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bastionbabble · 5 years

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Two Cups of Tea (Zia, Zulf, 2856 words, worksafe)

Two cups of tea, Zulf explains, is an Ura children’s game. It is a game of two people, one of whom is sad, and the other of whom must make the first laugh. The first person must drink two cups of tea without laughing; if they laugh, they’re not allowed to be sad anymore. If they don’t laugh, they can be sad as long as they want.

(ao3 link)

for @janglingargot for the sgg secret santa event. thank you for your patience and please enjoy.

Zia has always been the strongest of them all. She knew loneliness like she knew her own body, like she knew the tracks of her veins down her arms, and from that knowledge she built herself a tower of self-love and fiery will that no man was strong enough to break down. When everyone buckled under the weight of loss and the flaming wreckage of the world, Zia stood still, stood proud, stood strong, stood sturdy enough for all of them to lean on her without her ever faltering. Her heart beat in time with the Bastion’s and deep within them was the same burning Core, that brightness that kept them going, kept them holding up themselves and everyone else. And how hot that Core burned, how brilliant, but even with all her strength, it could not burn forever. Zia has always been the strongest of them all, but every well must run dry eventually.

Zia has not left her tent in three days. The Kid has come, Rucks has come, but she’s sent them away. Zulf comes but won’t let her send him away. Weak in body but strong in mind, Zulf is not one to be deterred. He has a tarnished metal teapot with tarnished metal teacups, the only things sturdy enough to survive what the Calamity wrought, and says, ‘We’ll play two cups of tea.’

‘Stupid,’ Zia grumbles.

‘Great,’ says Zulf, and he begins to prepare the tea.

Zia is curled up in her bedroll and she pulls her blankets over her head. She has created herself a cocoon of warmth and safety, a pleasing mix of pressure and darkness. It is like the time before being born, back when everything was quiet and simple. No thinking, just existing, just being. Wouldn’t it be nice to go back to then. But things are never as simple as that. No one is ever that lucky. One’s only choice is to live.

‘The tea is done,’ Zulf says. Zia stays under the covers. Zulf pulls the blanket off her head and says, ‘I said, the tea is done.’

With a grumble, Zia pushes herself up into a sitting position. ‘I don’t want your tea,’ she says, but still takes a cup when Zulf offers it to her. It’s always been hard to say no to Zulf. She hesitates, watching Zulf, waiting for something to happen.

‘You have to drink your tea if you want to start the game.’

Zia doesn't want to start the game, but she drinks her tea anyway. It's aged and earthy and tastes overwhelmingly like tree bark and dried moss. Zia likes floral teas, ones that taste like spring rain and dewy meadows and flowers that prickle when bloomed. But Zulf favors his flavors to be rounder, a mouth feel that starts at the bottom. If he wants to drink tea that tastes like the underside of a snail, that doesn't mean he has to make Zia do it too. Zia takes a sip of the, grimaces, and looks to Zulf to await his next move.

Zulf watches Zia as she drinks her tea, his eyes bright and shining. There’s a minute of silence, of Zia forcing down her tea, of Zulf watching and waiting and preparing his mind to pounce. ‘I'm going to tell you a story,’ he starts, ‘and you have to promise to not tell the others. Do you agree?’

Zia stops slurping her tea long enough to nod. Getting stories from Zulf was a difficult task; he was particular about the image he put out, especially since the others were prone to teasing, and Zulf shaped his appearance to that of a refined gentleman, suave and smooth and charming. He’s always the diplomat, even if there’s no one with which to be a diplomat. Sometimes he plays himself the fool, but the stories of hijinks and tomfoolery were rare. All knew Zulf had a questionable past, but no one had the knowledge to its extent. If Zulf requires this story to be secret, it must be something really good.

‘When I was young, I had a… difficult relationship with the missionary. He didn't find me until I was 13, and I was raised on the streets. I was, one might say, very uncouth. He wanted me to be a man of the Gods, one who worshipped and revered them. I had no desire for such; I wanted to run around with my friends and be, well… a hooligan, I suppose one could say. And I was a little hooligan. I was 15 and I had a boyfriend of whom my father didn’t approve and we got into all sorts of trouble. Most of the time, it was smoking cigarettes and petty vandalism. We painted some very crude things on the sides of buildings.’

‘Like what?’ Zia asks, already growing giddy from the secret knowledge Zulf is imparting upon her.

‘Nothing that needs to be repeated,’ Zulf huffs, and clears his throat. ‘Go back to drinking your tea, I'm not finished yet.’

Zia returns to sipping the bitter liquid, and Zulf starts again. ‘As I was saying. We got into trouble a lot and my father was losing patience. He was a kind man, and he never yelled, but his frustration grew. And I was not used to having someone instruct me, so I often acted out. I said a lot of foolish things to him. One time, it became very bad. He had just picked me up after my third arrest--’

Zia sputters and nearly drops her teacup. ‘Your third arrest?!’

