’s council. I think it would be sensible of you to perhaps organise a Luncheon, if you are intending to 'return' to politics and time soon?”

cool

Zara entangled their hands, pushing the door open and stepping out into the cool morning breeze as it played with her hair. She breathed deeply, toes curling slightly. “Come on, the sea’s sweet today, you can tell me all about what’s troubling you… or scream it out to the sea.”

bake

((okay, bake does not exist anywhere in my wips sadly))

I'll tag, with no pressur: @elizabethemm @euphoniouspandemonium @theidioticbadass @super-thedoctor-things @vylequinne @anotherinfinityinspace @a-berry-existential-crisis

your words are spirit, wretched, tree, magic

I have no clue what is going on with tumblr, the tags are broken!

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thegreatestofheck · 4 years

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Do Not Stand { Outer Banks }

word count - 4.8k warnings - death (cancer related), characters dealing with the aftermaths of death, swearing synopsis - One of the Pogues passes away and leaves a message for her friends. Each of them take it a different way. a/n - Here’s another story I have that is similar to one I’ve read. The work Bury A Friend by pogue-writings is amazing and you should check it out! This one was actually inspired by my favorite poem “Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep” by Mary Elizabeth Frye. I may or may not have cried a few times while writing this. Stay safe, healthy, and groovy, but don’t forget to give the people you love a tight hug. Love you guys.

Do not stand at my grave and weep

Kenna knew she was dying. She had known she was dying for a long time. Diagnosed with cancer in her freshman year of high school, she knew that she was living on borrowed time. And there was no way she was going to waste a single second of it.

Partying, fishing, boating, and hanging out with her best friends, Kenna never let a day pass that she wasn’t bound to remember. John B, Pope, JJ, Sarah, and Kie lived it up right along with her, never questioning, never slowing her down.

So, when they saw her lifeless body in the hospital room, it felt so wrong. She was always dancing, always smiling, always cracking jokes, even when she was hooked up to a machine. They had seen her in the hospital bed before, but not like this, never like this.

Kie was already gasping through sobs, tears running down her cheeks. Pope was going to throw up, his face paling and stomach twisting. Sarah clung to the wall for support, her legs unable to keep her standing. John B couldn’t even step inside the room. He had lost too many people to lose her too. JJ, for once in his life, was dead silent. He didn’t know what words to say to make anything better.

Kenna’s parents held tight to her younger sister, trying to stifle tears as their only remaining daughter sobbed uncontrollably.

I am not there, I do not sleep

Kie remembered the last time she saw her friend before the cancer took a turn for the worse. Kenna had been so alive, so fierce, dancing on the HMS Pogue without a single care in the world. Knowing that her best friend was dying was different than living in a world without her in it.

Seeing her body, pale, blue, cold, made Kie shiver. The coffin wasn’t black like one you would expect to see. It was hand carved out of red wood. Kie’s mom and dad helped pay for it. The inside was lined with a jade green, Kenna’s favorite color. She wore her favorite white dress, her nails painted a pretty pink. Hair curled perfectly, cheeks a rosy red, she looked nothing like the girl that Kie knew.

Pope was the first to lay down a flower. He had picked them out. Holding the light purple daisy in his hand, he couldn’t help his trembling body. The preacher had gone silent, the congregation no longer singing. Setting the flower inside his friend’s casket, Pope fought back tears as he remembered the day she made him a daisy chain flower crown, claiming it made him look majestic.

He brushed his hand over hers one last time as he stepped away, shocked by how cold she felt.

JJ walked up with Kie, a hand on her shoulder to keep her steady. They had tried to make Kenna smile, but it looked so fake, so forced. He had seen a thousand fake smiles on her face before as she smiled through the pain, but she somehow always managed to make them look real. He remembered how she used to give him a soft, kind smile whenever he went over to her house after a fight with his dad. How, even though her body was actively trying to kill her, she worked her hardest to make everyone else around her happy.

A tear rolled off of his eyelashes, landing on her cheek.

Sarah hadn’t known Kenna as long as the others and she would regret those lost years for the rest of her life. She hadn’t stopped crying since stepping out of the car that morning. The girl in the coffin had this ability to make Sarah laugh even when she felt like dying on the inside. Sarah wondered if she was ever going to be able to smile again.

Without Kenna, the world was so much darker.

John B was the last to walk away. His flower was crumbling in his tight fist as he watched friend after friend place a purple daisy in the coffin. But John B couldn’t do it. He had lost his mom and then he lost his dad, he couldn’t handle losing his best friend too. He couldn’t walk up and look at her, couldn’t see the lifelessness in her eyes. He just couldn’t do it.

A pair of arms wrapped around his shoulders. He jumped, startled to find JJ’s arms around him. Pope was next, and then Sarah, and then Kie, until they were all standing there, staring at the still open coffin. Everyone else had gone, even her parents and sister. Not a single eye was dry.

When John B finally lay his flower in Kenna’s coffin, she was nearly covered in her favorite flower. The smile on her face looked suddenly real.

I am a thousand winds that blow

“This is for you,” Kenna’s mother said, offering the Pogues a letter as they sat in a small circle back at her house. Tears ran down the woman’s face, dragging her make up along with it. Kie lifted a trembling hand to take the letter. She opened it slowly, all eyes now on her. She coughed, trying to clear the thickness out of her throat.

“My friends,” she read and then coughed again. Sarah put a hand on Kie’s knee, trying to pass on what little strength she had. “My friends, we knew this time was coming. We knew our time was short. Thank you for every memory, every joyous moment. The last few years have been hard, but they would have been impossible without you. Promise me two things; first, look out for each other. Don’t neglect each other. Stick by one another as you have always done. Second, don’t cry for me. My time here was short, but it was sweet and epic and so full of love like a never ending song. Find me in the things you love and I will never leave you. Find me in the simple, mundane things and my memory will live on. I love each one of you. Kiara, Sarah, Pope, JJ, John. I carry your names with me where I’m going, so please, carry mine.”

She didn’t sign her name.

Kie let the paper fall from her hands, dropping to the coffee table like the last leaf fall of autumn. None of them said a single thing, silent tears running from their eyes.

This time, it was Sarah who stood first. She couldn’t take it any more, the heavy weight that pressed against her shoulders, her chest, her stomach. She wanted to scream, to pound her fists into the dirt, to march back to Kenna’s coffin and demand that she wake up.

Stepping out into the cool summer air, Sarah felt a breeze brush against her skin. At first, she wrapped her arms around her stomach to protect herself from the cold. But then the wind blew again, rustling her hair, pulling at the edge of her dress. A quiet wind chime sung from the neighboring house. It sounded like Kenna’s laugh.

The first time Sarah had met Kenna, there was a tropical storm coming on fast. Sarah and her dad were running around trying to board things up so no windows would break when she spotted Kenna riding her bike out in the wind.

“Hey!” She called, running over. Kenna stopped the bike and turned to face Sarah.

“Hi!”

“What are you doing? A storm’s coming in!” Even standing a few feet away from her, Sarah had to shout for her voice to be heard of the gusts.

“Just wanted to go on a bike ride,” Kenna said, a smile on her face.

“Come inside! You’ll get stuck out here.” Sarah gestured for the girl to follow her.

“You sure? I don’t want to impose.”

“Seriously! I doubt you’ll make it anywhere with how fast this wind is coming in.”

“Well, alrighty then.” Kenna rolled her bike after Sarah. By the time they made it back to the house, the rain had started to pour and they were both soaked to the bone.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Kenna said as Sarah led her toward the fireplace.

“I couldn’t leave you out there in that storm.” Sarah picked a blanket off the couch and draped it over Kenna’s shoulders. “What were you doing out there anyway?”

“Oh, you know, we only get so many of these kinds of storms in our life,” Kenna told her with a smile. “Don’t want to miss a single one.”

Astounded, Sarah excused herself to go get a fresh set of clothes for the both of them, plus a few blankets off her bed. They spent the rest of the storm in front of the fire, talking, getting to know one another, drinking hot cocoa. By the time the rain stopped and the wind died down, both girls knew they had just found a new friend.

Now, the wind grazed against Sarah skin and it no longer felt like a cold chill, but a gentle hug from her friend. Wrapping her arms even tighter around herself, Sarah closed her eyes, trying to stifle her sobs. Between the wind rustling the leaves and making the wind chimes sing, Sarah could almost hear Kenna’s voice once again.

I am the diamond glints on snow

Kie had gone to the Mainland only a few times in her life aside from day trips to Chapel Hill. Her parents took her to Minnesota once in the winter for her grandpa’s funeral. Kie didn’t want to go alone, so she took Kenna with her.

It was the only time Kenna ever went to the Mainland. It was the only time Kenna had ever seen the snow.

Kie and Kenna ran throughout the backyard, laughing in their layers and layers of clothes as they threw clumps of wet snow at each other. They made drooping snow men and snow angels. They slid down snow covered hills on pieces of cardboard and went ice skating on the frozen over pond without skates. In a span of only a few days, they must have taken at least a thousand pictures.

Sitting on her bed late that night, Kie was scrolling through those same pictures on her phone, tears rolling down her cheeks. Stuffing her blanket into her mouth was the only way to keep her sobs from carrying.

She tried to remember what Kenna said. Don’t cry for me. That was impossible. She must have known that while writing her letter. How was Kie not supposed to cry for her best friend, her ride or die? How was she supposed to not cry when the ache her chest was burning her alive?

Swiping through the pictures, Kie tried to recall what it was like to see Kenna smile. The smile was there on her phone, but it wasn’t anything like the real thing.

The snow glistened beneath Kenna in one picture as the girl rolled over from laughing so hard. Kie promised this picture of Kenna that she would never take advantage of the snow again. Every new experience that Kie had, she would live for Kenna. No more lounging around doing nothing. Kie was going to take every risk and she was going to take it with a smile on her face. She was going to fight for what she believed in, fight for what she wanted, harder than she ever had before.

And no one was going to stop her.

But despite her new determination, her sobs would not stop. There was a quiet knock at her door and she didn’t have the strength to pretend that she was okay. Her mom peeked the door open. As soon as Mrs. Carrera saw the distress her daughter was in, she walked inside the room and sat beside Kie, pulling her into a hug.

Kie held her phone limply in her hand, the picture of Kenna still smiling up at her as she fell into her mom’s arms. At the sound of her cries, her dad came running in, pulling both Kie and her mom into a solid hug, hoping that he could squeeze the pain right out of his daughter’s heart.

I am the sun on ripened grain

They were supposed to be working, but the music was playing over the speaker and they couldn’t control themselves as they danced to the beat.

JJ had Kenna by her hands, the two of them hopping back and forth, spinning, waving their arms around, whatever they felt the music pulling them to do.

It wasn’t uncommon for Kenna and JJ to find themselves doing odd jobs together. It was kind of their thing. Kenna was usually able to keep JJ on task, but on a warm, sunny day like this, with the fresh, green, Kook grass beneath her feet, even Kenna couldn’t resist taking a break to dance along to the party music.

It was some Kook kid’s 7th birthday. They were all out in the pool, their music blasting for what seemed like miles around. Because the parents were busy doing party things, they left JJ and Kenna to tend to the outside garden.

The sun was beaming down on them from above, the wind just strong enough to keep them cool. Flowers bloomed brighter in the light of the sun, making the garden look more like an oasis.

Once Kenna finally convinced JJ to get back to work, he picked up a hose claiming to go water a tree. Little did she know, as she picked up her watering can, that his intended target wasn’t the tree, but her.

The water was cool against her skin. Welcome, but surprising. With a gasp and a smile, she called out for JJ and their play began again. She chased him around the garden, threatening to shove the hose down his throat or up his ass. He simply laughed as he ran away from her.

By the time their work was finally done, all the flowers were in full bloom. The sunlight glistened off the water droplets, making the entire garden look like a light show. Dropping into the grass, Kenna let her laughter roll through her until it died down. JJ plopped himself onto the ground beside her, laying back to soak up the sun.

JJ couldn’t sleep. His mind was racing at a mile a minute, wondering how he could have let this happen. There must have been something that he could have done to stop this, something that would have saved her life. If he could, he would have taken her place. She didn’t deserve to die, not when so many people cared about her so much.

But he still heard her words in his head like his own thoughts.

“You matter, JJ,” she whispered to him as he paced through the darkness outside. “And you have people who care about you, too. Don’t undermine yourself. Don’t regret something you couldn’t fix.”

JJ slammed a closed fist into a tree before he could stop himself. Once the dam was broken, the flood came rushing out. Again and again he pounded his fists into the same tree, blood running down from his knuckles.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” JJ cried into the night. Pain splintered through his hands, but that didn’t stop him. It wasn’t until his cries of rage dissolved into desperate gasps for air the he actually dropped his hands back to his side. He still didn’t feel the pain.

Dropping to the ground, he brought his knees up to his chest, his shoulders shaking with quiet sobs.

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed, wrapping his arms around his knees. “Ken, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” If she was there, that’s what she would have told him. “I’m right here.”

I am the gentle autumn rain

Pope swept the floor of his dad’s shop, his eyes blurry with tears. He could barely see what he was doing, but doing something was better than doing nothing. He gave up on sweeping and started to pack the deliveries he would have to run tomorrow.

The island didn’t care if his best friend had died. People still needed their damn groceries.

Kenna danced through his mind; her smile, her laugh, her silly faces, the way she pouted her lips when she fished.

He swallowed a strangled cry as he remembered the day they went on a hike through the woods last fall. The skies were clear when they had started their journey, packs filled with sandwiches and chips and water bottles. They were half way through their hike when the first cloud rolled over them.

“Think we should head back?” Pope asked, watching the cloud above him warily. Kenna laughed, glancing back at him.

“Absolutely not,” she said.

“What if it rains?”

“I didn’t realize you were the Wicked Witch of the East, Heyward,” Kenna said in her teasing tone. Pope rolled his eyes, but there was a smile on his face. “A little water never hurt anyone.”

It started to rain not a few minutes later. It wasn’t heavy, large drops like the rains they got in the winter and spring. It was soft, like a thousand petals falling all at once. Kenna didn’t even flinch. She lifted her face to the sky, smile growing wider as the tiny droplets landed against her cheeks. Pope simply watched her.

She started to turn, raising her hands ever so slightly. Pope’s cynical side couldn’t help but think about whether or not this was the last time she would feel rain against her skin and that’s why she relished in it so much. As if sensing his bad vibes, Kenna turned to look at him.

“Come on,” she said, taking his hand in hers. “We’ve got a hike to finish.”

They never had a chance to go on another hike. Her health declined steadily after that day in the autumn rain. Pope couldn’t bring himself to wonder now if that really had been the last time she felt the rain. Thinking about it was too much to bear.

“Son, what are you doing?”

Pope looked up, the sudden sound of his dad’s voice startling him out of his memory. Heyward stood with his keys in his hands. Behind him, the barest hint of dawn peaked over the horizon. Pope had been here all night.

“Just wanted to get ahead on deliveries,” Pope said, conscious of the fact that his voice was breaking. He could feel the tickle of a tear on his cheek, but he fought to keep the others swarming in his eyes at bay.

Heyward let out a heavy sigh and set down his things, walking toward his son. With every step, Pope felt his walls start to crumble a little bit more. Until his dad reached him and enveloped him into a strong hug. Only then did Pope broke completely.

“She’s gone.” His cries were muffled as he buried his face in his dad’s shirt. “She’s actually gone.”

“I know, son,” Heyward said, looking up at the ceiling to keep his own tears in his eyes. “I know.”

When you awaken in the morning's hush I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight

John B didn’t even try to sleep. He sat on the dock the entire night, doing nothing other than watch the horizon and drink a beer. At least, he held the open bottle in his hand and pretended like he was drinking it.

He couldn’t bare to go inside his house, not when she was everywhere he looked. The kitchen still smelled like her turkey sandwiches. The bathroom was still stained from her hair dye that she used to dye her eyebrows.

“I don’t have any hair left, so my eyebrows can be any color I want, right?” she said with a laugh. John B watched her from the bathtub, an amused smile on his face.

The pictures of her still hung on his wall. She was in every crack, every crevice, every squeaky floorboard, every rusted nail.

Kenna had stayed over when Big John went missing. She sat up with John B until he fell asleep, which usually wasn’t until early in the morning. She made him breakfast, no matter how many times he told her he was perfectly capable. She helped him look for his dad, hand made flyers, talked to the police when John B couldn’t stomach it. She was there by his side through it all.

And the morning that Ms. Lana came by the house to tell him what had really happened, Kenna was there too. She stayed up with him, holding him as he cried and emptied his guts. He had always held out hope that Big John was alive. Without him, John B wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to do. But every anxiety, every fear, every worry, Kenna quelled just by being there.

When the sun rose in the morning, the rooster crowing and the birds flying between the trees, Kenna was still there, asleep by his side.

John B couldn’t go back inside and sleep because when he woke up, he would expect to see her there and he knew she wouldn’t be. He remembered that morning feeling all too well when he could almost forget that his dad was gone for good. He couldn’t go through that again, not without Kenna there to help him.

So, instead, he stared at the horizon, watching the sun rise higher and higher, flooding the marsh and the Chateau with light. The rooster crowed. The birds flew back and forth between the branches. But Kenna wasn’t there to enjoy it with him.

The dock creaked as someone walked toward him. For half a moment, John B let himself hope that it was her.

But it wasn’t.

JJ sat beside him with a sigh. John B looked down and saw the bruises and cut skin of his knuckles. He didn’t need to ask what happened. He knew well enough. Finally taking a drink of the beer, he looked back out to the marsh.

“I had an idea,” JJ said, his voice gravelly.

“Yeah?”

“We should give her a proper Pogue send off,” JJ said, slipping the beer bottle out of John B’s hand to take a drink from it himself. “Go out on our boards, lay her to rest in the ocean.”

John B’s eyes had been dry the entire night, refusing to accept that she was gone. But hearing JJ’s words made it seem so real. The tears came fast and they came hard. He nearly doubled over as sobs shook his body, pressing the sleeves of his sweatshirt against his mouth.

“Come on,” JJ whispered, putting his arm around his friend and pulling him closer. John B put his arms around his friend. Both of them were grateful for the comfort of another.

The birds started to sing.

I am the soft stars that shine at night

They all met at the beach that night. There was a bonfire, s’mores, music. Kie brought her ukulele. Sarah sang a song, the others mumbling along with her.

“Did you bring it?” JJ asked Kie when the singing died down. She nodded and reached for her backpack. With shaking hands, she pulled out a small, metal box.

“It’s safe for the ocean environments,” she murmured, her lower lip trembling as she looked at it.

“It’s perfect,” Sarah said, reaching out and putting an arm around Kie.

“Everyone bring their thing?” John B asked, poking at the fire with a stick. Each of his friends answered in turn, reaching for pockets and bags to pull out what they had brought for Kenna.

JJ pulled one of his woven bracelets off of his wrist, rolling it between his fingers like a blunt. For half a second, it looked like he was going to toss it into the fire. Instead, he looked up at Kie.

“She made this for me when we were kids,” he said, his voice thick with feeling. “Never took it off.”

“Shouldn’t you keep it? To remember her by?” Kie asked. JJ looked at the bracelet and shook his head with a heavy sigh.

“No. I think she needs it more than I do now.” Without another word, he leaned forward and placed the blue and black bracelet into the metal box.

Sarah held a little ceramic bird in her hand.

“We went thrifting this one time,” she said and gave a small shake of her head. “Kenna and I got these matching birds, but mine broke so she gave me hers.”

Placing the small bird into the metal box, Sarah blinked back a heavy downpour of tears. Kie plucked a guitar pick out of her pocket. She looked at it with a small smile on her face.

“We were gonna make a double album together,” Kie said, her voice breaking as she fought off tears. “We got some stuff recorded but, I guess the rest will just have to come with her spirit.”

She dropped the pick into the metal box and it hit the bottom with clunk.

Pope stood, clearing his throat. He walked over to Kie, who held the box in her hands. He fiddled with something, looking down at it as if he wasn’t ready to part with it quiet yet.

“Ken...she used to held me study. She and I had a bet that I wouldn’t be able to one single pencil until I couldn’t sharpen it anymore and, well-” Pope lifted up the small pencil, barely more than a nub. He looked up the stars above. “Guess I won.”

He put the pencil nub into the box and returned to his seat. John B was next, he knew as much. Kie and Pope watched him carefully, expectant. But JJ and Sarah looked away.

“Kenna told me once that she wanted to be an astronaut,” John B said after a long silence. JJ looked over at him. “She wanted to fly among the stars.”

John B felt tears start to gather in his eyes and so he looked up, met with the beautiful expanse of the universe above. Kie leaned over and put a hand on his knee as it bounced up and down. John B let out a teary gasp as he dropped his head back down, eyes closing.

“We found this once when we were out here,” he said after a while, holding up a small, shiny rock. “She said it looked like a fallen star. Said there was a wish locked inside of it. When my dad went missing, she gave it to me and told me to use it whenever I hit my lowest. So, Kenna?”

He looked up again, closing the rock into his fist.

“I want to wish for you to come back. I want to wish for you to beside us again, beside me again. But I won’t.” He brought the rock to his lips. “I wish that you’re at peace. I wish that you know how much you meant to us. I wish that you know we’re going to be okay. Yeah, we’re gonna be okay.”

John B dropped the rock into the box and Kie closed it shut. JJ stood, plucking his surfboard out of the sand. One by one, the others did the same. Kie held the box close to her chest as they rode out to the water beyond the swells. It was a calm night, the moon watching over them as they floating in the water.

No one said anything as they sat. Kie planted a kiss onto the top of the box and then handed it to Pope, who did the same. Around the circle it went, receiving a small kiss from each of Kenna’s friends. Once it was back in Kie’s hands, she held it over the water, hands still shaking. She was supposed to drop it, to let it sink beneath the water and into the depths below, but she couldn’t do it. Not alone.

John B reached out and took some of the weight. JJ was next, then Sarah, and then Pope, until all of them held onto their last bit of Kenna. They gave no signal, but when Kie let out one, steady breath, they all let go together.

Kenna’s box sunk, disappearing into the dark in moments. Sarah tried to choke back a sob.

Now, every time they surfed these waves, a piece of Kenna would still be there, watching over them.

Do not stay at my grave and cry

They made it back to shore, tears drying on their faces. And they spent the rest of the night reminiscing, laughing, drinking Kenna’s favorite lemonade, eating s’mores in the way she liked best.

Not a single tear more was shed.

The stars twinkled above them, the night owls calling in the distance. Wind blew gentle through the trees, the sand below their feet glinting in the moonlight like snow. Sounds of rain pattered somewhere in the distance, the plants around them rustling.

I am not there; I did not die

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saidelia-draconis · 3 years

Text

Holidays

Another quiet morning. The harsh nip of frost clung to the air as Saidelia wandered through her flat, still groggy from sleep. On her way through the little kitchen, she hit her knee against a chair. Hopping on one foot, she made her way into the pantry, muttering several curses. Breakfast was to be standard fare today. She hadn’t the energy to leave.

The pan sputtered sizzled as she heated her lard. The eggs splashed grease on the burner with a quick spout of flame. She tsked softly, guiding the eggs to the pan with her spoon. One by one, as she jostled the yolks, they each split. A long, strained sigh left her as she haphazardly finished cooking.

When Saidelia finally sat down with her breakfast, she reached for the cup of tea she had forgotten to make. She silently clenched her hand into a fist, staring down at the spot where the cup would have been. She left her breakfast to prepare the kettle, setting a wooden tankard down beside it. As she sat down to resume breakfast, her waist grazed the edge of the plate, sending the eggs into her lap. Saidelia glanced at the ceiling, trying not to scream. Wordlessly, she cleaned her breakfast off of her clothing when a noise took her. It was blissful and melodic. On this particular morning, she was in no mood.

She raised the window of her breakfast nook, peering outside at the procession, all dressed in seasonal garb. She was just in time to make eye-contact with one of the carolers who pointed her out to the group. Before she knew it, a dozen pairs of eyes were on her.

“Season’s greetings, ma’am!”

“Yeah, you too. Listen, it’s early. Can you keep it down?”

From the looks she got, she was almost sure she had wrung a kitten’s neck. The incredulity she was not facing she had hardly prepared for. She even heard a loud ‘boo’ before the child at the center spoke

“Today? Sir, why it’s winter veil!”

A cacophony of chiding laughter echoed down in the street as chants of ‘Scrounge!’ were flung at her. Saidelia huffed indignantly, slamming the window down as she turned to prepare her breakfast for the second time. In the streets below, she could hear the children caroling directly outside of her window. Growing steadily louder, attempting to force a rise out of her. She coolly avoided their provocations until a particularly loud chorus caused her to splash herself with grease.

After shaking her hand several times, she was rid of most of the grease. All that was left was the incessant singing. She glanced at the mug, making a quick decision. She strode briskly to the window, opening it once again to hurl it at a wall behind the children. Within seconds, the troupe had scattered like cockroaches, leaving Saidelia alone in the deafening silence. She slammed her window shut once again.

“Fucking Winter Veil.”

Left alone, Saidelia made her way back to the stovetop, preparing a new meal and eating in the quiet. She enjoyed a small cup of tea out of a freshly-washed mug, with only a reddened hand and egg-stained pants to remind her of the morning’s start. As she was cleaning up her breakfast, she heard a swift and somewhat forceful knock at the door. Stepping gingerly down the stairs, she was greeted with the kindly face of an old friend. Holding a mug.

“Good morning, Saidelia. Would you care to tell me why you are throwing things at children?”

Despite his jovial appearance, it was not difficult to discern his irritation. His hands held out the mug for Saidelia to take. She glanced down at it, looking rather sheepish. She nervously grasped the mug, hiding it with her hands behind her back.

“I-- Uh, thanks, Morland. I was looking for that.”

“Interesting. Did you check the alleyway where you hurled it at a group of orphans?”

Saidelia’s heart sank. She bit her lip as she glanced downwards for a spell. She took time before she was able to bring herself to look the man in the eyes. He seemed no less frustrated with her now than he was before.

“I... Sorry, Morland. I didn’t know they were orphans. They were... Kind of rude.”

“They’re children, Saidelia. They are afforded some leeway in their behavior. You, however, are not. Why are you hurling drinkware at them?”

Without asking, the man stepped inside, leading Saidelia up to her table. He took a long, slow sip of her tea, adding a spoonful of sugar. She briefly cleaned the mug from the street, pouring herself a cup as well. His impetuous gaze never left her until she sat down across him. She glanced down at the table before returning his gaze.

“I... I get it, Morland. I’m sorry. I don’t have an excuse. I was having a shitty morning, and I let a group of kids get the best of me. I shouldn’t have reacted to them.”

For the first time today, his gaze softened. He nodded at her, taking another sip of the tea he had invited himself to. Saidelia remained characteristically quiet. Isaiah quickly took notice.

“Well, why don’t you tell me about your day?”

“It was just stupid shit. I know it shouldn’t bother me.”

“I offered to listen, Saidelia. Why don’t you tell me?”

“Right. Well, like I said. It wasn’t anything big. I just slept like shit. And when I got up, I forgot to make tea, and I spilled breakfast on me, and then I burned my hand on the grease and-- It really doesn’t sound like anything worth getting mad about when I say it out loud.”

Once again, that knowing smile spread across Isaiah’s face as he observed her realization. She stared back, frowning. He finally chuckled, laying a hand on the back of her own, nodding at her.

“A million little things, hmm? Have you considered that it might possibly be because you’re feeling a bit on edge?”

“Because of what?”

“Happy birthday, Saidelia.”

Saidelia’s eyes grew wide with realization as he spoke the words. She took a quick mental tally before her mouth opened, closed, and opened several more times. Finally, she spoke.

“Fuck.”

“Yes, when you reach a certain age, it’s no longer quite so joyous. Have you also considered the holiday?”

“What do you mean?”

“Saidelia, I am referring to how you live. I understand that you might not relish the thought of attending a feast at the church. You’ve never been one for crowds. Have you considered at the very least the idea of spending the holiday with a few friends? It might be good for you to get out and celebrate the holiday for once.”

“I don’t know, Morland.”

“Food for thought is all. Whether or not you do or don’t do anything for Winter Veil is up to you. I’m just offering my advice. Until then, my door is always open.”

#Writing

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wingedquill · 4 years

Text

sing me something i need

@geraltwhumpweek

TITLE: sing me something i need

SHIP: Geralt/Jaskier

PROMPT DAY: Day 3: Cursed

MEDIUM: Netflix

WARNINGS: Torture, murder (of a massive dickhead)

SUMMARY: When Geralt is a young witcher, he loves to sing. Love songs and ballads and ridiculous little ditties, it doesn't matter. He delights in using his voice, in making beautiful music. But then he's given the "gift" of jewels falling from his mouth whenever he speaks. A gift that kings would kill for. Would certainly hurt a lowly mutant for. He doesn't much like to sing, after that.

WORD COUNT: 4,962

AUTHOR’S NOTES: You can also find this on AO3!

“You know what I’m curious about, jewel?”

The king is here. Geralt shrinks back into the corner of his cell, wrapping his arms around his knees, because things are never good when the king is here. The last time he was curious, it was to see what kind of gems fell from Geralt’s mouth when he screamed.

Obsidian. Pretty and shiny but ultimately not as valuable as gold and jewels. And thank the gods for that.

“I wonder,” the king murmurs, tapping his jewel-coated scepter against the ground, “if you can sing.”

His heart drops into his stomach.

He loves to sing. He always has. In a world of blood and monster guts, he thinks sometimes that his voice is the only beautiful thing about him. He adores the wild freedom of belting out his sorrows and joys to the world, the way that his brothers grin fondly at him as he start

s up a jaunty drinking tune, the way he can weave a tragedy into something low and somber and perfect for murmuring around a campfire.

And he hoped—he hoped he could keep that love. That the king, with all his demands for his words and his whispers and his screams of agony, wouldn’t think to take this too.

But of course he did.

Geralt lifts his head and glares at him and wishes, not for the first time, that the fae who did this to him had given him the power to kill with a word. Or the power to fly, to soar far, far away from here.

“Don’t be shy.” The king steps forward into the cell, looming above Geralt. “I’m sure you sound lovely.”

“I—I can’t—”

His voice sounds like the rasp of sand sliding together. Two tiny pearls clatter to the floor, rolling across the rough stone. The king bats them aside with his scepter. He doesn’t have the patience for small offerings anymore.

“Sure you can,” he says. He lifts up the scepter and spins it around in his hand so that the bottom is facing Geralt. Its point gleams in the low light of the cell. Dull, but still sharp enough to pierce skin with the right amount of force. Geralt’s shoulder throbs at the reminder.

“Sing, my jewel.”

Geralt closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. Pretends that he’s not here, that he’s back within the walls of Kaer Morhen, safe and whole. That his throat isn’t as tattered as a white flag fluttering in the air over a battlefield. That his voice doesn’t betray him with every word he speaks.

And then he starts to sing. A lullaby he remembers Vesemir humming to him on the road to Kaer Morhen, when he was a child still afraid of the dark. A song that he’s come back to, time and time again, whenever he feels like that scared little kid.

His throat cracks and burns around the words, and he practically chokes halfway through the first line. Something knocks against the back of his teeth, and when he opens his mouth to sing the next word, a massive ruby falls from his lips.

It’s bigger than any jewel he’s ever spoken, and the king’s eyes light up as he waves at Geralt to keep singing. He bends down and plucks the ruby from the cold stone floor, even as a sapphire clatters down to take its place. He twirls the gem back and forth in his fingers, examining its facets, far more precise and numerous than any jeweler could hope to obtain. Even in the low light of the cell, it sparkles like it’s full of trapped fire.

It’s beautiful. Far more beautiful than his speech, his whispers, his screams.

Oh gods, no. No no no.

“I think we’ve found your greatest talent, my jewel,” the king says, even as Geralt coughs up the next gem, his throat heaving with the effort. Emerald.

“Hurts—” he croaks. A sapphire the size of his thumbnail clicks against the ground. The king rolls his eyes.

“When have I ever cared about that?” he says, sounding almost bored. “We’ve done this dance before, treasure. The beauty outweighs the cost.”

You don’t have to bear the cost.

He keeps those words to himself. His back still stings from the king’s last punishment for “mouthing off.”

The king presses the point of his scepter into Geralt’s shoulder.

“Keep singing.”

He keeps singing.

Gem after gem falls to the flagstones, and each one rubs his throat just a bit rawer, tears at his tongue and his lips and the roof of his mouth. He tries to sing softer, make the jewels a bit smaller, but the king digs the scepter in whenever the results are unsatisfactory.

The song drags on and on and on and not for the first time he wonders if he’ll ever burn through this curse, if the magic the fae had breathed into him would ever be depleted.

When it’s over, there are enough jewels on the ground to keep a man for several lifetimes. The king smiles as he gathers them in his hands, staring down at Geralt’s song like he’s picturing what he can make of it. A crown, perhaps. A throne. Another scepter, grander and richer and sharper.

“Again,” he says. “Higher this time. I want to see if range affects it.”

A sob tears itself from Geralt’s throat. He’s going to die like this. Suffocated by the thing he used to love, by the beauty of his own voice, his songs crushing him from the inside out.

“You can cry later, little songbird,” the king growls. “Don’t waste my time now.”

Songbird. The same teasing nickname that Eskel had given him, all those years ago. It doesn’t belong in this bastard’s mouth, no more than Geralt’s words belong in his hands, but he can’t take any of it back.

He gathers himself. He’s still a witcher, despite everything this man has done to him. He’s still a wolf, still a protector, a warrior, a strong and shining thing. The king can’t take that away from him.

He starts to sing a love song, a fluttery high thing that he used to tease the older witchers with when they started talking about their beloveds. It’s sweeping and triumphant, playful and joyous, but in his shattered throat, it sounds more appropriate for a funeral.

The jewels that pour from his mouth glitter like broken glass, and the king makes an almost disappointed sound as he reaches down to examine them. Then he pauses. Picks up one of the gems with a look of awe. They’re not as big as the rubies and sapphires, but they’re brilliantly cut and polished, and as clear as the cleanest water.

He holds it up to one of the rubies with a shaking hand, and scratches it across the other jewel’s surface.

“Diamond,” he whispered. “The most perfect diamond I’ve ever seen.”

He looks at Geralt, and his face doesn’t look like a human’s anymore. It’s twisted and sharp and glinting with malice, and if Geralt had his swords, he’d raise the silver one against this man.

“Keep singing,” the man orders. “Don’t stop until your voice gives out.”

By the time Geralt is allowed to stop, the diamonds that fall from his mouth are painted red with blood.

***

The king calls him songbirdlike he’s a harmless thing, a pretty, fragile creature trapped in a cage, nice to listen to but with nothing important to say.

“You really ought to look as valuable as you are,” he says one day, when Geralt is past the point of bleeding, emeralds spilled across the floor, his whole body twitching with pain. “Next time, treasure.” Another one of his favorites. Songbird. Treasure. Jewel. Pretty, desirable things. Nothing with agency.

A few days later, he has his servants bring in golden jewelry dripping with Geralt’s words, switching out the heavy iron manacles for diamond-studded ones, pressing a collar dripping with rubies around Geralt’s throat. He holds up a dangling sapphire earring with a wicked grin, and Geralt doesn’t even have a chance to protest before he’s shoving it through his earlobe. He yelps from the sudden shock of it, and a chunk of obsidian falls from his mouth. The king kicks it aside.

“Don’t waste your voice,” he says sternly, picking up the second earring. “Don’t scream unless I want you to. You know the rules, songbird.”

Geralt squeezes his eyes shut as the king pokes a hole in his other earlobe, as he pushes more and more earrings into his skin and cartilage, following the delicate shells of his ears. Anywhere but here, he thinks, as stubby fingers grab at his nose. I’m anywhere but here.

There’s a burst of pain in his septum and his breath stutters in his throat. The king laughs softly, and moves away. Something cool and metallic touches his neck, winds up his arms, slithers smoothly against his ankles. Jewelry or chains or both, his doesn’t know and his doesn’t think it matters. His fingers are forced out of their fists and rings are slid over them. They skip his left ring finger. No need to look like he’s anything so important as someone’s husband.

“Perfect,” the king says when he’s done. “So perfect. Let me show you just how much.”

Geralt opens his eyes and the servants hold up a mirror.

A terrified young man looks back at him. His eyes are wide, red with unshed tears. His face is thin from starvation, his arms and legs bare of muscle. His clothes are practically rags, and were clearly meant for a far larger frame, hanging off his shoulders and slipping off his waist. Their poor condition is a sharp contrast to the fine golden chains draped over his collarbone, the delicate piercings forced into his ears and nose, the jewel studded manacles locked to the heavy wall chains with gold padlocks. The collar pressed flush against his throat makes it clear how the king sees him. An exotic pet.

I’m a witcher, Geralt tells himself, as the king preens over his creation. I’m a witcher. I’m not meant for this.

But as the king blusters away, leaving Geralt shivering in his cell, ears throbbing and collar exacerbating the pain in his throat, he finds it difficult to believe that. Difficult to believe that he’ll ever be able to get out of here.

That’s dangerous thinking. That’s deadly thinking, that’s the kind of thinking that will leave him trapped here for years, missing possible escape attempt after possible escape attempt.

I’m a witcher. I’m a witcher. I’m made for something more.

***

He doesn’t know how long he’s trapped in that tower, singing and bleeding and singing and bleeding, over and over again. He does know there’s a point that he can’t sing the love song anymore, no matter how hard the king presses the scepter into his shoulder. His voice just doesn’t go that high anymore.

It never will again.

Something’s broken in his throat.

The king glares down at him with pursed lips, and fear curls in Geralt’s chest. That’s the look of someone looking down at a disappointing, disposable thing. He doesn’t know what will happen if the king decides he isn’t worth the jewels he speaks. If the novelty of having a broken bird wears off.

***

He starts speaking when the king isn’t there. It’s difficult. Bloody. Awful. His words rasp together like broken bits of rock, and he can feel himself grinding his throat into useless dust. But this is his only chance, and if a broken voice is the price he must pay for freedom, he will gladly make that trade.

***

Whispering makes glass.

The shard in his hand is as dull as if it had spent years in the sea, but he can work with this.