Zulf's cheeks bloom like roses. ‘I was a troubled youth,’ he mumbles. ‘But that's not the important part. Let me finish. We were in the den, and he was telling me I couldn't act like that anymore, that I had to be a gentleman and well-behaved. Well, I became so angry I called him a…’

Zulf turns his face away and mumbles the secret into his sleeve. ‘What? What'd you call him?’ Zia asks, breathless and silly with excitement, frustrated for the story’s climax.

Zulf sighs, makes the sign of Mother over his chest, and says, ‘I called him… I called him a Motherfucker.’

Zia gasps and drops her teacup. The bark-brown liquid seeps into her blanket, but she gives it no attention. To think of pious Zulf, who prays three times a day and never says anything worse than ‘damn’, who lines his clothing with proverbs, who sings his sorrows with the words of gods, to think of him blaspheming so deeply and darkly, is… is…

It’s hilarious, is what it is. It's so absurd it turns around to humor and Zia takes deep, measured breaths to keep her face as still as slate. Zulf did not look at Zia during his shameful confession but he now turns his gaze towards her, and frowns at her unamused look.

‘Not even a smile?’ he asks, and his lips sprout into a small one to encourage her. Zia remains unmoved, and Zulf shakes his head.

‘This isn't over,’ he says. ‘You still have one cup of tea left. But I have to--I have to pray. We'll do this later.’

Zulf leaves in a flurry of swishing robes and repenting fingers and Zia waits for one, two, three long breaths before she erupts in a fit of giggles light as wings. His story has momentarily lifted her despair like birdsongs, but it's not enough to relight her flame. Still, it's one worth remembering, and she's curious to are what the second story brings.

Zulf comes by the next day. Zia doesn't need his words to know to he spent the night singing his repentance. Again he has teacups and a teapot and more earthy, smoke-tinged tea. He goes about preparing the tea and he says, ‘I know you laughed after I was gone.’

Zia does a very good job of not smiling. ‘I have no idea what you're talking about,’ she says, and swallows the bubbles of laughter that rise up and dance in her throat.

‘That's cheating, but I'll allow it. We still have one more cup of tea, after all.’ Zulf pours her a cup of tea, eyes yesterday's tea stain on her blanket, turns his lips into a gentle curve at her. Zia remains ever impassive. ‘Fine, be that way. But I'll make you laugh with this next story. But. You can never tell Kid I told you this, do you understand?’

Zia nods and hides the shine of excitement in her eyes. She had considered telling the Kid about Zulf's previous story, if only because she knew how much he would appreciate Zulf's blasphemous curse. But Zia promised her silence, and the Kid couldn't hide a secret no matter how hard he tried. It will be difficult to keep the Kid's secret from himself, but it's worth it to learn it. Zia blinks back her excitement and says, ‘I understand.’

Zulf watches her, gauges her sincerity, then says, ‘Very well. This happened very long ago, before you came to the Bastion. It was shortly after the Kid brought me to her. I was… I wasn't doing so well. I was pretty despondent, and I responded to little. I barely ate. All I really did was sleep. All I thought about was everything I lost, everything I loved. All I thought about was her.’

The words climb up Zulf's throat and stick, expand, choke off anything more. A tear trickles down the side of his face and he takes deep, even breaths to halt more from coming. Taking his hand, Zia lifts it to her waiting lips and kisses it. ‘This doesn't seem like a very funny story,’ she says, her voice soft as footsteps and twice as gentle.

A moment of quiet stillness passes between them, the tension building in Zulf's bones fades, and he says, ‘No, no, it is. I just became lost in what doesn't matter.’ Zulf takes his hand back and kisses Zia on the forehead. ‘Let me start again.’

With a deep breath, Zulf begins anew. ‘So, it was a long time ago, and I was very sad. The Kid, Gods bless his stupid heart, wanted to make me feel better. He suggested a drinking contest; he said that alcohol would make everything better, and that the best way to drink would be a drinking contest. And I… Gods only know why, but I agreed. I suppose I was so low, I felt like I couldn't get any lower. We had quite a few bottles of Bastion Bourbon, too, so the Kid said we should use those. And bourbon is… quite strong. That was the first time I ever had bourbon, actually. I've never been one for drinking. The Kid, on the other hand, is quite used to it. As you've seen, I'm sure.

‘But, I'm getting distracted. We had Bastion Bourbon and shot glasses and the Kid and I set to drinking. He did a few shots first, as a way to even the playing field. It’s obvious his tolerance is much higher than mine. Then we did shots together, but after the third I was feeling quite woozy. I knew I would get sick if I had anymore. But the Kid wanted to keep going, and I didn’t want to lose, so I…’

Zulf trails off and his mouth twists into a grin both pleased and a little guilty. ‘What?’ Zia asks. ‘What did you do?’

Her tea has been abandoned as her attention has been drawn into the story. The murky liquid has grown bitter like unripe seaberries and every sip blooms a grimace across her features. But the tea doesn't matter anymore; any story involving the Kid and being drunk is bound to be a good one. Zulf keeps his next words hidden beneath his tongue and Zia shakes his arm until he finally speaks.