***

He toys with his whispers, changing the words, the tone, the pitch and volume and feeling. Slowly, he makes his words sharper and sharper, settling on a high, thin, furious whisper. The inside of his mouth is bleeding badly by the time he gets a satisfactory result, a knife-sharp shard as long as his finger. He tucks it into his sleeve, positions himself as close to the door as possible, and waits.

***

It’s simple to pounce when the king steps into the room, simple to jam the glass into his carotid artery, simple to extract little golden key from his robes as he chokes to death on his own blood. There’s betrayal in his eyes, when he looks at Geralt, and Geralt laughs, thin and broken, sending amethyst scattering over the king’s twitching body. The isn’t betrayal. The king doesn’t deserve betrayal. That would imply he was treating Geralt with kindness in the first place. It isn’t even revenge, not really. It’s self-defense, a desperate animal clawing its way to freedom.

Geralt never wanted to think of himself as an animal, as the wolf he used to wear around his neck, before he was brought here. He wanted to be a hero, a knight, something out of a fairytale. Something good and strong and pure.

But he isn’t that.

He’s a bird with sharp talons and tattered wings, and he won’t sing for this man ever again.

***

The guards don’t even try to stop him. He must look a fright, with bloody lips and bloodier hands, holding the kings sharp scepter like a sword, jaw set and eyes burning with furious desperation.

Or maybe they just can’t be bothered to capture him. It’s not like the king ever gave them any of his jewels. It’s not like they stand to gain anything by keeping him here.

Either way, he walks out of the castle that he’s spent the past—two years? He thinks?—of his life in on trembling legs, and he doesn’t look back.

***

Word will spread soon that the witcher with a gilded tongue is back in the wild, free for the taking. He needs to kill this curse before that happens.

He makes his way to the nearest town, half delirious with hunger and exhaustion and the stabbing pain in his throat, scrounging for berries as he goes. They taste like summer on his torn tongue, sun-warmed and juicy, washing away the taste of glass and blood. A reminder that he’s free, at least for now.

There’s a mage living in an elegant cottage at the edge of the town, and he stumbles through her door to a yelp of surprise. She puts her hand on his shoulder and leads him inside, her wide purple eyes taking in the thinness of his face, his bloody hands, the collar still glinting around his throat.

“The white-haired witcher,” she breathes in awe. “You’re the jewel-speaker.”

His legs tense, ready to run.

“I thought, when I heard of you, that it was a cruel curse,” she says, brow furrowing. “I can see I was right.”

“Was supposed to be a gift,” he rasps. Three tiny opals clatter to the ground. “Saved a fae.”

“The fae know shit all about gifts,” she says. She reaches up, hands glowing with magic, and pulls the collar off his throat. He swallows reflexively, relishing in the feeling of unconstrained skin.

“Thank you.” An emerald joins the opals.

“Don’t thank me yet. Let’s see if we can return this gift, hmm?”

She rests her hand against his throat and closes her eyes.

“It’s powerful,” she says, her forehead twitching. “I can’t—I can’t get rid of it completely.”

Geralt’s heart sinks. So this is his life forever then? Hiding out in the woods, desperately trying to avoid soldiers sent to hunt him down for his voice. Being forced to sing, and speak, and scream until his voice vanishes for good, until there’s nothing left the world can take from him.

“But,” she continues, pulling him out of his spiral of panic. “I should be able to contain it. It’s—from the shape of the curse, it seems to be most powerful when you sing, right?”

He nods.

“Okay. I should be able to lock it away so that it only triggers when you sing. Is that okay?”

It’s not.

It’s really, really not.

But it’s his only option.

“Yes,” he says. A ruby falls into his hand. It’s the last jewel he’ll ever speak.

***

He doesn’t like to use his gift.

It reminds him too much of a cold stone cell, of bloody diamonds and whips and learning to hone his words sharper, sharper, sharper, until he was carefully coughing up knives. It reminds him of pain and hunger and the cold feeling of golden jewelry against his throat, wrists, ears, as the king gilded him in his own stolen words.

And, listening to his rough, growly voice, unable to reach the same soaring heights that it used to—it reminds him that he’ll never be able to sing without pain again, that this thing he loved for so long has been taken from him, dashed to the ground like a cascade of shattered obsidian.

So he doesn’t sing often, even when he’s alone. He only does it when the pain in his chest gets too much to hold silently, or express with words alone. When that happens, he sings to Roach, low and soft, sad, ancient ballads that tug at his soul in the way only music can.

He takes the jewels and tucks them away in Roach’s saddlebag until they reach the next river, and then he throws his songs into the depths and feels a weight peel off his shoulders.

He doesn’t exist for anyone, anymore. He isn’t a source of riches. He’s just a witcher that likes—no, needs—to sing sometimes.

***

Years pass. His brothers grieve with him, when he finally makes it back to Kaer Morhen. Vesemir gives him a hug that lasts at least an hour. They ask him if he wants to sing, but back off when he shakes his head frantically.

The keep feels a lot quieter, these days.

His life feels a lot quieter, these days.

***

Jaskier reminds him a bit too much of himself. Or himself as he used to be, anyway.

He’s bright and cheery and always, always singing. There’s a song for every occasion, somber ones, delightful ones, inappropriately horny ones. Even idle moments, while he’s gathering berries for their dinner or arranging their campfire or polishing his lute, he’s coming up with little ditties to describe what he’s doing. It’s endearing. It’s sweet.

It’s painful.

He remembers when he did the same, humming to his swords as he cleaned them, idly improvising an ode to a dear carcass, coming up with tunes to remember the ingredients for each of his potions (he still sings those in his head, even now, when he’s been making them for decades. Old habits die hard).

There are long stretches, over the first few years of their friendship, where he aches to send Jaskier away. Get him out of his life. Get rid of the reminder of what it was like to sing, painless and clear-voiced and free.

But, for every way Jaskier is like his younger self, there are so many ways that he is different. His compositions are complex, way more complex than anything Geralt ever came up with, and his skill with a lute leaves Geralt breathless every time he hears it. More than that, he is brash and reckless and demanding, where Geralt has always made himself accept what he is given. Jaskier wants everything from the world, expects everything from the world, greats humanity with a fierce grin and a set jaw and a stubbornness that Geralt finds shocking and awe-inspiring in turn.

After five years with Jaskier, five years of watching him swear at people that treat him and Geralt like they are lesser, five years of letting him talk Geralt into hot, sweet-smelling baths and comfortable sheets and warm clothes, five years of watching him dive headfirst into whatever life throws at him, Geralt thinks he might be in love with him.

Just a little bit.

Maybe a lot.

He really wishes he could still sing that love song.

***

Over the years, the decades, since Geralt’s imprisonment, the story of the jewel-speaker has faded from fact to legend. The story has shifted too, over the years. The protagonist is no longer a witcher, beaten and broken and locked in a tower. Instead, she’s a sweet peasant girl, rewarded for her kindness with the ability to speak flowers and jewels alike, no pain or cruelty mentioned at all. She also has a cruel sister who coughs up snails and frogs. Lambert likes to joke that that’s supposed to be him.

There are quite a few ballads about her, this pretty, happy version of Geralt. They’re jaunty, cheerful tunes, made for entertaining children mostly, and Geralt’s chest aches whenever he hears them. His story, twisted so badly that the jewel-speaker was thankfulfor her gift, helped by it. Never mind the fact that his throat still aches whenever he speaks too much, never mind the fact that he misses singing so badly, never mind the fear that prickles up his spine whenever he sees a shop owner hawking golden jewelry.

The ballads are pretty popular, right up there with the tales of the sleeping princess, and the mermaid princess, and the princess who danced on glass shoes until midnight came. He wonders if any of these heroines are people like him, if any of their stories actually got happy endings. Regardless, they’re well-liked and well-received, so it’s no surprise that Geralt eventually hears Jaskier singing one.

They’ve stopped to camp for the night, and Jaskier is fiddling around with his lute while Geralt sorts out Roach. Jaskier starts plucking out a few opening chords that sends goosebumps prickling over Geralt’s neck, and Geralt fists his hand in Roach’s mane.

It doesn’t mean anything. It’s not personal. Jaskier doesn’t know what this song means to Geralt, because Geralt hasn’t fucking toldhim, even after all these years. Because he’s a thrice-damned coward.

But it still feels like he’s been stabbed, like a piece of glass has gotten caught halfway up his throat and lodged itself there, slicing him to death from the inside.

Jaskier pauses, right after the first chorus. Geralt can feel his eyes burning into the back of his skull.

“Geralt?” he asks. “You okay?”

“Can you play something else?” Geralt says, and hates how weak he sounds.

“Okay,” Jaskier says. “Alright. No problem.”

He starts plucking out Fishmonger’s Daughter and Geralt lets himself relax, lets himself laugh at Jaskier’s exaggerated bleating. It’s okay. He’s okay. He’d asked Jaskier to back off, and he had. Simple as that.

Not for the first time, he finds himself wondering what he did to deserve a friend like Jaskier.

***

The secret comes out eventually. Of course it does. Geralt is a dreadful liar. All it takes is a few songs to Roach, and a saddlebag full of rubies that have not yet been dumped in the river. All it takes is Jaskier coming across them at exactly the wrong time, chattering away about his latest exploits as he walks around Roach’s side with a small bundle of spare clothes.

“So, since Marx obviouslycheated at that competition, I couldn’t let his victory slide, and—”

As engrossed as Geralt is in Jaskier’s ridiculous story, it takes him too long to realize in which bag Jaskier is aiming to deposit his bundle, too long to protest.

“Wait—”

“—so I snuck a live chicken into….his….”

Jaskier trails off, staring into the saddlebag with a dropped jaw.

“Um. Geralt?”

Geralt closes his eyes.

“What are you doing with a royal treasury’s worth of rubies?”

He considers lying. Considers saying it was a contract payment from a very grateful, very rich king. Jaskier’s trade is spreading stories after all, and if this particular one gets around, Geralt’s life will be ruined. Forever. He’ll spend the rest of his days in chains, singing around a shattered throat.

But this is Jaskier. And Geralt knows that, if there’s one thing Jaskier values more than his fame and fortune, it’s his friendships. His friendship with Geralt especially, hard-won and strong as it is. There aren’t many people Geralt could trust with his life. With his freedom. Vesemir, Eskel, Lambert. Yennefer, the one to set him free of this thing in the first place.

And Jaskier.

“I’m throwing them in the nearest river,” he says, truthfully, taking Jaskier’s clothes to put in a different saddlebag.

Jaskier blinks rapidly.

“Why?”

Geralt sighs, and walks back over to his nearly-packed-up campsite. He was just planning on heading out when Jaskier found him.

“Sit down,” he says, settling himself onto a log. Jaskier follows, steps hesitant. “It’s gonna be a long story.”

***

It feels like setting some part of himself free. Some part of himself he never realized was still caged.

***

When the story is over, when Geralt has given up the gift that became a curse, the tower that became a prison, the king that became a corpse, they’re both crying. Sobs hitch from Jaskier’s chest as he reaches for Geralt, his hands trembling.

“Fuck,” he gasps as he tugs Geralt into a hug. “Just…fuck,Geralt, people are the fucking worst.”

“I know,” Geralt laughs weakly.

“I can’t even imagine how hard it was to tell me about that,” Jaskier says. Geralt blinks.

“Wasn’t hard,” he mumbles against Jaskier’s doublet. “I trust you.”

Jaskier tenses in his grip. Geralt feels tears soaking through the fabric of his shirt. He holds Jaskier tighter, closer, letting him shudder and shake against him. Despite himself, a warmth whispers through his chest, a feeling of safety, friendship, love. Jaskier cares about him enough to weep for his long-ago pain.

“I trust you,” he repeats. “There’s no one else I’d rather share this with.”

“Gods,” Jaskier says. “Gods. Thank you, then. Just…thank you.”

Geralt isn’t quite sure what he’s being thanked for.

“You’re welcome,” he says anyway. They cling to each other until Jaskier’s sobs quiet, and then Jaskier pulls back with a watery grin.

“Well,” he says. “There’s monsters to fight and rubies to send to their watery grave. Shall we?”

He doesn’t ask to keep the gems. He doesn’t point out that Geralt could give up the path forever if he wanted, that he’d never need to go hungry again. He doesn’t try to insist that Geralt’s curse is a gift.

The warmth doubles in Geralt’s chest.

“Yeah,” he says with a grin. “We shall.”

***

Two weeks later, they’re sitting around yet another campfire, under yet another grove of trees. Geralt loves nights like this, under the stars, far away from the noise and smells of civilization. Just the two of them.

Jaskier is plucking idly at his lute, but he isn’t singing. His eyes are half-lidded, sleepy. Content.

Geralt thinks of the love song, thinks of how impossibly high it is. Mentally shifts it lower. Lower. Down an octave. He opens his mouth.

For the first time in seventy years, he sings in front of another person.

Jaskier’s fingers stutter on the lute, but he quickly picks his tune back up again, shifting the chords to match Geralt’s voice. His eyes are no longer drooping, but wide open, staring at Geralt with unabashed wonder.

At Geralt. Not at the gems collecting at his feet. He’s watching Geralt. Listening to Geralt’s voice, cracked and raw as it is. A smile spreads across his face, soft and awed, like he’s watching a particularly beautiful sunset.

The last note of the song leaves Geralt’s lips along with a ruby, and Jaskier trails his fingers over the last chord, plucking out the notes one by one, leaving them to shiver in the air. He sets the lute aside and gets to his feet.

“Your voice is beautiful,” he says. “So fucking gorgeous Geralt, I—that was wonderful.”

“It’s not,” Geralt mutters. “It’s all rough and broken and—”

“Warm,” Jaskier says, stepping forward. He kicks aside a sapphire and jumps, looking down in surprise.

“Huh. Forgot that was there.”

A laugh curls in Geralt’s throat. Only Jaskier would forget a priceless treasure beneath his feet to compliment Geralt’s ruined voice.

“Don’t laugh!” Jaskier says, his indignation betrayed by his grin. “It’s easy to forget silly things like that when listening to you sing, it’s all—it’s warm and crackly and rich, like a campfire. Like…like home. It’s beautiful.”

He hesitates, eyes darting back and forth over Geralt’s face.

“You’re beautiful,” he says at last.

Hope whispers through Geralt’s heart. Does he mean….does he want….?

“I love you,” Geralt says, before he can lose his nerve. Jaskier’s breath hitches in his throat.

“I love you too,” he says, voice cracking almost as badly as Geralt’s. “Gods above, I’ve loved you for years.”

He puts his hand on Geralt’s cheek.

“Can I—”

“Yeah,” Geralt says, before he can even finish the question.

And then Jaskier’s lips are on his, gentle, slow, savoring him. Savoring Geralt as a person. Not as a treasure, a jewel, a thing to own.

Geralt closes his eyes and kisses him back.

His voice will never work quite right. There will always be bad days, days where his throat burns and burns and nothing he does can stop it. He’ll never be able to sing like he had before, high and clear and unimpeded.

But Jaskier loves him anyway.

Jaskier grabs a handful of Geralt’s shirt and pulls him backward, towards Jaskier’s bedroll. Geralt goes with him gladly.

They leave the jewels in the dirt.

#geraltwhumpweek #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the witcher #My writing #cw torture #cw death

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sophisticated-creepy · 3 years

Text

Love is Stranger than Fiction by: Melissa Sain

The sound of light giggling filtered through the air, dancing around the ears of the two lovers sharing their intimate moment of soft kisses.

“Don’t panic, but I think we’re being watched,” Lola whispered with a smile against Raphael’s lips.

“How utterly inconvenient,” he whispered his reply, though no malice laced his tone. The giggling intensified once the adults parted lips.

“Moon mama and Mister Knight, sitting in a tree,” came the lilting sing-song voices of children hiding in the forest. “K-I-S-S-I-N-G.” More laughter came as more voices joined in song. Any and all romantic notions now put aside, Lola and Raphael put sufficient distance between each other as they turned towards the forest where a gaggle of small fairy princes and princesses watched in childish wonder at the people trading pleasantries, peeking over the lush shrubbery while giggling behind their small hands.

“Okay, kids, you caught us. Come on out so I can introduce you to Mr. Knight.” Lola summoned the children to her where she knelt down to their level as they came flooding out of the bushes. “Fairy children, this is Sir Raphael the White knight,” Lola introduced. Raphael bowed respectfully towards the sparkling children who all looked up at him with adoring faces filled with wonderment.

“How do you do?” he asked politely. “It is an honor to meet the fairy princes and princesses of the realm.”

“Moon mama, he’s so handsome,” remarked a princess dreamily.

“Are you as brave as Moon mama?” asked a serious prince. “She used stardust on a bad guy,” he informed. “We saw him chase her through the field, and even though she tripped, she sent him away.”

“You must be the Sun,” exclaimed another princess, pointing at the crest of Raphael’s house of the blazing emblem on his chest. “Moon mama told us she had an engagement with the Sun. Was that with you?” The questions poured out of the children like a running faucet, flooding Raphael’s mind with numerous thoughts while trying to entertain their curiosities. He looked to Lola pleadingly for a rescue from the overwhelmingly precious interrogators, but all she did was laugh as his expression, trying to balance her own answers to the children bombarding her with their equally inquisitive searches. Where was the Elven lord when you needed him to corral the children?

“Kids, kids,” Lola laughed, trying to get the little ones to settle. “We would love to answer all your questions. Let’s head into the village where I will tell you the whole story.” As one rousing cluster of joyous screaming, the winged children tore off into the forest, their light laughter echoing behind them filled by hurried entreaties for the Sun and the Moon to follow suit, and not wanting to disappoint the younglings, linked arm in arm and trotted together after the fairies into the shady embrace of the forest.

“You were attacked?” Raphael asked softly as they continued following their fairy guides.

“For lack of a better term, yes, you could say that. It was a scout of Sir Richard’s after I had made my pledge. That’s how I got bandaged up like this,” Lola answered, gesturing to her ankle. Raphael frowned, resentment growing behind his eyes at the thought of a low-level henchman hunting down and chasing his Little Lark, the sting of ire fueling his indignation at the knowledge that the one who ordered the attack was one of his own, a brother in arms, and his scowl deepened. Lola notice his soured disposition, and tried to put his worries to rest.

“I’m fine,” she assured, “and took care of that creep. He won’t be bothering me again any time soon. Well, not for another week at least,” she added as an afterthought.

“One of the children mentioned you used stardust. I was under the impression only the Elven lord could wield such power.”

“Apparently, I can, too. I am of the Moon. Surprised?”

“That explains some of your mysteries,” Raphael chuckled. “And your mischief.”

“It comes with the territory when one has the power to change the narrative,” Lola declared astutely.

“You are changing the narrative? In what way?”

“Well, for one, I’m not supposed to have magic powers, yet, suddenly I find I have them…completely by accident, of course, and two, you are not supposed to be in the Fairy Village, however, here you are.” Upon her declaration, Lola motioned with her arm in a wide sweeping gesture to indicate the compound of the elusive Fairy Village. Raphael took in the scene with eager eyes, for this territory he had never seen before, denied access because of his position as a knight, and now having the opportunity to experience the realm of the forbidden to his heritage, it took all of his self-control not to abandon etiquette and upbringing to go running through the camp like a school child, brimming with the untamed urge to go exploring and find adventure.

The children had already broken from the trees and were scampering around the camp grounds with excited chatter as they swarmed the adults or their parents with the news of their arrival and the bringing with them of their Moon mama and her handsome friend. Pleasant chaos began to spiral in the direction of knight and maiden as the grownups deciphered the fast paced child-speak of the fairy princes and princesses, Lola and Raphael suddenly finding themselves surrounded by the taller folk with embracing hugs, handshakes, claps on the back, and well wishes of congratulations for their triumph of a joust well done. Questions of how the fairy folk knew of their achievements were left unasked as the two were pulled deeper into camp in a flurry of activity, and soon, found themselves seated in a pile of plush cushions and blankets strewn about the earth before the blazing communal fire pit, a full on celebrations of music and dancing underway.

Clearly the guests of honor, Lola and Raphael could only stare at one another in confusion at the overly generous hospitality before both shrugged their shoulders in acceptance, laughed, and relaxed in the company of their magical hosts. Throughout the celebration, minstrels played zesty melodies while the belly dancers gave a performance, acrobats and jugglers demonstrating their skills as well, while the magicians performed tricks for the kids and the fortune tellers helped the non-performers hand out food and drink to each other and to their guests. Intermittently, the people of this enchanting residence would approach the seated couple offering gifts before departing with blessings and well wishes, smiling generously all the while. That was how Raphael and Lola found themselves to be surrounded by bowls of rice, beans, mushrooms, bottles of wine, and some bringing rocks with special carvings on the smooth surfaces. The children, too, bestowed special gifts of their own, being mostly fresh picked wild flowers, some woven into chains for necklaces or garland crowns, the two increasingly looking like a parade float as more of the children showered them with the gathered fragrant flora. Eventually questions could not go unasked, and Raphael leaned in towards Lola, their shoulders touching as she leaned in to match him as he softly asked his question.

“Do you have any idea what’s going on here with all of this festivity?”

“Unfortunately, no, I don’t,” Lola admitted. She thanked a woman who placed another bowl of mushrooms in front of her. “Obviously, it’s a celebration of sorts. Do you think it’s because of the joust?”

“Partly, perhaps,” he replied, also accepting another gift of rice. “But, this seems a tad more extravagant, even for a joust.” A tray of wine and sweetcakes was offered to the couple, and Lola gasped at seeing who the presenter was.

“Modesta!” she shouted with glee. “I have so many questions! Sit, sit, sit!” Lola took the tray away from her friend and frantically patted the cushions next to her as invitation to join them on the blankets. Modesta laughed as she situated herself.

“First thing’s first,” Modesta said as she tucked her legs under her. “Please, introduce me to your friend,” she added with a smile only a best friend who knew all the secrets in the world could wear.

“Modesta, this is Sir Raphael the White knight of the Sun. Raphael, this is Modesta, a soothsayer here at the Renaissance faire as well as my very best friend,” Lola introduced.

“Pleased to meet you,” Raphael spoke, extending his hand.

“Pleasure,” Modesta greeted, accepting the gesture.

“Okay, now that that’s out of the way…Mo, what is going on here? Why the hoopla and festivities?” Lola asked, cutting straight to the point.

“This is a Uniting ceremony,” Modesta answered as she gestured to the celebration merrily taking place.

“What are we uniting?”

“You guys,” Modesta said, pointing to the pair of her friends. Surprised, Lola turned to Raphael, both sharing a wide-eyed look of shock at the information. Modesta laughed and waved her hands to get their attention once more to elaborate. “Not as in marriage,” she clarified, “although, it does mirror one in some respects, thus, the offerings eluding to harvest, abundance, and love. You see, word reached the village of the two of you winning the joust. You, Lola of the Moon intended to you, Raphael, a knight of the Sun. Where both parties are concerned, it is a union much longed for and desired by the magic folk, to be seen and treated as people of equality instead of fear. They see this victory as a step in the right direction of merging the factions, and are honoring this unity with celebration of thanks to the both of you. That’s why some of the magicians are in on the celebration, too.”

“That is, indeed, a vast honor,” Raphael said reverently.

“It’s mainly thanks to you, Lola,” Modesta added.

“Me?” came her startled reply.

“At first, I have been wildly concerned over all of your troublemaking throughout the day, but look at all the good that’s come of you changing the narrative. This would not be happening if not for you and your constant mischief making.”

“I don’t understand,” she lamely admitted.

“Sir Raphael, how many jousts have you won over the course of your career here at the faire?” Modesta asked, trying to illustrate her point to her perplexed friend.

“Many, if not almost all of them,” he replied humbly.

“And how many parties have the fairies thrown for you, let alone people of your own kind?”

“None,” he revealed. “The evening feast is meant for the entire day’s achievements and celebrations, and lacks the heart of the festivities displayed here before us.”

“Do you see now, Lola? Do you see the impact you personally have brought? Sir Raphael has been a champion on multiple occasions, yet he alone has never incited such cause for celebration. The day goes on, life continues. Without you, there would be no hope. Without you, there would be no unity. There wouldn’t be any change.”

Lola blinked several times, carefully absorbing Modesta’s tale and the ramifications she wrought just from her being at the faire. It was an enormous responsibility being the Little Lark, but a title she had grown to honor and accept gratefully the more she watched the celebration continue. If not for her mischief, none of the day’s adventure would have been possible, not her making new friends, or accidentally gaining magic powers, and certainly not finding an impossible love.

“I want to propose a toast,” Lola finally declared, handing out the wineglasses from Modesta’s tray, passing one to Raphael and to the fortune teller. She raised her own glass high, gaining the attention of the closest magic folk as well, who, in turn, also raised glasses of their own as they joined in the toast. “To changing the narrative,” Lola declared. A lusty “Here, here,” filled the clearing, and all who could, drank to the salute.

“Now kiss!” shouted several of the fairy princesses who hovered nearby. That seemed to spark a ripple effect of happy chanting for the two honored guests to share in a display of affection, and not wanting to offend, both Lola and Raphael closed in for a tender kiss as a chorused “aww” and applause filtered through the air around them.

“I like doing that,” Lola informed as they parted, giving him another quick peck on his mouth.

“We should do it more often then,” Raphael agreed, targeting her jawline in similar fashion. The fairy princesses, who remained close, giggled as they watched the two go back and forth with their exchange of quick kisses.

“Maybe when there aren’t so many watching?” Lola suggested. She leaned over Raphael to playfully wave the kids away. “Okay, kids, you’ve had your fill. Go on and pick flowers,” she chastised lightheartedly, to which the young ones scurried off, giggling all the while. “Technically, it’s Jack the loveable court Jester whom we should be thanking,” Lola said as she settled back into the cushions. “He’s the one who offered me a ticket to come to the faire in the first place.”

“The Jester would indeed deserve much of my thanks, then,” Raphael stated, “for if not for him, not only would this not be possible,” he gestured to the party, “but, in turn, neither would I have met you.”

“To the Jester,” Lola toasted, raising her glass again, where the people drank to his good health.

“But let’s not forget who really deserves the utmost thanks for this joyous occasion,” Modesta commented.

“Who else is there?”

“To dandelions,” the soothsayer shouted, raising her glass.

“To dandelions,” shouted the crowd, echoing in laughter and cheer. The drink was good, the food was plenty, and the company most charming as Lola beamed a heavenly smile at the family she had surrounding her. The day was ending perfectly, and nothing shy of an earthquake could possibly ruin this moment of blissful celebration, but as she reached to partake in one of the sweetcakes, the ground beneath her began to tremble. The sensation did not go unnoticed by many, as the minstrels and dancers paused in their performance while the vibrations of the earth intensified, paired with the growing rumble of what sounded like thunder filling the air, before a trio of horsemen burst through the tree line, circling the camp, stirring up dust and mayhem. Those who could, quickly gathered the children and sequestered them into a nearby house for safety, as others openly fled into the forest to hide from the chaos and confusion that so suddenly befell the camp.

Raphael grabbed Lola close to his side as they stood from the blankets and pillows, Modesta near at hand as the trio watched uncertainly as the horsemen began to slow their steeds and position themselves at key entrance points around the fairy courtyard, blocking off the paths of escape for those who couldn’t make it out in time. Soon following the appearance of the horsemen marched a squadron of soldiers carrying shields and lances, leading a single horseman who rode a mammoth of a Clydesdale, trailing behind him a two-steed horse-drawn carriage. The fact that all were wearing green did not go unheeded.

“It’s the sheriff,” Raphael informed as the Clydesdale trotted into the center of the courtyard, the foot soldiers fanning out to corral the people as the carriage held up the rear in the distance. “Those men are Richard’s personal guard. This does not bode well.”

“I have a warrant,” the sheriff stated brashly, holding up a sheaf of parchment. Like his mount, the sheriff was a large, imposing man, stacked with muscle and regalia, a commander of both law and power with a twinkle in his eye that told which he would exert based on the lining of his pockets. Power seemed to be the motivator in this particular case, the law having nothing to do with the disruption of the harmless celebration which had been so rudely interrupted.

“By order of Sir Richard the Green knight, I demand the surrender of the Little Lark, Lola of the Moon, into my care whence we shall henceforth leave peacefully if cooperation is met,” the sheriff announced. “However,” he continued as a lengthy pause lingered in the courtyard from his decree, “if there is resistance, sufficient force will be applied.” A raise of his closed fist signaled the footmen to widen into a combative stance, a clap of metal stinging the air as a lance shaft met shield in a warning din of the type of force the sheriff implied.

“You can’t take our Moon mama!” came a defiant shout from an open window in a hut on the outskirts of the clearing. A fairy princess half leaned out the window, drawing the attention of the sheriff.

“Out of the mouths of babes,” he chuckled. “I’m sorry, little one, but your ‘Moon mama’ has been very naughty, and needs to face the consequences of her actions,” the sheriff admonished. “Bad people get punished, is it not so?”

“Moon mama isn’t bad!” shouted another child, popping up next to the first. “You are!”

“Moon mama, run!” begged a third. The children, thinking they were helping the situation, were only making matters more complicated, unwittingly throwing themselves in danger instead of protecting the person whom they loved.

“Kids, please, don’t fight for me,” Lola called in gentle warning. She knew it was only a matter of time before they did something reckless, and didn’t want the fairies to chance injury, no matter how grave or small on her behalf.

“Ah! There you are, Little Lark,” the sheriff declared upon laying eyes on her. A snap of his fingers and a wave of his hand caused the two-horse carriage to draw forward, Lola noticing the bars slotting the compartment windows, and figured rather perceptively that the hansom was a portable jail cell. “And with Sir Raphael as well, as predicted by Sir Richard. Knight, you will relinquish your betrothed,” the sheriff ordered. Raphael’s arm around Lola’s waist tightened its hold possessively.

“What are the charges Sir Richard has insanely derived to place upon my intended?” Raphael demanded.

“The charges are multiple in offense, of that you may be certain, but of the top most crimes it is the accusation of conspiracy against the king, espionage, and witchcraft, that so demand her immediate capture.” Lola audibly swallowed, hard, at the terms for her arrest, internally declaring that this adventure, in fact, had indeed gotten a whole lot worse.

“Take her to the pirates,” Raphael ordered in a harsh whisper, gently pushing Lola towards her soothsayer companion. “Can you do it?” he asked, eyes sharp as he leveled an earnest glare at Modesta. She nodded, affirming his request, and began taking soft steps backwards towards the tree line, keeping Lola at her back as Raphael stepped around the women, drawing his sword as he approached the upholder of the law.

“Knight, I have orders, and I do not intend to return empty handed,” the sheriff warned ominously as Raphael continued his approach.

“He will not have her,” declared the White knight. Some of the fairy adults and members of the neighboring camp, both men and women, stepped forward with the gleaming knight, silently offering aid to help defend the safekeeping of their Little Lark.

“You are only delaying the inevitable,” the sheriff sighed. “Men,” he barked, “take them.” A gesture of his arm signaled chaos to break loose, shouts of battle song filling the courtyard as the soldiers advanced, swinging lances or brandishing short swords as they rushed headlong against the magic folk, trying to corral or restrain the ones who fought back. As the confusion of battle went underway, Modesta grabbed Lola by the wrist and began running for the tree line.

“This way,” she shouted over her shoulder. “I know a shortcut.”

“But…what about Raphael and the others?” Lola asked, looking back at the brawl behind her. She saw glimpses of her love’s white clad form but had no other clue as to how the knight was faring.

“Lola, we don’t---.” Modesta was cut off from her reply as a soldier leapt in front of the retreating duo, startling the women to a stumbling halt. Quick to action, Modesta threw her hand out in the direction of the soldier. “Fireball!” she shouted, and springing from her hand was a blazing flash of fire, causing the guard to scream, fall down, and roll to the side. Modesta picked back up the route of escaping, dragging a surprised Lola behind her.

“Hold the phone, just a minute,” Lola demanded, sluggish in picking up her feet due to the sudden revelation of her friend magically being able to conjure fireballs out of her palm. “Did you just create fire out of nowhere?!”

“Oh, for the love of all things bright and beautiful, Lola, it’s flash paper,” Modesta gruffly explained, pausing in their sprint. “Most of the magicians and magic folk can use fire. It’s one of our skills. Look,” and she pointed to the courtyard for Lola to take in the scene behind her. True to Modesta’s word, the magic folk were throwing “fireballs” at their attackers, who either fell down or retaliated with a shout of their own, Lola hearing cries of “Block” in due turn, the residents of the village being forced to back down or try again. To her observation, she equated the scene to be that of a frenzied larping battle, a live action role play of dungeons and dragons come to life in the setting of dirt and glitter, which sparked an idea to mind as Lola watched the tussle.

“We can fight, too,” she declared, rummaging in her satchel and retrieving her vial of stardust.

“No, we can’t,” Modesta corrected. “I only have a small allotment of flash paper, and once I’m out, it’s over. I’m taking you to the pirates like Raphael asked. You’ll be safe there.” Turning once more to the forest to flee into the leafy coverings, another guard was upon them.

“Fireball!” was the fortune teller’s shout.

“Block!” returned the soldier, who raised his shield, and much to Lola’s chagrin, refused to scream and fall down. Modesta, growling in frustration, took a step back as the soldier advanced. Soon, a second guard approached, then a third, circling around the two women like sharks, shields raised in order to block from Modesta’s fireballs. Lola poured glitter into her palm, readying to let the stardust fly, but the Green knight’s words from their swordfight on the jousting field came hauntingly back to recollection as she noted the metal shine of the soldiers’ shields. Her stardust would be completely useless, her mark ineffective against the surly guards.

“Got any ideas?” Modesta asked. Before Lola could answer, she watched as the guard in front of her, who was slowly approaching, stiffen sharply in place, his eyes wide in shock, before dropping to the ground, the guard next to him following suit, collapsing soon after the first. Lola and Modesta looked at each other, confused by the falling men, when Lola noticed the large explosive pattern of glitter covering the backs of the soldiers’ tunics, spreading outward from between the shoulder blades. The third soldier, trembling fearfully, cast a worried look into the forest.

“The-the Elven lord,” he shook. Stepping elegantly out of the shadows of brush and trees was the heavenly being of the Moon, the protective guardian swathed in midnight purple, his white-silver hair glistening in the sunlight. Upon seeing the famed lord of mystical power, the guard turned on his heel, running into the courtyard, all the while shouting, “The Elven lord! The Elven lord!” His mistake was turning his back, for Lola reared her arm and threw her fist full of glitter at the man’s retreating form, hitting him square on the backside, causing him to yelp before collapsing, marked by stardust. The guard’s shouting, unfortunately, drew all the unwanted attention of the sheriff and the soldiers, some retreating fearfully, others holding their ground with reinforced determination at the sight of the ethereal lord.

“Backup has arrived! Let’s go kick some butt,” Lola happily declared, stepping forward, her tiny vial of stardust at the ready. A firm hand on her shoulder halted her attempt to charge into battle, and confused by this development of inaction, looked up into the face of the Elven lord whose solid hand it was that stayed her.

“Do not sacrifice yourself,” he smoothly spoke. “The way is clear behind me. Go.” As he gave his orders, he stepped further into the clearing, his presence alone intimidating most of the cautious guard to fall back behind the stature of the Clydesdale and its rider. Once more, Modesta took hold of Lola’s wrist and the two disappeared into the forest, Lola catching Raphael’s eye one last time before fading into shadows. The sounds of fighting returned, growing muted the further the two pressed on into the forest.

“Answer me this,” Lola began, ducking under low hanging branches as they ran. “How come your fireball attack only works half of the time?” A particularly gnarly shrub tore at her skirts and legs, Modesta, on the other hand, glided through the forestry of snagging branches unscathed, like the woods were a second home, she being part nymph, knowing every nick, cut, and turn of the wild-growing nature.

“You have to catch your opponent by surprise,” Modesta answered, leaping over a tree root. “If they ‘block’ your attack, it’s pretty much game over, being harder to catch them unawares.”

“Makes sense,” Lola said, jumping one tree root only to clip a toe on another. “Metal can’t be marked by stardust,” she informed, wincing from a scratch against her arm. They continued on, Lola following closely behind Modesta’s lead. Shouts echoed in the space behind them, the rustling and crunching of brush steadily growing in volume, the sound of horses’ hooves thundering over the hardened ground. To the fleeing duo’s advantage, the horses of their pursuers appeared to stick to the man-made trails of the forest while the women on foot continued to navigate the unconventional routes of twigs and leaves, having the ability to disappear between the shadows of the trees with the hope of losing the persistently prowling horsemen. Unfortunately, the trees were beginning to thin out, and soon, their covering would be no more, forcing them into the open, exposed and vulnerable in this relentless pursuit.

Having to take that chance, the two barreled on, leaping out into the opening near the outskirts of the boundaries of the magically gifted, only to surprise two guards who were deeply preoccupied in their own conversation to recognize the sudden appearance of the escaping women, unable to respond fast enough to defend being attacked, one with a fireball, the other with an explosion of shimmering glitter dust, cursing sharply as they fell to the ground. Their victory, however small, was short-lived, for as they incapacitated the unsuspecting guardsmen, the sheriff and one of the three horsemen came bolting out of the forest into the middle of the kerfuffle, their impromptu appearance startling the camp itself and its patrons. The second in command spotted the winded women, pointing in their direction with a shout, the sheriff quick to lock eyes on his target before prodding his horse into a hard gallop, crashing unheedingly through the camp, determined to catch his slippery fugitive.

“Get to the pirates,” Modesta ordered, pushing Lola in the direction of the waterfront.

“What about you?” Lola asked, hesitating by her friend’s side despite the advancing sheriff.

“I’ll keep them distracted as long as I can, now don’t ask questions, just go!” With that, Modesta turned from Lola and raced head on towards the advancing horses, throwing fireballs at unsuspecting guards who came slinking out of the forest, taking them out one by one. Thankfully, Modesta wasn’t alone in her battle as some of the magicians still in the camp helped pick up the fight, throwing fireballs of their own to fell the invading foot soldiers. Modesta was able to get the man on horseback who was unable to block in time, the rider tumbling from his saddle and hitting the ground hard.