‘Well… I decided to fake drinking. Instead of doing a shot, I would throw it over my shoulder. Gods know how he didn't notice; I suppose he was more invested in his own drinking to pay it any mind. Regardless, this went on for quite a while. I don't think he realized how drunk he was, otherwise I think he would've stopped before he did. He certainly told me some things that I doubt he would have told me normally.’

‘Like what?’ Zia asks, eyes growing bright and vibrant with curiosity. The Kid was quiet, reticent, and getting personal information out of him was harder than herding squirts. Everything she knew of him was slowly pulled from the locked box in his heart over the years they've lived on the Bastion. Nothing came easy from him. But if Zulf got things out of him while he was drunk, maybe she should try getting him drunk, too.

‘Nothing that needs to be repeated,’ Zulf tsks. ‘It’s not appropriate for you. Still, I'm not done with this story. So, he was very, very drunk, and I had mostly sobered up. I was worried about the Kid becoming dehydrated, or more dehydrated, anyway, and went to retrieve water for him. I was only gone for a few minutes, but when I returned, he was… was…’

Zulf begins to giggle, high pitched as a pecker's song. He takes a deep, measured breath, but that does little to help. With laughter bubbling in his throat, Zulf says, ‘He was completely naked except for his boxers on his head, and waved his Pike while declaring himself king of the Bastion.’

For her credit, Zia lasts a good ten seconds without making a noise. Then she snorts, then she giggles, and finally she explodes in a shower of laughter. Once again she drops her teacup and she throws herself back on her blankets and slaps the ground as her laughter sings in her tent, out of her tent, into the brilliant blue skies outside. Tears roll down her cheeks and it takes several minutes for her to calm herself. As her breathing evens out, she looks to Zulf, who is grinning like the Anklegator that caught the Pecker. ‘I guess you won,’ Zia says, still grasping for breath.

‘I suppose I did,’he purrs, and hides his smile with his sleeve as not to gloat. ‘So, now you can't be sad anymore. How does that sound?’

‘I don't think it's that easy.’

‘No,’ Zulf says, ‘it's not. Feel this moment of freedom, savor it. Some days, it's difficult to go on. But you can tell me what's wrong. Let me help you.’

Zia closes her eyes, measures out her sadness into drops, unfurls the words hidden in her teeth. ‘…I miss my father. I never knew him. He was gone so much. He was less like a father and more like a stranger. But… he still was my father. Sometimes I think about, what if he had escaped too, and we met on the Bastion, and we were finally a real family, and--’

Zia's words die off like everyone in the Calamity died off. She presses her hands to her eyes and weeps, a low, mournful howl. Zulf strokes her hair like her father never did. Tear after tear falls from her eyes, and it's not until she's as dried out as ocean brine do her tears cease. As Zulf continues to pet her hair, she asks, ‘Does it ever get better? Does it ever go away?’

‘No,’ Zulf says, and leans down to kiss her on the forehead. ‘But it gets easier. I still miss my own father terribly. Some days, I still cry over him. But grief is like a tide; it comes in and goes out. It goes away, but it always come back. But it gets easier over time. It grows manageable. You are stronger than everyone else here combined; I know you can survive.’

With a sigh like winter winds, Zia uncovers her eyes. ‘So I guess I don't have a choice, huh? I just have to keep going.’

Zulf pats her head with a smile. ‘Exactly. Now, you go take a bath and get clean. I'll take care of the mess here.’

His tone is only slightly chiding. Zia mirrors his smile and sits up. ‘Yeah, yeah, I will.’ She pauses a moment, then kisses his cheek. ‘Thank you for this. It really helped.’

‘Of course,’ Zulf responds. ‘I'll always be here for you. Remember that.’

Getting up, Zia grabs a towel and a clean set of clothes, then says, ‘Oh, and Zulf? Next time you're sad, I'm doing this to you.’

She leaves and Zulf laughs to himself. It's always good to see her in better spirits.

#bastion #bastion game #bastion (game)#sggsecretsanta18 #janglinggargot #zia #zulf #writing #i luv me some platonic zia & zulf

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blacknovelist · 7 years

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The First Step (Pyre fic)

So I had this thought, for a whole bunch of fics for Pyre, and god I’m so in love with it, I want to do it. But the blackwagon is very, very important to this series and so, naturally, I needed a fic for the finding of the blackwagon. So it’s more or less better if I post this as-is and turn it into a series rather than a multi-chap as I first thought (which is a relief, because I’m still not ready after going through A Place to Be tbh)

Shoutout to @littlestmedic, who wrote this super cute Pyre fic that gave me the idea to call Jodariel “Mama Jodi”. And who might’ve given me a little bit of inspiration to include some “i don’t want this to end” feelings, maybe (the rest of it is my own personal feelings anyway because i’m still in pain and want to keep enjoying my days with all of my friends happy and free don’t look at me) Also shoutout to the SGG discord, who helped me make the decision to add that one part with Tariq. You know what I’m talking about.