“Lola, run!” Modesta shouted, noticing her friend still standing in the same spot she had left her, acting like a stick in the mud, mesmerized at what was transpiring in the space surrounded by tents and glitter. Snapping to it, Lola turned and renewed her sprint towards the direction of the marina, casting a glance over her shoulder at the rapidly gaining sheriff who managed to evade the scrape of soldiers and mages, his powerful horse, despite its girth, incredibly agile in maneuvering around the tight spaces. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, pushing her tired body and aching lungs onwards to the only sanctuary left to her, fear keeping her senses spiked to the sound of the great mare snuffling behind her as the beast of burden closed the distance to the retreating Lark.

Lola was not without her own obstacles, as innocent bystanders meandering at their leisure amongst the fairgrounds had yet to realize the pursued woman bolting through them, only having a few seconds to leap out of the way due to warning shouts before being run down by either woman or horse. The path she took soon led her into another lightly wooded area of the property, the downward slope directing her towards the lake, and the place that would give her succor, the pirate ship of musical mariners. Hope swelling within her breast, Lola’s pace managed to quicken as she found the path leading to the stage of her nautical friends, who, as luck would have it, were in the middle of a lively performance of song and dance.

“Captain!” Lola shouted, her voice mixed with glee and desperation, her throat raw from her marathon across a large portion of the fairgrounds. “Captain! Please help!” Her shouts had the three players on deck take pause, as they watched as careening clumsily down the central aisle of their theatre was the Little Lark, and not far behind her, the sheriff. The audience gasped or broke out into startled exclamations as they saw Lola race up the gangplank and throw herself into the arms of the pirate captain.

“Little Lark?” he asked, confused by the woman he suddenly held. Exhausted, Lola nearly fell to the deck, dragging the increasingly worried captain down with her as she gasped for breath to soothe her burning lungs.

“The sheriff…after me…,” she panted. “Raphael…Fairy Village…trouble.” The other minstrels gathered close as Lola continued to incoherently explain her predicament, when a giant horse leapt from the middle of the audience to land heavily upon the main deck, his front legs kicking threateningly into the air as the animal reared back on his hind legs. Most of the audience fled at the sight, others too enrapt at the scene of chaos taking over the otherwise pleasant shanties.

“Surrender, Little Lark,” demanded the sheriff from on top his high horse. “Stand down, pirates!” Abandoning their instruments, the three musicians stood as a barrier between the horse and their half collapsed friend who still fearfully clung to the sleeves of the captain. They tried to grab the reins or bridle of the horse to control the frothing beast while mindful of the powerful legs still kicking wildly as the captain quickly pulled Lola with him into the captain’s quarters, shutting the heavy door with a fearsome crash, jamming a key from his pocket into the lock. The small cabin was little more than a breakroom for the pirates, the contents of their lunch still left out from in between performances. Turning to her, he saw the Little Lark hunched over, hands on her knees, gasping for air, flushed, disheveled, bandaged, and bleeding from multiple cuts and scrapes along her arms and legs.

“Little Lark, what---?”

“Water,” she panted, cutting him off. “Please?” She looked to the pirate captain pleadingly, unable to say more. Nodding, the captain got a water bottle from a cooler, cracking the lid as he passed it to her. She couldn’t even thank him as she gulped the liquid down.

“Easy, easy,” the captain cautioned. “Don’t make yerself sick, now. What in Neptune’s treasure has happened, Little Lark? Didn’t ye make yer pledge?” Lola nodded, still trying to catch her breath, wiping the back of her hand across her now freshly moistened lips and chin. “Were ye accepted?” Another nod from her as breath began to steadily return. “Who was it ye pledged to?”

“White…knight,” Lola exhaled before sucking down more water.

“And, the Elven lord?” Lola pointed to the pendant at her neck. “Ye be of the Moon?” he asked in awe. Again, an affirmative shake of her head. “Then, what be the sheriff all about?”

“Green knight,” Lola spat.

“Ah.”

“I’m wanted for conspiracy, espionage, and witchcraft.”

“Preposterous!”

“Ha! You don’t need to tell me,” Lola bitterly laughed.

“Captain! Captain, the sheriff’s backup is arriving,” came a frantic warning from the other side of the door.

“I can’t stay,” she whispered, deflating. “I have to go. I can’t put you in danger either.”

“Where will ye go?”

“Home,” she replied, looking to all the world like a beloved pet had just gotten hit by a bus. The two could only stare at each other, the sounds of swords clashing in the background increasing as backup seemed to arrive. “I’m sorry.”

“Ye need not apologize, Little Lark. Go through the window, ye can make a break for it from there.” A heavy beating on the door caused Lola to jump, the intense thrashing reverberating throughout the tiny compartment of the captain’s quarters.

“By order of Sir Richard, I demand you open this door at once,” came a gruff shout. Lola’s eyes began to water, presuming that the only reason a demand like that would be made was because her friends had been overpowered.

“No tears,” the captain spoke kindly. “Take heart. To the window, now, be gone with ye.” Lola nodded, brushing at her eyes, and went to the window at the back of the cabin where the captain instructed her to escape. Again, a hard pounding at the door was made, rattling its hinges.

“Open the door, I say!”

“Not by the hairs on me chinny chin, chin,” the captain quipped. Lola slid the window open, looking down at the drop beneath her. If she hung from the ledge before letting go, she estimated it would only be a three-foot freefall into the lake water below her, the tide having risen to help cushion her drop onto the shore. Gathering her courage and forcing her tired limbs to cooperate, Lola lifted herself up and over the window ledge, dangling precariously before dropping to the waters below. As she hit the water, the cabin door was thrust aside, being smashed in from the weakened lock, the captain darting out of the way to avoid impact with the swinging object. Three soldiers rushed in, one keeping the captain at bay, the other two searching for their intended captive.

“Where is she?” demanded the guard watching over the captain.

“Search me,” was the pirate’s reply as he shrugged his shoulders. The others came up empty, discouraged when they couldn’t immediately find their target, and turned to leave the cabin, thrusting the captain our forcibly before them to join the rest of his subdued crew members. The sheriff’s horse was still on the main deck, restlessly scraping at the stage with an eager hoof for action, a three person guard surrounding the musical buccaneers.

“You are only putting yourselves in trouble by aiding her,” the sheriff spoke as the sea captain stood with his crew.

“Not the way I see it,” firmly replied the captain. Somewhere, in what was left of the audience, a child began laughing, and pointed towards the stern of the stage.

“Look, mommy! A swamp monster!” Trudging in the mud of the shoreline, clung in seagrass, skirts soaked up to her thighs was Lola, the fall from the window being a tad steeper than she imagined, squishing and slogging onto solid ground from the slick mud that generously filled her shoes. She, too, heard the child’s laugh and saw him pointing in her direction, soon after, gaining the attention of the whole audience plus the irritated scowl of the sheriff. Openly cursing towards the sky, Lola lifted her waterlogged skirts away from her legs as best she could and began sprinting down the shore, fleeing to the Markers’ Market. She didn’t need to look behind her to know the sheriff’s horse had leapt from the stage to give chase, the sounds of cries and shouts for her to run filling her ears, as if she needed their encouragement.

Like a wounded rabbit, she picked her way through the water’s edge, haphazardly flailing past the games of sport and shouldering her way through the dense crowds of the Markers’ Market, seeing the bridge to the main entrance within her sights, thanking the high heavens the clusters of fairgoers were hindering the sheriff from dangerously tearing through the market, giving her the chance to put some much needed distance between herself and her relentless tormentor.

The bridge to freedom loomed ahead, and if she should cross it, then she could put this whole mishap of an adventure behind her, for the way was clear, not a guard or patron stood against her, yet suddenly, Lola stopped running, skidding to a halt before the main entrance. She stood in place, stark still, a concerned crease between her eyebrows forming to match the pout pulling down the corners of her mouth. Her mind screamed to continue running, her instincts begging her to cross the bridge and never look back, and she took a step forward unconsciously in reply, but her heart, on the other hand, said wait. What lay before her should she cross the bridge? A parking lot? Was she to simply hang around for Modesta to come waltzing out of the faire in a few hours, unlock the car, and drive her home, have a good sleep, see you in the morning, welcome back to monotony as if nothing had happened? That felt rather incomplete, cheap, robbing herself and everyone else of a proper outcome of this new narrative.

So many lives were affected by her recent actions, like those of the pirates to begin with, and the Elven lord, even Modesta, too, but she most heart wrenchingly thought of Raphael. Could she leave him? Could she ever look herself in a mirror honestly again knowing she had turned her back on him? Lola made up her mind---she wouldn’t keep running. The scuffling of a horse had her turning to face the sheriff as he eased up on his charge, pulling on the reins to command the beast to slow its pace into a trot before coming to a complete stop before the proud Little Lark.

“You are not running,” the sheriff stated, confusion leveling his eyebrows as he observed her.

“I am not.”

“Why?” Lola held out her arms to the sheriff, offering no resistance in her gesture as she nonverbally surrendered herself to him. Seeing her action, he continued to stare apprehensively at her. “You know I have no power whatsoever outside the boundaries of the faire. If you cross that bridge, I can’t stop you.”

“I know,” Lola said, her voice even and strong, arms still held out to him. The sheriff dismounted, carefully approaching Lola in steady strides.

“No tricks?” he asked, wary of her sudden turn of acceptance to her arrest despite literally having been chased down.

“None,” Lola confirmed, smiling reassuringly. Reaching towards his belt, the sheriff produced a set of clunky metal manacles, and upon standing fully in front of her, set the linked cuffs about her wrists, the bands clicking solidly into place. He then gently guided the complying lady towards the towering Clydesdale, where he lifted her up to the saddle, he himself positioning behind her, and with a firm flick of the reins and clicking of his tongue, the two began their silent journey towards the armory.

*~*~*

Author’s Notes:

Whew! Thanks for being so patient with me, everyone! Sorry I fell a little behind schedule there for a moment, but I should be back to posting normally on Thursdays again going forward. We’re almost at the finish line, and I’m so thrilled with how this adventure is going! Next chapter won’t be as lengthy, I promise!

Much love to everyone out there! Thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading! Leave a like and/or comment! Thanks again!

~Melissa

#renaissance faire #short story #fantasy #adventure #larping #romance #magic #love #joy #fiction #knightandmaiden #sword fighting #fairies #knight in shining armor #amwriting

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sweetsunflora · 4 years

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“The only way that we can live, is if we grow. The only way that we can grow is if we change. The only way that we can change is if we learn. The only way we can learn is if we are exposed. And the only way that we can become exposed is if we throw ourselves out into the open. Do it. Throw yourself.” ― C. JoyBell C.

0 years old / June 20, 1823 :

Emma-Rose is born to Carter Hartfield ( the only heir to Hartfield Trading Co. ) and Josephina Flores in Manila, Philippines.

She is born lucky ( on a sugar plantation mansion belonging to her father’s family ) and loved ( with all the affections and devotion of two parents who adored each other and her ).

3 years old / 1826 :

Children of other plantation owners are being kidnapped and held for ransom. Worrying for the safety of their only child, Emma-Rose is taken to France to live a safer and better life. Only her father accompanies her as her mother is expressly forbidden by Elias Hartfield—the reining patriarch and her paternal grandfather.

3-17 years old / 1826-1840:

With one hand firmly grasping her father’s, she arrives in France—afraid and with minimal knowledge of French.

She is sent to live on a lesser Hartfield estate just outside of Paris. And despite Elias’ extreme distaste of his grandchild, she is given an education like any other male successor would be. Tutors and professors are brought in to educate her in all areas of art, literature, science, and mathematics. And she takes to it quickly and hungrily. She learns piano and singing. She studies classical art and painting. She pours over philosophical works and rhetoric. She fascinates over natural history and the study of flora. There is never a moment where she does not have ink on her sleeves or a book in her hand.

Eventually, at only 15 years old, she discovers Naturalism. It marries so much of her loves together that it is only natural for her to be hooked instantly.

For a time, she has almost everything for a happy life: a passion to live for, a comfortable home, and close friendships ( Albeit with only two people. But do you really need any more than that? ).

The only blemish in her paradise is her grandfather, whose indignant disapproval persists even into young adulthood. She can be an artistic talent and an academic prodigy but in his eyes, she is forever affixed as the ‘filthy child’. The half-Oriental bastard who holds his legacy hostage.

It should embitter her. And it does. ( What has she ever done to him besides exist? ) But Carter pleads with his daughter to instead turn the other cheek. To meet Elias’ racism and bigotry with grace and forgiveness. If she can love crawling, creeping, insects and slimy slugs surely she can love her own grandfather.

So her anger morphs into ambition. If she cannot spit his poison back in his face, she will ingest it, purify it, and make it fuel.

She will make herself undeniable—the best heir he could have ever imagined. Intelligent, accomplished, kind, graceful. She may even push herself to be bold, even if it is wholly against her nature.

But she knows this for certain. She will garner his praise, even if it is against his will.

18 years old / July 1841 :

Her first encounter with tragedy occurs as the death of a dear friend.

Quentin Ross: A prolific painter who was so often the life of the party. He was born into old money but he never sneered at her less than perfect pedigree. He saw her for so much more than that. He had always felt restless for most of his life but when he met her…it was if the world settled to a comfortable and happy stillness. ( She had that affect on most of the people she was close to. ) And whenever Emma was fearing that her life ( and her in turn ) was becoming too boring, too simple, too meaningless, Quentin would spin her around and make her dance with him. He was enthusiasm and joy personified. He loved life to the point of fearlessness.

When he is arrested and jailed for sodomy, she quickly makes plans to get him out. However, she is foiled when Elias hears of her association with the newly disgraced painter. She hurries to work around this new obstacle, but all too soon, her plans lose their purpose. Quentin dies in jail and grief renders her inconsolable for weeks.

She crawls into herself deeper, reaching for her work as distraction. She uses it as a reminder of all the beauty that is still left in the world, even if that world is now without him.

18 years old / December 1841:

Despite being in pain, the months following his death are quite productive for her academic career. Naturalism is the only thing that she does not lose desire for. Instead, she finds a renewed hope in it. Quentin’s beauty is gone but perhaps she can preserve the rest of the world in her writing. The universe seems to pity her and— in exchange for her suffering—is rewarded with a few notable publications of her work.

Still, she does not escape the unexplainable effects of grief. Losing a loved one, it changes your insides and turns you unrecognizable. It makes you half-crazed with loss, urging you to actions you never dared to do before.

When she hears of a scientific exploration set to embark into the China Sea and Indian Ocean, she knows—deep in her soul—that she cannot let the opportunity pass. Or more accurately, the opportunity will not let her pass. The idea of discovery grips her, possesses her.

In an act of pure rebellion, she boards La Favorite with no permission from her family.

18-20 years old / December 1841- January 1844:

It is a reckless thing, to join an expedition on a whim. It doesn’t even occur to her that her safety is not guaranteed. However, whatever higher being that exists seems to smile down on her. The expedition is blessed with minimal conflicts and good sailing conditions for most of the trip. On this endeavor, she works under the tutelage of another more seasoned naturalist and she learns a great deal from them. Being away from France, from the place of her grief, seems to heal her. And the open salt air and new locations, gives her the drink of freedom she never even knew she wanted. Once again, she is a blooming sunflower. She finds even more importance in being a kind and gentle force in the world.

There is already so much pain in existence. Why add to it?

20 years old / February 1844:

All dreams, no matter how good, must end. She returns to Paris to meet the ire of her father and, more significantly, her grandfather. She had left with only a letter, telling them vague details of the expedition as so to keep them from thwarting her plans once again.

She knows she will meet some sort of punishment, but she underestimates her grandfather’s anger.

Marriage to Louis François Barbineaux. A man she doesn’t know. A widower in search of a new wife to act as mother for his four young children.

Elias holds the threat over her head like a guillotine.

Marriage would be the end of her and he knows it. Her freedom, her work, her accomplishments, her birthright and inheritances, would all fall into her husband’s possession. She would turn into nothing once again.

With haste, she finds it in herself to propose a deal. If they want her to go down the aisle, they will have to drag her—kicking and screaming. She will disgrace their good name to all of France if she must. Or they can allow her one more expedition. One that is mutually beneficial.

She has heard of the Agathe—which is set to sail into the Arctic to find a passage to China. It would give Hartfield Trading a great advantage to know of such a thing, she claims. And when I return, I will gladly and calmly marry whoever you choose. Just let me have this last one.

In truth, she has little care for trade routes. The Arctic is unexplored, ripe for a naturalist to discover. If she could get there first, her name would go down in history. With the uniqueness of her research, a publication of this content wouldn’t just make her famous. It would make her rich. Rich enough to leave her family’s control and live her life as she wishes.

With her father’s convincing, Elias allows Emma-Rose her deal.

21 years old / March 1845:

She sets sail once again. On her first expedition, she was running away from grief. Now, she is sailing towards freedom. Hope courses through her and she truly believes that all her dreams will come true in the tundra.

22 years old / June 20, 1845:

Her birthday is a joyous occasion as she celebrates with found friends on the Agathe.

22 years old / June 21, 1845:

The universe delivers the worst birthday present ever.

#tw death #tw death of a loved one #this is truely here for MY OWN SAKE #because i was going crazy #but anyways #if you read it i hope you enjoy #history #-- ( all roads have lead here : history )#this doesnt change ANYTHING about her personality or how she acts #still quiet #still shy as fuck #still a romantic #but now we know how and whyyyyyy

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kondo-hijikata · 4 years

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Relationship: Kondo/Hijikata Rating: T Summary: Kondo has been promoted to hatamoto status, and the Shinsengumi members are at last recognized as true samurai by the Tokugawa regime. Such impossible achievements didn't come easy, but Hijikata isn't worried about that at all. This story was heavily influenced by the Shinsengumi! Taiga drama. [AO3]

.*Out of Love*.

A warm breeze of triumph whispered through trees dusted in pink, their delicate petals pulled from dainty branches and sent on a downward drift to meticulously maintained castle grounds. The shoji had been open since morning, inviting the height of spring into a great room of golden tatami and elegant decoration befitting the Aizu lord—who sat proud and tall before two loyal servants bowing their heads in his grace.

“Kondo.” The Shinsengumi Commander’s chin lifted at the sound of his name, finding the genial smile that pulled at Matsudaira’s lips as he nodded. “Open it.”

“Ha.” Reaching for the pearly scroll which rested in formal presentation in front of him, Kondo carefully unfurled a message written in sweeping ornate penmanship, and the deep breath which followed was all he could manage to keep his composure.

“His Highness Tokugawa recognizes your irreplaceable devotion to his great cause, Kondo.”

Slowly, Kondo’s eyes rose from the parchment he now gripped tightly, his heart beginning to pound the ribcage enclosing it. The scroll was neatly returned to its original rolled state, and he bowed his head deeply while blinking back the emotion threatening to swallow him whole. “I humbly express my sincerest gratitude for this undeserved recognition. There is no greater honor than serving the Gokogi.”

Matsudaira’s gaze was soft and pleasant as he regarded Kondo, and behind him Hijikata, each with their foreheads remaining lowered. “You have done well.”

The outer castle corridors were comprised of dark fragrant wood, forever polished by the frequency in which they saw cleaning. Socked feet glided fast along the smooth floors, until Kondo suddenly stopped and turned to the sprawling stretch of plant life and silver rock that extended far to high ivory walls. Following suit, Hijikata joined him in this pause, and both remained side-by-side in a fragile state of silence. The brimming excitement practically begged to be voiced, else each risked the heart detonating in his chest. Alas, the setting didn’t match, and all that could be done was attempt swallowing the visceral desires to scream joy into the heavens and flail about like they were back in Tama.