Attempting to study Hedwyn’s vague-ass story about how he found the blackwagon for this fic was an experience and a half. My first draft of the first part is something that deserves to burn, but that’s what happens when you write on an airplane, I guess. *shrug*

[AO3]

Strange things can be heard among rumors in the Downside - the strangest are the ones that are true.

(before it learns how to be a home again, it must be found; and in the end, it is.)

It starts months before you are plunged down the river - not in the pearly streets of the Commonwealth, where the seeds of a plan are still being planted, but deep among the dung-boulder homes and pearly-white bone forests of Jomuer Valley. Beneath the light of the moon and stars, among the five exiles drinking and eating beside the sputtering fire, a trader swings their arms as they regale their audience with theatrical exaggeration.

“…and these folks, they’re rushing about fighting each other, wearing these bright eyesore dresses and freaky white masks for all the stars to see. Like the Commonwealth’ll see and take ‘em back somehow.” They gesture upwards as the group devolves into another round of laughter and snorting. “Tossing a glittering ball and lighting up the place with bonfires like they want the howlers ten leagues off to know what’s going on. Lunatics, they are!”

“There’ll always be idiots out there in the world,” a demon rumbles, tearing into their plate of roasted lizard.

“Aye, you said it, El,” One cur chortles, “and that’s somethin’ I’ll toast to!” She starts gulping down her drink by the mouthful, and the others cheer her on.

A brunet leans over to slug the arm of the man next to him, laughing. “Good thing we ain’t out there to catch whatever those guys’ve got. The things that happen in the Downside, eh?”

Hedwyn chuckles. “Indeed, my friend.” He glances at his temporary companions, but his eyes soon drift back to the smoldering logs. “The things that happen.”

The first rule to surviving the Downside is to never stop moving.

Even the bog-crones, who often stake their claims in the Flagging Hands as soon as they arrive, do what they can to keep busy and ensure they never have a chance to realize how desolate and cruel the Commonwealth’s merciful sentences really are. It’s important to keep moving forward and leave the world above behind (both physically and mentally) so the burdens of the Downside (also physical and mental in equal measure) don’t have the chance to catch up and kill you.

Unfortunately, that means making connections and finding people down here is a near miracle if you don’t know what you’re doing, and a difficult endeavor nonetheless even if you do. Hedwyn’s only saving grace, in the end, is the fact that there aren’t that many demons around. It isn’t hard to keep his ear to the ground and ask the right people the right questions until he’s pushing and stumbling his way past the crags splitting Jomuer Valley from the Prairie, coming across the campsite of Captain Jodariel herself.

Her low grunt as he steps (trips, really) into the light would’ve been intimidating, if the sound were any less familiar to his ears.

“Ah, hello, Jodi.” Hedwyn beams. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Hello, Hedwyn,” Jodariel says. “Should I be worried about the reason you’ve come trekking across the Downside without help to find me, or is this another one of your passing whims?”

“I’d like to think it’s neither-” His pack clangs to the ground as the pots and pans inside bang together- “but I have a feeling you would disagree with me. Besides, explanations can wait. We haven’t seen each other in some time. Have you eaten yet? I managed to pick up some things from the traders by the Spring that I think you’ll enjoy.”

“Did you now?” She pauses and sighs, before standing up. “Very well. I think I may have enough provisions left for both of us.”

Having lived in exile for so long, Jodariel knows exactly how things best work here in the Downside. The problem instead lies in the fact that she is a demon and doesn’t usually associate with any settlements in either of the most populous regions (Flagging Hands and its crones aside, as Jodi refused to discuss the place), and as a result cannot really help Hedwyn hunt down the info he’s looking for. She does, however, know someone who can.

Rukey Greentail is someone he’s only met briefly in the past, when the cur wrangled him good deals at the Slugmarket, shared a night and drinks, and extended his services to the nomad not long after his exile. “You ever need somethin’ done,” Rukey had said, “you just come right on over, chum! I’d be happy to help you out, and nobody’s got connections down here like I do.”

It doesn’t take long to find him either - the message runner down at Hollowroot costs them a dinner and some of Jodi’s scavenged herbs, but nothing they can’t easily replace, and within a week the trio is sitting together, lunch hanging from the sticks at the makeshift fire pit’s edge.

“So,” Rukey says, switching between looking at the duo and eyeing the spits, “what brings you two to good ol’ Greentail? Not that I ain’t happy to see you chums, but Jodariel isn’t usually one for making house calls so we can drink together.”

“That’s correct, Greentail,” Jodariel says. “We have our reasons for contacting you, but the nature of those reasons are less business-like in nature and somewhat more… personal.”

“Oh?” One ear shoots up.

“It’s a crazy plan. You’re the one who knows people, out of the three of us, and you have the best chances of finding what we need to make it work. It’s a shot in the dark, I’ll admit.” Hedwyn prods the fire, turns the logs. “But our reward, I think, is worth the trouble, at least. If it happens to be true.”

“And what, pray tell, is the reward to your so-called crazy plan?”

“Freedom.”

The crackle of wood fills the air for just a moment.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard him, Greentail,” Jodariel rumbles. “Outlandish as it sounds, I believe he’s onto something.”

“Well of course you do, isn’t there some rule about mums and their sons that has to do with always believing them?” Rukey falters for just a moment. “Did you guys forget that part where exile is a life sentence?! If there was some kind of secret path to leave this dump, don’t you think everyone’d be jumping all over it already?”

“Not unless the secret to freedom is so unbelievable that no one thinks it’s true,” Hedwyn says. “Look, Rukey. I know it’s a tall order, asking you to trust us and hunt something down without a guarantee to you, or to any of us. But if we don’t at least look into it, or try to figure it out, then there’s definitely no way out of here. We’d be giving up before we’ve even begun, and I don’t think I could forgive myself for something like that. If this whole thing turns out to be fake, I’ll repay you. Every piece of it by pocket, I promise. If it turns out to be true, though…. This just might be our ticket home.”

Rukey eyes him, expression unreadable.

“…alright, you got me, chum. I’ll bite.” He settles down, and reaches for his share of lunch. “Tell me more about what we’re doing, then.”

It’s small, but enough tension drains from his shoulders to fill a lake. Hedwyn smiles.

“We don’t have many leads, but it starts somewhere up north….”

“This better work,” Rukey grumbles for the umpteenth time as the messenger vanishes into the shrubbery. “You guys are lucky I already have a good idea of who to ask ‘bout this. It costs a lot to guarantee zipped lips, and even more to get a run to and from the middle of nowhere like this.”

“Discretion is necessary,” Jodariel says. “If word got out as to what we are searching for and for what reasons…”

“People calling us crazy would be the least of our problems,” Hedwyn says.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Rukey sighs. “I guess we’re camping out here for a while longer.”

The sun rests well above the horizon without a cloud to obscure it, leaving the Downside bright and warm in the surprisingly picturesque afternoon. Jodariel stalks the length of the clearing with a deliberate slowness, scanning the trees and skies for any less-than-friendly company. Rukey sits by the ashes of the fire, taking stock of what few materials and possessions he has on hand, calculating which ones can be sold or used or traded should he need to. There’s a rustle in the underbrush and they both pause, alert, until it fades back into silence.

“Hey, Jodi, uh…” Rukey fidgets with a glass bauble. “How long’d that messenger say they’d be talking to Hedwyn, again?”

“They didn’t.”

“….right.” He turns back to his belongings, sighs, and starts counting again.

It isn’t until shadows start stretching long and they’ve started preparing for the evening that Hedwyn finally returns, alone. He smiles in greeting.

“I’m back.”

“Took you guys a while!” Rukey grins, bounding over. Jodariel doesn’t stop tending the flames, but she dips her head towards him and there’s a quirk in her lips.

“How did your meeting go?” She asks.

“Just fine, I think. The messenger left to go inform their employer.” Hedwyn turns to his supplies and effortlessly heaves his cooking pot up - Rukey turns to finish clearing space. “They asked a few questions, answered some of mine, and left me with quite a bit to think about in the meantime. Said word would be back before the next moon passes, at the latest.”

“So….. it’s true, then?” Rukey asks. “This whole fighting under the stars thing, it’s real?”

“They kind of twisted out of a straight answer, but… I think it is. The fact that someone came at all says quite a lot.” Hedwyn pauses. “They also left me the name of the one your contact reached out to. Said he’d probably get in touch with me directly, after this.”

Jodariel looks up. “Who is it?”

“Someone by the name of Sandalwood.”

After the second messenger arrives to deliver word from Sandalwood, the three relocate their semi-permanent camp to the edge of the pass leading to Jomuer Valley. Partly because, as Jodariel tells them, the local fauna is often too wary of the monstrous form of the Ridge of Gol to come within sight of it, but also because the messenger informs them that they will come from the north, and this makes communications easier for both sides anyway.

For weeks, Hedwyn’s days consist of their small clearing and sputtering fires, of Rukey slipping off for days at a time to chat it up with his associates and Jodariel wandering off to patrol or in search for useful flora, of familiar strangers appearing like they’ve been there the whole time to ask more questions and deliver more news and bits of conversation from Sandalwood. It isn’t even until halfway through the second month of their communications, while Jodi and Rukey are away from camp, that the dozenth messenger comes with something new, in the form of a sheet of paper.

“In the Sandfolds,” She says to him, holding the paper up for him to see, “to the west and south, where the River Sclorian delivered us into the Downside.” The messenger traces a crude map in the corner, then taps at the next image, a black and white ink sketch of a wagon with a massive horn through its top section to serve as what seemed to be a lantern holder. “Find the blackwagon of the Nightwings, and take it with you. Bring your friends, the two of them.” Then she points to the third image - a circle with an intricate pattern traced in black, all curved lines connected and overlapping each other. “This will be set in its floor, and will be how you know you’ve found what you seek. You’ll find almost everything you need inside the cabin.”