Water trickled in the distance, filling a bamboo pipe until it upended and tapped a stone with a single stark clank. Invited by this break in quietude, Hijikata pushed his chest out with a deep breath and ventured one word. “Kyokucho.”

Kondo’s gaze drifted to him, their eyes meeting and conveying more than spoken language ever could in this perfect moment of long-sought victory. He exhaled in an overly controlled manner and tipped his head. “Fukucho.”

“…We did it.”

Kondo squared his shoulders and peered back out to the cascading foliage. “…Yes.”

“We’re finally samurai…” A pause, the emotion welling. “In spirit and in name.”

A large hand raised to press to the parchment secured in ceremonial kimono confines. “Yes.” It wasn’t long before Kondo turned his head, the exhilaration that had been coursing through his veins like wildfire reaching a critical point where drowning it even a second further was insufferable. “Toshi.”

Hijikata’s grin widened at his name, his lashes parting a little more. And that was all it took.

Breath expelled from Kondo’s lungs as they simultaneously lunged forward in the privacy of this stretch of porch, their arms thrown about each other in a tight embrace, while each man’s jubilant laughter fell muted against his companion’s haori-clad shoulder.

“Kat-chan!” Open palms pressed tightly to his back, fingertips flexing inward with possession.

Kondo withdrew only far enough to take Hijikata’s biceps firm in his grasp and, the perfect portrait of absolute bliss, gave his second in command a stiff shake. “Toshi, we did it!”

Hijikata wore his own elation just as openly, his gaze prideful and vehement when a tremble shook his body. He leaned his forehead in, his teeth clenching and through them, he grated out, “Samurai!”

“Let’s get back. We’ll—” Kondo’s features somehow brightened even further and his spine straightened in sudden consideration. “We’ll have a big dinner tonight, no cost spared. Ne?”

With his lashes falling, Hijikata huffed a laugh. If this were any other time, he might suggest restraint; despite that the treasury certainly had the money for an extensive celebration, they were both country men with roots deep in frugality and had arrived in Kyoto possessing little more than the swords on their hips. But here they stood now, samurai—true, Tokugawa-recognized samurai!—openly embracing on Matsudaira-ko’s property with nothing other than auspicious days ahead. Kondo’s influence would only increase, the wealth would flow in faster, and the Shinsengumi’s fame would ripple resoundingly over a land deeply divided.

His eyes opened and all he could do was dip his chin in agreement to dinner—extravagant, yes, but more than deserved. “Mm.”

Kondo held to Hijikata’s arms for a little longer before he at last nodded again in return, wide eyes and grin never fading. “Toshi! Let’s get going!”

As they quickly made their way out of the castle presented to Matsudaira by Tokugawa’s own graces, Hijikata never thought he’d see a happier day in his life. Once on the road, he peered back at the impressive structure for a moment of reflection as petals fell lazily in the wind, his thoughts taking him back to a time when meeting with the Aizu lord was nothing but a distant dream. Eyes closing, a tiny satisfied smile gracing him.

"Toshi."

"Aa." His lashes parted again to find Kondo, the most central and important piece of everything. Hijikata's gaze softened further. "Coming."

Sake flowed like rivers and the platters of food seemed endless over joyous celebration in the ranks. Harada’s stomach was painted, his failed seppuku scar a perfect mouth for the ridiculous face Nagakura had drawn, and he belly-danced while soldiers laughed, eating and drinking their fill late into the night.

Far away from the drunken singing and raucous, Kondo sat on the porch before his room with Hijikata at his side, a large near-empty bottle sitting behind them on a circular tray.

Pink flush had long made its way across Hijikata’s cheeks, and from the way he was feeling, Kondo wagered his own didn’t look much different. He pressed the sakazuke cup to his mouth and tilted his head back with a gulp, then exhaled loudly.

“Mm, Kat-chan.” Not missing a beat, Hijikata reached for the sake and held it out. “Here.”

The throaty laugh that left Kondo was accompanied by raising his cup yet again. “Tryin’ to get me drunk, Toshi?”

A snort followed and Hijikata’s voice was airy. “Reminder that this was your idea.” The purr that followed emanated deep from within his chest. “…Kyokucho.” He tilted the bottle until the last drop poured out, and set it back down out of the way.

“Right.” Kondo’s chin raised and he swallowed it all in one go, owning up to the responsibility.

“’Taku…” Though it was a complaint, Hijikata wore a grin. He sipped from his cup and let his lashes fall as insects sang in the garden and fireflies sparkled amongst moonlit leaves.

Kondo’s lips pulled into a soft smile as well and he treated himself to a deep inhale through his nose. The nights were growing warmer, similar to how the future had been becoming more and more bright while days passed and seasons changed. They’d made it through a long and grueling winter, scraping by for every bit of respect and renown to be earned here in the west. Then came a cool spring that turned warm with the Ikedaya incident, and finally, the verge of a scorching summer loomed, in which gold would rain down instead of sunlight.

To be sitting on the porch of Nishi Honganji at this time with a plethora of trust and wealth encompassing them, with weight to their names and sanctified status as real samurai… Kondo breathed out into the clear night and let his spine relax. It was the furthest cry from the ages he’d spent at his childhood home in Kamiishihara, listening to the stories his father told of Kanko and other great heroes who had gone out to do the unbelievable. How he’d wanted to be like them, and how he’d dreamed.

But farmers becoming samurai were just as remarkable, weren’t they? And the Shinsengumi, itself… A group marred by disorganization in its early days and looked down the nose by everyone around them, growing into a force this powerful was simply unheard of in these times. Transcending classes was an absurd notion. Commoners didn’t pull weight. Men of the land didn’t have the ear of Matsudaira-ko, or the recognition of the Tokugawa regime. Yet, Kondo did and the group of men he led commanded respect and recognition.

How could any of this possibly be real?

He already knew the answer without searching...had known it for the longest time.

Kondo found Hijikata at that, watching while his second in command rocked gently in place with his eyes still closed, a small grin still worn across his features.

“Toshi…” he whispered.

“Ain’t gonna be long now,” Hijikata sighed out, the corners of his lips twitching a little further into his cheeks. One set of lashes parted and he peered over. “First, a hatamoto. Next, a daimyo. Soon.”

“Toshi…it’s enough.”

“Hey.” The soft and breathy voice turned serious, and Hijikata looked at him pointedly. “I promised you daimyo status, Kat-chan.” His palm hit the porch to drive his sincerity home. “We’re not stopping at you being a hatamoto. Don’t even start.”

Kondo’s hand raised and he pressed fingertips to Hijikata’s mouth. Once he quieted, it moved to cup his cheek, the thumb grazing gently across and he barely squinted. “But at what cost?”

The shoulders of his vice commander inched up into a dismissive shrug. “Anything at all.” He shook his head then. “Whatever it takes, Kat-chan, whatever the cost.” Signaling the end of the discussion, Hijikata finished his sake and placed his cup on the tray.

Whatever it took, whatever the cost…? The burdens of Serizawa, the weight of command… the five tenets and enforcing them, even if it meant seppuku—even if it meant shouldering all of the blame and resentment… The hard decisions, the dedication, the forcing of his hand with torture and threats, the hours upon hours of work… All this, just to be satisfied with existing in someone else’s shadow…

Hijikata picked up on the silent thoughtfulness and his brow furrowed. “What—?”

That question he’d started was interrupted by Kondo’s lips meeting his softly, palms rising to cup his cheeks. The kiss deepened and their tongues met as Hijikata grabbed hold of him, and then by either no one’s or everyone’s fault, both tumbled to the porch floor.

Kondo’s face hit gently against Hijikata’s chest on the impact, his arms immediately wrapping around his middle in a tight embrace. The hands that had landed on his shoulder linked fingers behind his neck and ran up and down in short stroking motions.

“Toshi…” An exhale. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

With his eyes closing, Kondo exhaled. Of course that would be the reply, when he felt he could never express the gratitude he felt enough. “For everything.”

Hijikata’s voice rumbled softly over the steady thumping of his heartbeat. “There’s nothing—” A hiccup. “Nothing to thank me for, Kat-chan.”

Kondo shook his head against the purple-clad breast and braced against the porch, pushing himself up and then forward so that his nose nearly touched Hijikata’s. He stroked a burning cheek, wound a finger through a long black lock…and simply relented. His vice commander couldn’t be reasoned with on this subject when he was sober, and now that he had sake in him—now that they both did…

“We’ll keep going, Toshi,” Kondo murmured, his lashes falling halfway as he gazed into amethyst eyes rife with reverence. He was certain his own were but mirrors. “All the way.” Their noses touched in a brief nuzzle. “As long as you’re with me.”

Hijikata’s head tilted as though that last statement had been perplexing, the hair from his ponytail splaying out beneath him. His fingers crept up to touch Kondo’s face and he paused before whispering his response. “Always.”

Their lips met again, their hands entwining tightly. He may have been in a relatively dazed state from the sake, but Kondo knew then—as he always had—that the responsibility was his own to stop Hijikata from destroying himself all for his sake. It was said that the bond between samurai ran deeper than the ocean and further than the sky. As he pressed kisses to the samurai he shared such a bond with, to his jaw and then down his neck, Kondo silently promised it was a mutual vow, that his love was just as fathomless and his devotion equally as fervent.

One day, he’d fulfill these debts that had accumulated on his soul. At some time, he would be able to give to Hijikata as much as he’d received, and reciprocate as much as what had been sacrificed, only for him.

But for right now…

When Kondo felt hands pulling at his garments, he stood slowly and helped Hijikata to his feet. They both stumbled the few steps to his room, and the shoji clapped shut.

All Kondo could do at this moment was settle to give Hijikata everything he wanted, and anything he would possibly take. And he would give it to him freely, all out of love: tonight, tomorrow, next year, and on—for as long as he was able, for as much as he could.

#uss enterplaid #toshisami #konhiji #hakuouki #t1 #writing on plaid paper #long post

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katekarnage7 · 4 years

Text

The Pill Chapter 3

It’s finally here! Sorry for the wait. You can also check this fic out on AO3.

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The area around him slowly shifted into focus. He stood on a small field of dandelions and buttercups that floated in a void filled with other islands. A tinge of blue tinted the area, clinging to it like a fog. A memory. All around him, he spotted countless other memories suspended in the blackened void. Some of these pieces held the interiors of taverns or the large expanse of a plain and some held gravel or dirt paths with grass growing by the sides. The most shocking thing, however, was the vast number and variety of colors. A veritable rainbow clung to the sky, shifting and changing in between each island of memory.

He crept forward, moving away from the field with the dandelions and buttercups, and to a bridge on the very end of that piece of land. The sturdy wooden bridge didn’t so much as shake as he walked across it. Unwisely, he cast a glance downwards and was met with more of the same blackened sky and tiny islands. Trying to hang onto his wavering sanity, he kept his gaze on the next island and could only admire the shifting colors.

This one held sharper clarity than the last. A small child with light brunette hair sat on a plush bed far too big for him. Tears slipped down the small boy’s face as he sat there, silent and so very alone, trying to read a book. His tears stained the pages, but he made no effort to wipe them away.

A chill ran down Geralt’s spine and a horrid, knotted feeling sat in his stomach. He moved on, leaving the small boy to read. The next island had a warm, joyous spark to it and was lit in a gorgeous yellow light. The same boy—a little older this time—sat with his back to a tree, plucking at a lute. His brunette hair had darkened and now fell around his face in long strands as he sat there, looking at his lute like it would answer the mysteries of the universe. He looked to be about ten or eleven years of age and yet, still, this air of wisdom no child should have hung around him.

The tune rang out, pure and clear in the air, filling the memory with joyous music—music you would want to hear for the rest of your life. He hummed along, the high tune bouncing over a range of chords. When he messed up a hand placement or played a chord wrong, he simply smiled and kept playing. Whilst Geralt knew nothing of music, he knew what joy looked like.

He continued on, even though his heart longed to stay with the boy, longed to sit next to him and just listen while the world passed them by. He couldn’t stop though. This promise to Jaskier was one he wouldn’t—couldn’t—break.

As soon as he stepped onto the next island, he froze. A deep cold settled into his bones as a gray sky descended on the memory. The same room from earlier came into focus. The large, plush bed with the soft looking blankets still stood in the middle of the room. He could only see half of it, like he was viewing a play and this was the set. The young boy stood in the middle of the room, desperately clutching his lute to his chest as a blackhaired woman managed to yank it from his hands. Her hands wrapped around the neck of the lute as her blue eyes glowed with cold anger.

“Please, Mother,” the boy cried. “It’s just a lute! It does no harm. Please.”

The woman clenched her jaw and crossed over to the roaring fireplace, lute in hand. She fixed her gaze onto the boy. “You haven’t time for music, Julian. Imagine what your father would say if he saw you with this filthy instrument instead of working on things of real importance.” Then, without another word, she tossed the lute into the flames.

The boy gasped, rushing forward but his mother caught his arm. “Let it burn. I’m only helping you, dear,” she said, her voice saccharine but unapologetic.

Tears slipped down the boy’s face as he slowly backed away and went to his shelf. He grabbed a book and sat on the bed, sniffling.

His mother patted his head in approval. “Good boy,” she said before taking her leave.

A rush of hot aggression poured through Geralt’s veins. Who would take away a child’s joy like that? Especially such a kind, warm child like Jaskier.

This life wasn’t one he would’ve imagined for the bard. Even though he’d mentioned he was a viscount, Geralt never really thought about the implications of that.

He hated himself for it.

He slowly tore his eyes away from the sight of his bard crying. The bard. Not his. He didn’t deserve him; especially not now. With haste, Geralt continued his travels through Jaskier’s memories. All of these moments were a part of Jaskier he had never seen. The part of him that shaped his personality and his views. He ached with the knowledge that he could have known all of this if he had just asked. He could’ve known about Jaskier’s torrid affair with music and how his parents didn’t approve. He could’ve known how the bard was always alone as a child and yet… yet he never asked.

What did that say about him?

Every memory he saw filled him with a sick guilt that knotted his stomach. The violation of Jaskier’s mind and privacy made him ache, but he had no other choice. He did his best to ignore every personal detail that he could in the memories. He decided he would ask Jaskier to tell him about those moments instead.

As he walked, he spotted something. No, many broken somethings. A memory that had millions of tiny little floating details unconnected to each other. A shattered memory. He ran toward it, his feet carrying him through Jaskier’s teenage years and all the way up to his eighteenth birthday. He paused when he spotted it: the tavern in Posada. It was the last whole island before everything dissolved into broken details.

Curiosity began to mix with that unease in his stomach, causing a flutter. He crept into the tavern and stumbled, his body being thrown into the memory full force. Jaskier was sitting at a table, nearly finished ale in hand. He took a swig then placed the tankard down and grabbed his lute. Geralt watched from afar as the bard took to singing, his voice filling the air as wonderfully as it had over twenty years ago.

Jaskier’s gaze flicked around as he sang, moving his hips a little to the rhythm. The effect could only be called mesmerizing. A yell rang out, low and agitated. The bard backed away as bread, amongst other things, flew at his face. “I’m glad I could just bring you all together like this!” the younger version of Jaskier said, gesturing vaguely as he put his lute away.

He knelt down, picking up what he could of the likely stale bread, and then… his gaze fell on something in the corner. Geralt’s heart leapt into his throat. Jaskier straightened up and moved forward, making a beeline for the corner, but… the memory fell away. The ground was broken and the corner of the tavern had been cut open. If the bard kept going, he would fall into nothingness.

Geralt rushed forward, his hand reaching for the back of the man’s doublet. When it should’ve made contact, his hand passed straight through Jaskier’s chest and he overbalanced. His foot caught the edge of the corner and before he could even cry out, he fell into the open void.

---

The ground rushed up to meet him and he hit it with a thud. “Fuck,” he mumbled as pain shot through his knees. He raised his head and was met with the outside of a gorgeous, stately building shining under a muted sun. Slowly, with nerves and adrenaline rushing through his veins, he got to his feet. Before his eyes, a scene appeared. A young boy with brown hair and blue eyes ran past him, being guided by a young girl with dark eyes and darker hair. The boy looked rugged, his hair growing far past the length Geralt would’ve expected and his common clothing stained with dirt. His hair was streaked with mud.

His eyes, however, carried the light of a person who was finally free. Geralt’s breath caught. That freedom. How long had it been since he’d seen it? How long since the mountain? It felt like a millenia, but… no. A year, maybe two.

His heart ached in his chest as he followed the boyish version of his bard into the building. Oxenfurt, he realized with a start as he set foot inside the grand entrance hall. His eyes scanned the large staircase before him and the many halls that led to a variety of rooms. Different versions of Jaskier echoed around the halls; screams of joy and laughter permeated the air. His bard sat on the stairs with that girl, singing softly and playing his lute to a tune of their own design.

“Without you.”

“I’m stronger.”

“You told me I was younger.”

“I’m no longer.”

“That I was filled with wonder. How wrong you were.”

The two grinned like the uninhibited children they were. Geralt smiled, an ache and a warmth coinciding in his heart. He continued on, through the various memories stained with different colors. A pull in his gut sent him walking towards an arched quartz doorway. He stepped through and into a massive library drenched in gray light. In a poofy armchair, his hair as foolish and wild as the day they met, his eyes as blue as ever, sat Jaskier. His Jaskier.

His eyes carried a small hint of old age. Really, his… the bard aged well. His fingers strummed the lute and yet, no sound came out. His lips moved noiselessly along to the tune. Eventually, came a discordant noise, like the scraping and wailing of a kikimora before you ended its life. The moment carried a distinct wrongness. Who played a lute in a library?

He stepped forward, but a hand caught his shoulder. He whirled around, his hand flying to his back, grasping for a non-existent blade. Then, he caught sight of two cornflower blue eyes, a soft smile, and brunette hair. For the second time since he stepped into that building, his breath caught. “Jaskier?” he asked, his voice a whisper next to the discordant notes of the lute behind him.

“Hello, Geralt,” Jaskier replied, his smile as easy, bright, and beautiful as the sun.

“Who are you?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m Jaskier. Well, Jaskier’s subconscious, in any case,” he said in a breezy tone. He turned away from Geralt and walked over to the bookshelf nearest to him and picked one out.

“You know who I am?” Geralt asked.

“Of course. It’s not easy to forget such a big presence. And, whoo, big you are.” Jaskier’s subconscious looked up and gave him a wink.

Geralt didn’t respond and looked the other—well, not quite man—up and down. He noticed the red doublet that had the idea of scales designed upon it. That flash of red haunted him.

“That’s not fair.”

No time to dwell on that now. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you think, big man? I’m here to talk with you. Well, I suppose talk is a bit of an exaggeration. I’m here to weave together sentences and you’re here to listen,” Jaskier’s subconscious said, thumbing through the pages of his book.

“Then speak,” Geralt replied, keeping his gaze firmly fixed upon the strange visage of Jaskier before him.

Jaskier’s subconscious tsked. “Demanding, demanding. In any case, I’m here because you are. For the past six months, we’ve had mages in and out of here. They’ve been searching for me. Well, not me, per se. More for, you know, what I have in my possession.”