“For the Rites, you mean?”

“Yes.” The messenger doesn’t so much as blink. “Nothing within will be unnecessary to your journey.. Once you’ve found the wagon, there’s one more thing you need to do. I trust you know what this symbol is.” Her finger moves to the fourth picture; one that sends an unconscious thrill through his heart, even if it means nothing in exile. “Find a Reader, take them with you. How doesn’t matter, as long as they are willing to read for you until you no longer require their services - you could buy their loyalty, for all the Scribes may care. The Book of Rites is the key to unlocking the Rites themselves, and there’s more than enough copies for you all - you’ll need to wear the robes, as well. There will be a set for each of you, and then some. Sandalwood has requested you try and find someone for each mask and set you have.” The paper is flipped to reveal a series of diagrams - instructions of some kind, Hedwyn realizes. “These are directions he gave me, for you. Follow them as best you can.”

She meets his gaze, sheet held between them, and smiles. It’s the first time he’s seen any of Sandalwood’s people show emotion. “'I will eagerly await the day we may meet, face to face. May the Scribes watch over you and see you find the true freedom you seek, young man.’”

The messenger disappears back into the Downside from whence she appeared, leaving him there, the guide clutched in his hand the only sign she’d been here at all.

“You are certain this is the right place?”

“As much as I can be, Jodi.”

Hedwyn examines the map on the corner one last time, before folding the sheet and tucking it into the bag on his belt. In front of them the wreckage of exile cages twist out of the sands around the mouth of the River like the silver bones of some long-dead titan, ripped apart and in various states of rust and decay. A few are more intact than others and some are still trapped in the rocks and currents, but all of them are devoid of the lives they once held.

“And I thought I’d never have to see these things again,” Rukey sighs, knocking a bar of metal back into the river. “So you’re absolutely sure that wagon’s supposed to be somewhere near here, right?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Then we’d best start looking,” Jodariel says. “Before night falls and the howlers come.”

Rukey looks heavenwards. “Yeah, yeah…”

It’s only thanks to a flash of green and red among the browns and grays of the Sandfolds - from a potted plant sitting on the back step and a torn scrap from the hanging flags, no less - that they find the wagon, in the end. The greater half of the day is spent scooping the mounds of dirt and sand off the transport until they realize it’s trapped in a rut, and the other half of the day is spent attempting to lever and push it free until Jodariel gets impatient and heaves it out in one huge burst.

“Thanks, Jodi.” Hedwyn leans on his knees for a moment, heaving, before holding the canteen in her direction, She nods, and takes it.

Figuring out how to ready the blackwagon for the night after that is a trial and a half. Silently, they all give thanks to the Scribes that Sandalwood had the foresight to send them a *manual*.

“Hedwyn. I believe we have a problem.”

“What is it, Jodi?”

“There’s a man in here. Sitting in the corner. He doesn’t appear to be moving.”

“Huh. Whaddya know, there is.”

“…I don’t think I recall the messenger or Sandalwood saying anything about someone being in the wagon.”

“Maybe he’s a minstrel? He’s got an instrument and everything.”

“Greentail……”

“Is he alright?”

“Well, uh. I just tried waking him up and, he didn’t so much as twitch. Did get some really weird vibes from the guy, though. I don’t think he’s dead, at least. That’s something, right?“

“To you, perhaps, but it still leaves the matter of what to do about him. He is not dead, but he has not stirred, and there is no telling how long he has been here or if he is a threat.”

“Why don’t we just leave him here? Not like he’s hurting anything, or in the way. He’s even sitting in the corner.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Rukey might be right. We can’t just leave him in the Sandfolds when he’s unconscious, and if we can’t wake him, there isn’t much else we can do until he comes to on his own.”

“…….”

“If you want to try, be my guest, Jodi. But we aren’t thinking about kicking him out until he’s awake.”

“…Very well.”

“Great! Now that that debate is over, maybe we should figure out how we’re gonna look after the horde of drive-imps in the rafters?”

“The what.”

As it turns out, finding a Reader is something far easier said than done. While the blackwagon makes it much easier to get around so Rukey can send word out to his various contacts and associates through Hollowroot, given how long literacy has been banned in the Commonwealth, well. There just aren’t many Readers in the Downside to be found.

Or rather, as they learn from what they occasionally stumble upon among the torn cages by the river, there aren’t often Readers (or other exiles, for that matter) to be found alive.

“I’ll keep my ears open,” Rukey promises, sending another messenger out to yet another vague associate he knows. “But, maybe, we’ll have better odds if we just camp it out by the river and try to find some folks that actually make it down? At least that way we can ask ‘em straight off the bat instead of chasing a bunch of Downside cryptids that may or may not exist at all, let alone know how to read.”

“Incredible, Greentail,” Jodariel says. “That’s actually a fairly reasonable plan, aside from the abysmal rate of survival the River Sclorian tends to provide.”

“Thank you, Jodi,” Rukey drawls. “My plans are always impeccable, after all.” He would be angrier if it weren’t for the faint smile on her face and the fact that this is probably the first joke he’s ever heard her crack - as it is… he lets it slide, this once. “Besides, I’m sure we’ll find someone alive someday!”

“Perhaps.”

(It wasn’t funny. Really, he swears.)

The three of them settle into a new routine as they familiarize themselves with both the Nightwings’ blackwagon and living together in their surprisingly roomy new home. Some days are spent venturing the Downside Prairie, picking up rumors and word from Rukey’s people, selling what plants and trinkets they salvage from the land when they have the chance; others are spent wearing the raiments and masks they’d gotten along with the wagon, sweeping the Sandfolds and checking the River Sclorian for traces of new cages, new exiles, potential survivors of the treacherous trip downriver.

It’s difficult, sometimes. Hedwyn, having grown used to living alone, tends to leave his belongings in unusual and obscure places that make avoiding or finding them difficult for anyone that isn’t Hedwyn; Jodi tends to pace when she’s worried or in deep thought, which wouldn’t be a problem if it weren’t for the fact that her footsteps shake the wagon when she’s not careful and Rukey can only stand the squeak of the floorboards for so long; Rukey’s personality in general tends to get on Jodariel’s nerves, and vice versa. Occasionally, the hopelessness of finding nothing but scraps and remains starts to get at all of them, and they need to step back from watching the rushing waters and shifting sands for a while.

But some days, they make it work. Rukey finds ways to seem busy or occupied and helps Jodariel forage for supplies, and she works at not nagging him; Hedwyn starts restricting “his space” for his heavier possessions, so Rukey can stop running into them; Jodariel tries to restrict her contemplation for when they’re stopped or she’s off the blackwagon, and to avoid the noisiest of floorboards when she can’t. Some days it’s easy to gather around the fire and melt together into the comfortable aura, to become something that looks just a little bit more like a family with every hour that passes.

'I wouldn’t have had this in the Commonwealth,’ Hedwyn marvels some nights, when the stars glimmering above them seem just a bit brighter than they usually do. 'It would be close, maybe, but I’d still be on the Bloodborder, fighting the Harps. Fighting Fikani’s people.’

Once, the thought of fighting the age-old war had filled him with excitement (with awe, with a hope that maybe, someday, he could be like Mama Jodi, who always lifted him in her strong battle-scarred arms). Now, the idea leaves his head spinning.

If finding a Reader doesn’t work out for them, he knows, they will likely return to their lives before this. They will go back to wandering the Downside, surviving in the only ways they know how.

But is that all you want to do? Survive?

Silently, privately, he prays to the Scribes that their plan works. That he doesn’t have to watch his friends leave until nothing has changed and he doesn’t know when (or if) they might see each other again. He prays, for only a moment, that he can hold onto this just a little bit longer.

“So, what I’m thinking is, given how long we’ve gone without seeing anyone come out of that river, we’re long overdue to finding at least one person alive, y'know?” Rukey grins. “I’ve got a feeling. Today’s gonna be the day, I just know it!”

“That would be far more believable if you hadn’t said that last week as well,” Jodariel says. “What’s so different about today, Greentail?”

“Just a hunch.”

“If acting on a hunch means we might find something more than sand, I think I’ll take it,” Hedwyn jokes. Their cursory scan of the riverbank hadn’t provided any new leads, but as always, Rukey stays optimistic.

He turns back to the controls, veering around another splintered steel cage (it’s fresh, if the lack of rust and wear are any indication). Directing the drive-imps is surprisingly easy once one understand the basics of it, and as long as you keep the critters well-fed they seem content to follow orders.

Even if those orders consist of slamming on the brakes so hard you nearly fling yourself and everyone in the blackwagon right out the window.

“Ugh, not that I’m insulting your driving skills, chum, but WHAT WAS THAT FOR?!?”

“For once, I’m with Greentail. What’s going on, Hedwyn?”

The tips of his ears turn pink. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to slam on them like that. But outside, in front of the wagon - I think there’s someone there.”

The impostor members of the Nightwings pause. Then, Jodariel and Rukey are stepping towards the front window, towards the unfortunate and sad lump sitting in the distance.

“…So there is.”

Rukey beams. “Well, what are we waiting for? How’s about we go and say hello?”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

Out on the barren wastes, you sink low to the sands, your ragged cloak doing little to shield you from the blistering winds. The fear your arrival brought you has started to fade, replaced by the numbness exhaustion and starvation brings you. Your vision is starting to swim. You won’t last much longer, like this.

Off in the distance, you hear the rumble of a wagon.

#pyre #pyre fic #jodariel #hedwyn #rukey greentail #blacknovelist writes #the nightwings #a brief appearance from the reader at the v end #pre canon #hi 2am how are u today #skipped the ffnet crosspost bc there isn't even a pyre archive. what's the point #maybe i'll do it later but fuck im tired man #also.its spoiler free!