“Spit it out.” Geralt stepped closer to the subconscious, brow furrowed, and heart beating fast. A hopeful spark lit and fluttered in his stomach.

The subconscious chuckled. “Do you see all of these books?” he asked, holding up the book he had in his hands. Geralt looked around, his gaze flicking over the empty bookshelves. Only two, the two closest to them, were nearly full. They held around a hundred books each. Jaskier’s subconscious slid the book he held back onto the nearest shelf. “They’re memories. Each one holds a detailed summary of every single month of Jaskier’s life moment to moment. You could learn everything about how a person thinks, works, moves, breathes, and exists from these books. That’s why they must be protected. When the odd magic user comes into this head and roots through to find these books, well, let’s just say that I make sure they don’t find anything.”

“Then why am I here?”

“Oh, dear heart. You still don’t get it. He’s safe now. We trust you to retrieve his memories.”

“We?” Geralt asked. The absurdity of the entire situation nearly overwhelmed him.

“The body and brain, love. Now, come close. Don’t be shy; I don’t bite. Well, not usually.” Jaskier’s subconscious winked and beckoned him closer. Those blue eyes glowed inhumanly in the gloomy darkness of the library. That dissonant strumming of Jaskier’s lute continued on and on.

The subconscious took Geralt’s hand in his own and pressed it to his chest. A blinding blue light filled the room and the subconscious gasped. The bitter, tangy scent of desperation permeated Geralt’s senses. Then, all at once, the light faded and the smell disappeared. The subconscious panted, his breaths coming in deep gulps. “Ooh. That’s not very pleasant,” he mumbled. In his hands sat a small, thin book.

The subconscious pressed it into Geralt’s hands. The brown leather was scratched and damaged, showing signs of abuse. “What is it?” he asked, holding it as gently as he could. His large, brutish hands could easily destroy it. That’s what they were meant for, right? Destruction?

“These few memories are what I could salvage from the ruins.”

“How…” Geralt trailed off and swallowed, taking a deep breath before continuing, “How did you manage to save anything?” he asked as he examined the book. This tiny piece of leather and paper held the scraps of over half of Jaskier’s life. Don’t ruin this. Don’t you dare.

“Ah, yes, well, Yennefer’s spell was powerful. It should have destroyed everything, but… well, we all know how resilient love is. Even with dear old Jaskier, who falls in love every hour.”

Geralt’s breath disappeared from his lungs. He opened his mouth, but no words came forward and instead, a breathless sound escaped. Immediately, he bottled every emotion up and locked them away. His emotions shouldn’t be seen nor heard and yet… he ached with the realization that Jaskier, the obnoxious, foolish, kind, well-intentioned, womanizing idiot had fallen in love with a monster. Why did that have to be the love that lasted? Why couldn’t the bard have just fallen for a royal woman or a fellow bard and lived happily?

Love with a monster never ended well.

The fool did indeed fall in love every hour and he fell out of love just as fast. His affections should have died. Damned fool.

He breathed deeply. “I see.”

“Your sorceress should be able to restore his memories with that starting point. Oh, and Geralt? You’d best keep him safe. I won’t ask twice,” Jaskier’s subconscious said, an almost sad smile playing at his lips. “Good luck.”

Then, like dust in the wind, the subconscious disappeared. The dissonant lute playing got louder and Geralt glanced over at the younger version of the bard. His eyes held dark circles and his fingers deftly danced along the strings, forming different chords and new sounds.

Geralt let out a breath as his mind raced with all the new information. One particular revelation kept echoing around in his head, tearing into him and making butterflies swarm in his gut. A sickness crept up his throat as he slowly opened the small book.

A myriad of colors burst into existence, drowning out the old, gloomy library. Then, slowly, a scene formed around him; one he very much recognized. A campfire crackled before him and an inky sky filled with thousands of dots of light hung above him. Two men, one small and brunette, the other large and white-haired, were lying on the ground, curled on their sides and trying to get some rest. A bitterly cold wind rustled through the trees as a pang ripped through his chest.

His eyes landed on the hunched form of his bard. The blanket he had was far too thin and provided very little coverage from the harsh ice of the air.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Speak.”

He remembered that. That night had been just after a particularly difficult hunt. He had been told there would only be one drowner, maybe two, when in actuality, there were too many to count. A whole horde of the creatures. When he had thought it would barely be dangerous, he allowed Jaskier to come along. Then, when the horde attacked, Geralt didn’t see a way out for either of them. Especially not a soft human like his bard.

He thought they would both die before they could live out whatever horseshit destiny had planned for them. In a way, he supposed, that would’ve been a mercy. To take his last stand beside his friend—even though it had taken him so long to even grant the bard that title—would have been the best death he could have hoped for.

Jaskier’s voice, weak and shaky, broke his trance, “Melitele’s tits, it is fucking cold out here.” His teeth audibly chattered from where he laid, arms wrapped around himself tightly.

The younger version of Geralt sat straight up, jaw clenched. The irritation practically wafted off him. Geralt wanted to chuckle. He remembered exactly how he’d felt. That little bolt of anger at how underprepared Jaskier was—really, who packed only a thin blanket in the late fall?—drowned out by a wave of concern and worry over the little human he’d grown too fond of.

He could only watch as that version of himself grabbed his blanket, stood, and crossed over to the bard. He knelt beside Jaskier and tossed it on top of the small bundle of freezing limbs. “Next time, pack smarter,” the younger version of Geralt said, standing to go back to his patch of ground.

A hand shot up from the little bundle and grabbed a hold of the witcher’s pant leg. “I’m sorry,” Jaskier said and Geralt could remember with perfect clarity how those blue eyes had shone in the dying light of the campfire. A part of him ached to move closer, to catch sight of those eyes once more. He didn’t.

“Hmm,” his younger self grunted.

“I’ll bring a thicker blanket next time. I truly didn’t mean to inconvenience you, but it’s just so fucking frigid out here. I really don’t know how you stand it, Geralt,” Jaskier rambled. “Are you sure you don’t need it? Witchers must get cold. Or do they? Is Kaer Morhen harsh enough for you to get that used to the cold? Or would it be your… witcher-y blood keeping you warm?”

The memory version of Geralt rolled his eyes. That little fond feeling was no doubt growing in his chest, just as it had for the true Geralt all that time ago. “You talk too much, bard. You’ll get yourself killed one of these days.”

Jaskier sat up a little, an over the top huff escaping him. A little smile still danced on his lips. Seemingly, the bard was never too cold to abandon his typical dramatics. “I wouldn’t worry about that! I’ve got a big strong witcher to protect me,” he said, tugging on the young witcher’s pant leg again.

“I won’t always be around to save your arse when a cuckold corners you.”

“Oh, come on, Geralt. You’d never let your very best friend die. That would be rather bad form, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t.”

Jaskier paused, a little crease forming between his brows. Oh, how Geralt ached to smooth it away. Not that his touch would be welcome. People generally didn’t like it when monsters came too close. “What?”

“Ask you.”

A moment of silence passed between the young pair before Jaskier burst out laughing. “And yet, here we are.”

“Hmm.” The similarity to their first banquet all of those years ago was not lost on him. They truly did have a recurring dynamic of sorts. A push and pull that played out the same, even after years, and still somehow left Geralt feeling warm, no matter how long it had been.

The moment broke when Jaskier shivered again, his fingers dropping away from the young witcher’s pant leg and diving back beneath the blankets. Geralt’s younger self looked down at the pitiful bard. His love of luxuries and weak constitution made camping out in rough conditions horrid for Jaskier and still, he did it. All for the love of music, he supposed.

A sigh escaped the young witcher’s lips and he dropped to the ground. “Jaskier,” he murmured, gently tapping on the bard’s shoulder. Jaskier turned to face him, his teeth still chattering just slightly. “Come here.”

Apprehension had sat like a crushing rock in Geralt’s chest back then. He remembered that horrible feeling of what if he pushes me away? What if he recoils at my touch?

After all, Geralt’s hands were made to break things. They were made to wield weapons and rip apart monsters, not gently cradle someone or even warm them up. When Jaskier didn’t immediately respond, he closed himself off again. He watched as the younger version of himself moved to stand before the bard grabbed his arm and pulled him back down. “No,” Jaskier said. “Don’t you dare go anywhere, my dear witcher. You’re like a raging fire with that body heat, so you’d better stay right here, huh?”

Geralt remembered the warmth that spread in his gut and stood there, transfixed as the younger version of himself curled closer to Jaskier. His arms hesitantly wrapped around the small, fragile human. Jaskier made a soft sound and buried his face in Geralt’s chest, practically octopusing himself around the heat source.

Oh, how he had melted. His touch wasn’t harsh enough to scare the bard away. In fact, he wanted more of it. What human wanted more contact with a witcher? His hands were rough, unpracticed in the art of comfort and yet… Jaskier pulled his arms closer. The bard would always be a complete mystery to him. Geralt watched as the two descended into a peaceful sleep and the memory drifted away.

He wondered why he could just drift into these memories without seeing them from Jaskier’s perspective or even his own. He supposed it was as if the world was created by the memory and he could just… walk through it as one would the normal world. It hurt his head to think about the reality of what he was doing.

Slowly, the landscape of Jaskier’s mind shifted back into place. Yet instead of being met with the strange, discordant library, he stood on a grassy patch of land, similar to the one he had originally come in on. He spotted more bridges to more memories.

A part of him wished to explore more, to know more about the bard. The realization that he had never so much as asked why Jaskier became a bard instead of embracing his viscount title was a stark one. How could he have never asked? Having now seen the type of relationship Jaskier had with his parents though… well, everything clicked into place.

“Geralt!” a voice called, sounding muffled, as if being yelled over a great distance. He cast a look around, a little startled.

Slowly, the voice became clearer, and the solid ground beneath him disappeared. He barely had a second to register it, his heart fluttering in his chest as he began to fall through a void of darkness. Then, with a jolt that jarred him and sent him near crashing to the floor, he was put back in his normal body. His legs ached and carried the stiffness of having been standing for too long without moving.

Heavy breaths rang out from his right. Yennefer sat in a chair beside the bed, her hand on his wrist and beads of sweat rolling down her temple. Geralt opened his mouth to ask if she was okay, but before he could even get a word out, Yen began to speak, “Did you get what we need?”

Geralt nodded mutely.

“Details, Geralt. I need details.”

He took a deep, calming breath and tried to organize his thoughts. “Jaskier’s subconscious gave me a book. Told me it was a seed we could work with to restore his memories.”

Yennefer nodded. “Good. What did you do with it?”

“I opened it and it sent me into a memory,” he said, his gaze straying to Jaskier’s sleeping form. His face was so peaceful and beautiful in sleep. Relaxation looked good on the bard, he decided.

Yen stood with some effort and put a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll get his memories back for him. You did well, Geralt.”

“What do we do now?” Geralt asked, throwing Yen a grateful look. The shred of kindness she had given him soothed the burning pit of worry and stress in his stomach.

“It’ll be a slow process. We’ll have to go into his mind and dive deeper, extracting more memories. Now that we have a seed, we can build off of it and piece the memories back together. The good news is that we do have a chance of putting your bard’s memory back together with little issue,” Yennefer said, also glancing down at Jaskier’s sleeping form. “I imagine the real task will be repairing the damage to his emotional and mental state after this whole ordeal.”

A frown creased Geralt’s brow and a nagging, itching feeling of guilt rooted in the pit of his stomach. “Hmm.”

Yennefer’s hand slid down to Geralt’s bicep, her touch gentle. “You worry too much,” she said, then stepped away, letting her hand fall. With a half-covered up yawn, she swept out of the room and Geralt was left to stare down at his unconscious bard.

And so the days went on. Jaskier would wake to be fed and given water. He was always out of it though, never quite as present as Geralt wished. When the bard awoke, he smelled of the pungent, herbal mixture he was given to keep him asleep for their endeavors into his mind. Sometimes, he would look at Geralt with something akin to recognition in his eyes and Geralt’s heart leapt every time, hoping this would be the time he remembered their adventures. Yet… no.

Still, their strange pseudo relationship continued. He would lie with Jaskier and help him fall asleep, cradling him as gently as he could, knowing that his days of being able to touch and hold the bard were numbered. A sense of dread settled in his stomach at the thought of being so distant from Jaskier again. He wanted to stay by his side and while that thought should’ve sent him running the other direction, should’ve sent frigid fear through his veins, instead it only filled him with a fuzzy warmth.

Oh, was he in deep.

As the days continued, he delved into Jaskier’s mind further and further. They quickly realized that Yennefer couldn’t enter the bard’s mind. Whenever she tried, she was met with harsh resistance from the man in question. She said something about him rejecting her presence. Whatever that meant. Unfortunately, that led to Geralt being the only one able to piece together the shattered pieces of Jaskier’s memories.

It was tedious work, but he lost himself in the feeling of it. He allowed the memories to wash over him, bringing with them warmth and comfort. He did his best not to pry into anything he didn’t have to, trying to grant the bard at least that shred of privacy.

Seeing every moment of theirs like it was a play and watching as he told Jaskier to fuck off and to leave him alone… Well, it didn’t quite help the ache in his chest or the itching, fluttering, throbbing sensation in his gut.

To top it all off, whenever Jaskier stirred into the world of the waking, he got frightened at the drop of a hat. If a door ever slammed or a voice raised, he winced. Whenever Yennefer touched him while fixing his injuries, he shook violently. Geralt’s heart ached for the bard. His fear was understandable though. After being through so much trauma for months, how could one not experience lasting effects?

Before he knew it, the first snow of the winter had come and passed. Storms plagued the little cabin, drenching everything in a soft white, and still Jaskier stayed the same. The winter passed into early spring and updates on Nilfgaard’s progress came all too frequently. Apparently, the resistance was flagging without Yen or Geralt there, but he couldn’t find it in his heart to care. Not when Jaskier needed him.

Not going to Kaer Morhen in the winter was the strangest part. He always stayed in the mountains for the first snow and the harsh weather, yet there he was, in a cabin in the middle of nowhere tending to his ragtag family. Well, if you could call it a family.

One comatose bard, one guilt-driven witcher, one sorceress whose strength dwindled with each passing day, and a magical lost princess. What a mismatched group they were.

Yen’s magic was dwindling though, however much she tried to refute it. The amount of strength required to both heal Jaskier and to maintain a magical bond that kept Geralt in the bard’s mind on a daily basis would have most mages in a shallow grave after but a week.

And so the spring continued. With each passing day, Geralt could feel them getting closer to a breakthrough. He couldn’t see the full picture yet, but he would. He knew he would.

At the beginning of the second week of spring, Geralt slowly woke. His nose was buried in soft fabric as his eyes slowly fluttered open. The air warmed him without being stifling. He could’ve sat there all day if not for the pounding ache in his neck. With a groan, he properly sat up.

For the nth time, he had fallen asleep in a chair by Jaskier’s bedside. If he had stayed up late talking to the unconscious man, well, that was no one’s business but his. His gaze drifted to the man in question. His eyes still laid closed, his body still and his breathing steady. The cuts and bruises on his face had long since healed, making him seem painfully normal. As if normal could ever describe their situation.

He rolled his neck, hearing the little cracks and doing his best to rid himself of stiffness. Jaskier would wake soon; he always did in the mornings. Yennefer’s spell would wear off and Geralt would feed the bard, then let him succumb once more to Yen’s magic.

He got to his feet, rubbing his neck and stretching his limbs. The room around him felt far too quiet as he turned away from the bed, crossing over to the door. He paused before leaving. The absence of Jaskier’s melodic voice ripped into his chest and left an empty void there. He should’ve been used to it by now, considering how long he’d had to suffer through months of near silence. Even though Yen and Ciri spoke to him, he didn’t feel that calming warmth that used to spread through his body and leave him tingling. The sensation of living in a thrum of soft, kind noise had become his normal. The hypocrisy of missing something that he himself had thrown away made his hands curl into fists.

Then, a soft noise came from behind him. A stirring groan. “Geralt?” Jaskier murmured, his normally boyish voice rough and slurred from sleep.

“Rest, bard. I’ll be back with food,” he replied without turning around.

“What? No, I… Geralt, where in Melitele’s name are we?” Jaskier asked, seeming more awake.

Geralt froze, his feet rooted to the ground, uncomprehending. He whirled around to find Jaskier’s blue eyes already fixed on him. Geralt scanned the bard’s face, those eyes lit with a fiery recognition. The man in question began to speak again, “Gods, why I am so fucking stiff? I feel like I’ve gone eighty rounds with a rather vivacious young woman. Or a monster. Probably a monster. Shit, my head is pounding. What happened?”

Slowly, Geralt picked his jaw up off the floor and swallowed. “What do you remember?”

A little crease appeared on his brow. “Not much. It’s all sort of fuzzy and twisty,” Jaskier said, gesturing vaguely. “I remember walking in the streets, playing in rather harsh taverns, and booze. So much booze. Though, most of it was the cheap swill that rundown bars have to offer but still.” The bard’s gaze flicked down as he wrung his hands in his lap. “I remember the mountain and… Fuck. Nilfgaard. They found me, Geralt. I swear I did my best to stay hidden, but the bastards wouldn’t let me escape, and I-”

A laugh, so sudden and inexplicable that it even surprised the man himself, bubbled up and escaped Geralt’s mouth. It came out harsh and humorless, but the joy of hearing Jaskier—the true Jaskier—rant and ramble on outweighed any other emotion. A sudden urge to wrap the bard in his arms struck him. Fuck, if that didn’t scare the shit out of him.

“Oh, my misery is funny now, is it? Then again, I suppose it’s always been a little funny to you. Fucking witchers and their fucking… Why the fuck am I here, Geralt?” Jaskier spat, his jaw clenching and his eyes shining with a million unintelligible emotions.

Geralt’s mouth closed with an audible click of his teeth and his heart splintered. “It’s not. Funny, I mean.”

Jaskier huffed a disbelieving laugh. “Right. Please, Geralt. Just answer me.”

“Nilfgaard captured you. You were questioned until Yen and I saved you. You’ve been here recovering ever since.”

“Questioned, as in…?” Jaskier trailed off, his eyes locking onto Geralt’s own. They held the silence stare for a few moments, neither saying a word, until Geralt finally nodded. “Oh, fan-fucking-tastic. Hold on, where’s my lute? Can I even still play? Melitele’s tits, I’d better be able to.” Jaskier scrambled to pull his hands out from under the blankets. He inspected them for a few moments and bent them, hissing in pain. “Fuck. Oh, gods.”

“Yen said your fingers should heal eventually. As for your lute, we never found it,” Geralt said, desperately trying to keep the roughness out of his voice. He needed to be gentle and kind. He needed to be all the things witchers never should be and were never designed to be.

“Fuck,” Jaskier whispered again, his voice ridden with grief. The moment descended into silence once more. This time, it lasted much longer.

With every passing second, his bard’s face reflected a new emotion. None that Geralt could decipher clearly, except for their vague scent in the air. Something heavy and sour, not dissimilar to fear, but closer to grief and something else sulfuric, like anger. Slowly, Jaskier’s features relaxed, realization pulling his mouth into a little ‘o’ shape. “I remember now. It’s still foggy and frankly, a right fucking mess, but I… I understand. How long have I been here, Geralt? How long—how long have I lost?” he whispered, his voice breaking half-way through.

Geralt turned his gaze to the floor, not daring to meet Jaskier’s eyes. “They held you for around six months. You’ve been here for three.”

Silence. Unbearable, overwhelming, crushing silence filled the room.

Then, a soft, broken sound tore out of Jaskier’s throat. “Nine months. Nine months. No wonder I’m so fucking stiff,” he said, laughing mirthlessly. Geralt chanced a glance at the bard. His eyes shone with unshed tears as another laugh without humor rang out. The sound was harsh. Far too harsh for the kind, gentle little bard he had come to know.

Jaskier shifted in bed, turning to throw his legs over the side. “Well, I should be off then. Places to go, people to see and all that. It’s spring, yes? Oxenfurt is positively lovely in the springtime,” he said.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled.

“I wonder if Laina is still fluttering around down there. It would be a joy to see her again, assuming she managed to rid herself of that horrid fling of hers.” Jaskier pushed himself off the bed, standing on shaky legs.

“Jaskier.”

The bard began making his way over to the door and Geralt rushed to his feet. “Markus, I believe. Why are all the terrible ones named a variation of Mark? Marx, Markus. Must be a cursed name!”

“Jaskier!” Geralt caught Jaskier’s wrist. “You aren’t going anywhere. You’re still weak.”

Jaskier whirled around, his blue eyes glinting with fiery rage. The display was nearly laughable, considering how the bard winced at the sudden movement. Nearly though. Jaskier ripped his wrist out of Geralt’s grip. “Oh, now you care? Just a little while ago it was Jaskier, fuck off and Jaskier, you’ve ruined my whole life. Now it’s oh, you have to stay? Of all the idotic, inane, positively ridiculous things I’ve heard in my forty years of life, this must take the everloving cake!”

“I didn’t mean it,” Geralt said, his voice pitched low, just barely above a whisper. “I was angry.”

Jaskier shook his head and backed away, moving closer to the door and putting considerable space between them. “You’re wrong, my dear witcher. Even if you think you didn’t mean it, some part of you did. I know you’ve had a hard life. One that would humble anyone to hear. The things you must’ve seen in all your years and the hardships you’ve endured are no small feat. I, however, fear I cannot keep up. We’ve danced this dance before, Geralt. It always leads to the same answer. I would follow you forever if you let me and we both know it’s true. Since we clearly don’t share the same feelings, do me this small mercy and let me leave,” he said, pulling his arms close to his thin frame. He no longer looked like the eighteen-year-old boy in that tavern in Posada. He now carried the air of a man well-traveled, even though his body had thinned considerably since their first meeting. Time had traced his face, showing his life in smile lines and little wrinkles.

“I can’t.” Geralt stepped forward, his hand reaching out into the empty space between them.

The bard froze, his gaze focusing in on that hand. “Why not?” he whispered.

“Because, I…” He swallowed around the lump in his throat, looking up at the human before him. The human who had come into his life like a tornado, tearing through what he knew and leaving him shaken. The human who had refused to let Geralt be ridiculed and, instead, stepped in when others threw obscenities at him. How could he let Jaskier go again?

His hand still floated in the air between them.

“Why not, Geralt? Why can’t I just leave? We can go our separate ways. Your reputation should be all but saved and polished up by now. You don’t need me,” Jaskier said, twisting the fabric of his cream undershirt between his fingers.

“Damn it, Jaskier. That’s not fucking true,” Geralt hissed, taking a step forward.

“Well, then, tell me what is! Honestly, Geralt, I don’t know what to think! I remember now that you were incredibly kind when I lost my memories and you… you took care of me, but you pushed me away before that. It’s fucking nonsensical!” Jaskier stepped into Geralt’s space, placing their faces mere inches away.

“You want the truth? Fine. The truth is that I do need you, because you’re fucking important to me!”

The pair fell silent. The only noise to be heard was their strained, heavy breathing. Then, slowly, like the rolling of thunder, Jaskier leaned in and captured Geralt’s lips. A surprised sound worked its way out of Geralt and the bard swallowed it up, pressing closer. After a moment, Geralt finally managed to get with the program. He wrapped an arm around Jaskier’s waist and pulled him impossibly closer. Jaskier melted into the embrace and flung his arms around the witcher’s neck.

They stayed like that for what felt like eons before they slowly broke away. The pair panted, still breathing each other’s air. He rested his forehead against Jaskier’s and tried to remember how to speak. “I’m sorry,” he finally managed, his voice soft.

“Oh, my dear,” Jaskier whispered, “I cannot stay mad at you. No matter how hard I try.”

“You know, I… I…”

“I know, beloved. You needn’t say it.” Jaskier caressed Geralt’s cheek, his touch feather light and gentle as could be. His hand continued further and tucked a stray lock of white hair behind his witcher’s ear. Geralt’s heart sped up to a nearly human rate.

Hesitantly, for fear of Jaskier’s reaction, he moved to close the space once more. This time, their kiss was deeper, filled with all the longing and love they’d hidden for years. Jaskier tangled his fingers in Geralt’s hair and Geralt tightened the arm around his bard’s waist. Electricity sparked between the two as a soft, needy sound left Jaskier’s lips.

A hot, tingly feeling washed over Geralt and he longed to pull the bard closer, to show him what they’d both been missing. His skin burned under his clothing and he relished in the feeling of Jaskier’s soft lips on his. Those talented hands explored Geralt’s back and shoulders, dancing over every inch of him the bard could reach.

Geralt’s own hands slipped lower and lower, running down Jaskier’s lower back. Another little sound erupted from Jaskier and, oh, the things Geralt wanted to do to his magnificent bard.

Then, the door swung open. “Geralt?”

He and Jaskier broke apart, their heads swinging nearly in unison to see the intruder. Yennefer stood there, her eyes a touch wider than normal. “Oh. I see he remembers you then?”

Geralt, still breathless, nodded.

“Finish sticking your tongues down each other’s throats then. Ciri wants to come in. She’s been worried sick.” And with that, Yen turned on her heel and hurried out the door.

Once she was gone, Jaskier laughed and let his forehead fall to rest on Geralt’s shoulder. “I see Yennefer’s still as lovely and eloquent as always,” he said, his voice slightly muffled by Geralt’s shirt.

“Hmm.” Geralt cupped the back of Jaskier’s neck and rubbed it with his thumb affectionately. “Ciri will be happy to see you.”

“Ah, yes. I suppose my… shell-shocked, memory-less self must’ve scared her. Poor girl.” Jaskier paused for a moment. “It must’ve scared you too, dear heart,” he said, rubbing Geralt’s back slowly.

“Only thing I was scared of was losing you,” Geralt responded, his voice soft and confessional.

Jaskier lifted his head, his eyes shining with emotion and met Geralt’s gaze. “Oh, you big old softie! Who says witchers don’t have feelings, huh?”

Geralt rolled his eyes and captured Jaskier’s lips again, if only to shut him up. Though, his teasing chatter had been missed, even if Geralt would never admit it.

Jaskier eventually broke away, his lips red and slick. Pride swelled in Geralt’s chest at giving the bard that purely debauched look. Without thinking, he raised a hand and ran a thumb over Jaskier’s bottom lip. A wide smile crossed the bard’s face as he took Geralt’s hand in his. “Unless you want your little lion cub to see some things that are far too inappropriate for her, we should probably save the more risque behavior for later and make a journey outside.”

Geralt huffed softly in amusement. It was impossible to keep that little bubble of fondness in his chest from expanding. Having Jaskier back—the real Jaskier—made his heart swell with joy. Whatever their new relationship was, he would take it. “I’m sure she’s seen worse. You remember how Eist and Calanthe were.”

Jaskier’s eyes danced with mirth as he shuddered with all the melodrama he could muster and groaned in disgust. “They were certainly affectionate.”

“I’m not sure if affectionate is the right word for it,” Geralt said.

Jaskier laughed and pure mirth danced in his eyes. “Poor Cirilla. How in Melitele’s name did she ever manage?”

“Just fine, I’m sure.” Without another word, Geralt pressed a kiss to Jaskier’s cheek and allowed his lips to explore the bard’s jawline.

“You wicked, wicked man. Now that you have me, you just can’t get enough, can you?” Jaskier said, placing a hand on Geralt’s arm.

“Hmm.”

Gently, Jaskier pushed Geralt back just a little so they could lock eyes. The warmth of just a few seconds before had disappeared. “I, uh, Geralt. Whilst I’m glad that we’ve finally taken this new step in our blossoming relationship, there’s still so much we haven’t discussed. The mountain, Nilfgaard, my memories. All of it, really,” he said, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

“And we will. I promise, lark. Would you like to see Ciri now?”

Jaskier’s cheeks reddened beautifully at the nickname and he nodded. Together, they walked to the door and stepped out.

The bard’s recovery would be a long road filled with obstacles and doubts, but at least they would have each other. Even though Geralt didn’t know whether Jaskier would be able to play again or if he would ever truly recover from the trauma Nilfgaard inflicted, he knew he would always stay by Jaskier’s side.

Love was funny like that.

#the witcher #whoo #it's finally done!#the pill #geraskier #geralt z rivii #jaskier #gerlion #witcher fanfiction #my writing #jaskier whump

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aion-rsa · 3 years

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The 21 Best Christmas Horror Movies

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Technicolor lights are about to illuminate every other home in the neighborhood; carolers are marching through the streets; even that old tree in Rockefeller is shining brightly.

For some folks, that’s enough to make you want to grab an axe. But don’t do that. Watch demented men dressed as Santa Claus or a demon Krampus indulge your Anti-Christmas sentiments with maximum gore. Indeed, this list isn’t about the most charming, heartwarming, or schmaltzy Christmas viewing traditions. Nah, this is about the 20 grossest, nastiest, and all around most fun Christmas horror movies. The kind where the greatest gift you’re going to get on Christmas morning is escaping with your life and maybe some psychological triggers whenever you see jolly men in red suits.

Yep, these are the very best Christmas horror movies. Ho. Freaking. Ho.

Anna and the Apocalypse (2017)

Almost certainly one of the sweetest, most positive, and upbeat Christmas movies on the list is this wonderful feel good musical romance from director John McPhail, which also happens to be a zombie movie. It follows a group of friends in a small Scottish town who are just about to finish school and are making plans for the future when a zombie outbreak lands.

Incredibly catchy tunes which take inspiration from Buffy musical episode Once More With Feeling, mix with inventive festive kills – zombie snowman decapitation is a highlight – in a way that manages not to tonally jar. It’s mostly thanks to the super-likeable performances of the young cast, headed up by Ella Hunt, and the teenage troubles, romances, and heartbreak which form the backdrop of the movie. Paul Kaye also pops up as the school’s tyrannical headmaster – his musical numbers aren’t the best but he brings cartoon villain energy to an unusual but rather adorable Christmas horror that’s way better than you might expect.

– Rosie Fletcher

Better Watch Out (2016)

Home Alone is surely one of the most popular and iconic Christmas movies of all time, though it is not, of course, a horror. However, if it was, it would look something like Better Watch Out, a slick reinvention of the home invasion sub-genre. Olivia DeJonge plays babysitter Ashley, who attempts to protect her charge, 12-year-old Luke (Levi Miller), when they are threatened by intruders in his home. But all is not as it seems.

DeJonge and Miller spar beautifully in a movie which plays with gender and coming of age tropes and includes handfuls of gruesome set pieces, while Ed Oxenbould brings comic relief. This is clever, funny and gruesome stuff from director Chris Peckover which might not become a new Christmas tradition but should definitely be watched at least once.

– Rosie Fletcher

Black Christmas (1974)

Getting stabbed by a unicorn head to the tune of carolers singing “Silent Night” is probably not how you want to spend Christmas Eve. This pre-Scream holiday slasher claims its victims in a sorority house haunted by creepy phone calls (sans ghost mask), demonic noises, bodies eerily shrouded in plastic wrap, and one perverse killer whose voice alone is enough to freeze your blood.

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When an unidentified caller keeps harassing your entire sorority house with obscene things you can only half-understand (because he sounds like a deranged Donald Duck that laughs like the Joker), you should run even if it is 10 degrees outside. The blizzard of murders keeps raging with one victim dragged screaming by a hook, and another bludgeoned to death. Never mind the one suffocated by plastic wrap and left next to the window like the vacant face of a doll staring out into the night. You’ll hardly sleep in heavenly peace after this one.

– Elizabeth Rayne

Christmas Evil (aka You Better Watch Out) (1980)

In his one and only film as writer/director, Lewis Jackson crafted a smart and clever black comedy that’s more character study than straight horror film. John Waters insists it’s a comedy about a closeted transvestite (of a sort), but it’s much more than that—it’s the Taxi Driver of Yuletide shockers. Brandon Maggart plays a man who takes Christmas way too seriously. His home is filled with bright holiday decorations all year-round while Christmas carols are playing on the stereo. Santa is his role model, a symbol of all that is good and just in the world. He even works at a toy factory.

He so identifies with Santa, he takes to spying on the neighbor kids, keeping his own carefully annotated naughty and nice lists. But when he recognizes the level of cynicism and hypocrisy among his co-workers, bosses, and the people around town as the most joyous time of the year approaches, well, he goes a little funny in the head. He reaches for the suit and beard and axe, determined to reward the good and punish the evil.

Maggart has since tried to desperately distance himself from the film, but he gives a remarkable performance here as a completely isolated figure with a head swimming with both joy and rage. In the end, the film remains king of the sub-subgenre. Screw It’s a Wonderful Life and Rudolph. Apart from Blast of Silence and Invasion U.S.A., Christmas Evil is the only holiday film I watch annually.

– Jim Knipfel

A Christmas Horror Story (2015)

Admittedly, a number of horror-based Christmas movie have gone with the anthology angle for their storytelling. Hell, this isn’t even the only anthology film on this list. A Christmas Horror Story may not be on a lot of people’s radar, but it’s a worthy installment that goes to some unusual places purely because both the Christmas and anthology playgrounds have gotten so bloated at this point. This film also benefits from being executed by a cabal of directors who are responsible for directing some of the best horror movies to come out of Canada in passing years, such as Splice, the Black Christmas remake, and the Ginger Snaps trilogy.

A Christmas Horror Story deliciously uses a radio DJ (William Shatner) as the connective tissue that holds together the four stories that comprise the film. Parables on ghost possession, clone doppelgangers, Krampus, and zombie elves all get their due here. The film also has a pretty inspired ending that actually casts the picture in a whole new light. It’s got Santa Claus fighting Krampus. What’s not to like?

– Daniel Kurland

Dead of Night (1945)

Never play hide and go seek in a house where someone was murdered. While it might be best known for Michael Redgrave’s night-terror-inducing ventriloquist dummy scene that sparked the phobia of possessed puppets, Dead of Night also invites you to a Christmas party with a spectral guest. Spacecase Sally’s genuine terror at realizing what she thinks she saw is what she really saw will forever have you second-guessing shadows creeping in the cold.

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What is obvious in this scene—encroaching darkness and shadows looming over what a place you know is haunted without ever having to hear the big reveal—is hardly as chilling as what is not so obvious until the truth silently materializes. The ghost of the little boy plays hide-and-seek with the other children as if warm blood courses through his veins. Unlike many stereotypical see-through phantoms of the era, this one doesn’t have that telltale translucence which would set off a chorus of screams. Being almost disturbingly normal is exactly what makes him so terrifying.

– Elizabeth Rayne

Eyes Wide Shut (1999)

Eyes Wide Shut was the non-denominational star at the top of Stanley Kubrick’s Christmas tree. Originally conceived as a Woody Allen vehicle, it almost starred Steve Martin after Allen insisted on reading the script from right to left. It is as much a cautionary tale as Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, bringing the whole family together with a different Christmas tree in almost every frame.

Kubrick pours on the cheer from the opening sequence at the Christmas party where the first gifts are unwrapped, and oh boy are they unwrapped. Bill Harford, played by Tom Cruise, dives right into the muffled spirit of giving after he performs a more than charitable deed for the party’s host, played by Sydney Pollack.

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Harford spends most of the film looking for the perfect gift like a slow motion version of Jingle All the Way, rushing around from New York City’s famous toy repository FAO Schwartz to downtown specialty shops, to the suburbs, where he can find collectors’ editions. Cruise pays Harford like a wooden windup toy, and not a particularly cute one, either. In spite of all the colorful lights and trips above and below the rainbow, Harford just can’t get into the Christmas spirit. He’s not even moved by the uplifting seasonal tunings of “I Want a Boy for Christmas” by the Del-Vettes. He recovers his seasonal facilities while humming along to the chant during the climactic illuminati sex party, though! The song is actually “Here Comes Santa Claus” sung backwards in Latin, adding more menace to the proceedings than Silas Barnaby brought to Toyland in The March of the Wooden Soldiers.

– Tony Sokol

Gremlins (1984)

Santa doesn’t exist… unless it’s your father in a red suit who met his untimely end trying to slide down the chimney with a sack of presents before getting stuck. Don’t tell that to the innocent bat-like ears of a harmless (for now) Mogwai. It’s exactly the kind of story you expect to hear while hunkering down in the shadows with a flashlight while a bunch of leathery green things with too many teeth ransack the neighborhood.

And as for Santa? That smell coming from the fireplace weeks later was no dead cat. Worst. Christmas story. Ever.

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This movie should be on every hardcore horror fan’s holiday playlist just for the musical monstrosity of those reptilian things decked out in Santa hats and earmuffs singing “Deck the Halls” at the neighbors’ door, sheet music and all. This is continuing proof that animals have a sixth sense, because her yowling cat senses something off about the voices warbling “Joy to the World” outside. She’s right to have an aversion to Christmas carolers.

– Elizabeth Rayne

Holidays (2015)

There have been so many holiday-themed horror films at this point—reaching Christmas and going far, far beyond that—so why not make an anthology film that takes that idea to the extreme? Holidays hits the expected staples such as Christmas, Halloween, and Valentine’s Day, but part of the fun here is how holidays with lesser expectations like Easter or St. Patrick’s Day deliver some truly horrifying content (seriously, the St. Patrick’s Day segment is disturbing, bonkers chaos).

The Christmas segment comes courtesy of Scott Stewart (Legion) and has Seth Green trying to survive the holiday as he attempts to get his son the perfect gift. Stewart’s installment feels very reminiscent of a Black Mirror episode with virtual reality, consumerism, and the dangers of mob mentality all playing their part here.

A lot of these anthology films also try to bank off of the name recognition and notoriety of the assembled directors, but Holidays proudly features a collection of mostly fresh faces (although Kevin Smith and Starry Eye’s Kevin Kolsch contribute segments). It’s fun to discover a bunch of new blossoming talents here.

– Daniel Kurland

Jack Frost (1997)

This ain’t the cringeworthy father/son bonding vehicle starring Michael Keaton. No, this is the Jack Frost where the killer snowman’s nose functions as both a killing tool and a device to sexually assault his victims. All square? But hey, at the least the film isn’t afraid to ride its ridiculous premise as hard as possible.

First of all, an actual killer named Jack Frost crashes into a truck of “genetics material” that causes him to transform into this cold abomination in the first place. That sets the tone pretty nicely for the abundant murders, sex, and plot holes that plague the town of Snowmonton (yup). It’s hard to believe that this film got made, with all of the visuals being some real spectacles that you don’t typically see in the horror genre.