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avanneman · 5 years

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TV or not TV? Isn’t there a third option?

I’ve already argued that the pickings at the multiplex are pretty slim, nor am I a fan of what I have labeled “Heavy TV”, disliking it so much I had to write a sequel to my original putdown.1 My appetite, such as it was, for the doings of sadistic serial killers is pretty much exhausted, and I’m generally either afraid of “The Dark” or bored by it. So is nothing acceptable? Fortunately, there are a few old favorites that are still holding up, and a few other odds and ends—shows that have come and gone that I’m just discovering.

Archer, suave secret agent/dick (both private and public), about whom I’ve raved in the past, on my own blog and for the Bright Lights Film Journal, still functioning, and still tolerably funny in its ninth season, is preparing for its tenth and last on FX. Earlier seasons are no longer available on Netflix (except on DVD) and Amazon Prime makes you pay extra even for Season 1, which strikes me as exceptionally bitchy (or Archery). I’m sure the kids have figured out a way to watch it for free, but I haven’t, so I’m DVDing it.

The third season of Call My Agent!, aka Dix Pour Cent, a semi-favorite of mine is up on Netflix, chronicling the frenzied adventures of the ever-endangered ASK talent agency in Paris. I complained about the excessive coziness of Saison Deux, but I’m glad to report that Saison Trois is both more dry and more droll. As I expected, the cliffhanger from Saison Deux, that big-hearted, big-nosed lesbian Andréa (Camille Cottin) would be shipped off to New York, didn’t happen, allowing her to have her baby (by boss Hicham Janowski, played by Assaad Bouab) in the safety and sanctity of the French medical system. My big complaint in the past was the show’s star-struck approach to stars, showing them as vain and temperamental (at first) but, after a few complications, emerging as gallant thoroughbreds who always come through under pressure and save the day. This time, instead of a handful of European stars entirely unknown to me, we have a true international star, Isabelle Huppert. Isabelle isn’t “bad”, of course. If anything, she’s too generous and hard-working. The thing is, she’s signed a contract with—wait for it—Americans! Who want her exclusively and, mercenary monsters that they are, would foreclose on Versailles and ship it to LA if they don’t get their way!

Fortunately, ASK has both the sangfroid and the savoir faire to hose the Yanks, though it takes quite a bit of frantic behind the scenes running around to carry the whole thing off. Along the way, there’s a funny side plot, wherein the sweet gay guy, whose name I still don’t know and can’t determine, gets a chance to move up to be an actual agent instead of an assistant! Because sweet not-gay Camille (Fanny Sidney) thinks she’s so busy she should be two people, sweet gay guy becomes her, for a day. And then he meets this really cute waiter who wants to be a star, and so sweet gay guy arranges for an audition for him! Both their dreams are going to come true! Well, how else does one celebrate such an occasion, eh, mon ami? But then, well, really cute waiter gets sent to the wrong audition, and he’s terrible, and the studio wants to know why ASK is sending them boyfriends instead of actors, and SGG has to 1) catch shit from Camille for endangering the agency, 2) tell RCW that he isn’t star material, and 3) take shit from RCW, to wit: “You only took me on because you wanted to fuck me! Well, mission accomplished, bitch! Because now I’m totally fucked!” And all because he wanted to make people’s dreams come true! Agents suffer!

A past hidden gem that I’m just discovering is Blandings, a mere 12 thirty-minute episodes from Britain, but I’m lovin’ ‘em. “Blandings”, available on Amazon, is ultimately from the pen of P. G. Wodehouse, the grandmaster of silly ass Englishman light fiction. I’ve previously discussed a series dating from the early 90s, Jeeves and Wooster, devoted to Wodehouse’s supreme creation, the saga of Bertie Wooster and his man Jeeves, which ran through dozens of short stories and perhaps a dozen novels, from the early twenties through 1970. Devotees/obsessives like myself marinated for decades in Bertie’s inimitable rococo narration of Jeeves’ inimitable rococo machinations, all in the service of the inimitable truth, that Amor Vincit Omnia, though not without considerable assistance from Jeeves.

It was surely inevitable that Jeeves and Wooster would fall below the mark unconsciously set for it by aficionados like myself. Despite the ineffable lightness of Wodehouse’s prose, both Bertie and Jeeves were quite complex characters, doppelgangers for Wodehouse himself. “Plum”, as everyone (apparently) called him, was quite unhappy as a boy, but immensely happy at his “public” school—what we Americans would call a prep school—“Dulwich College”. The moral he seemed to take away from it all was that happiness, though possible, is not “natural”—it must be consciously achieved. Furthermore, it is most often achieved in the company of the privileged, and it can best be achieved by holding the world at arm’s length.

In the early short stories, Bertie is always either falling in love or getting engaged, or both, but always to the “wrong woman”—though, in sharp contrast to the American “rom com”, there is no right one.2 As Jeeves repeatedly makes clear, the only way to avoid the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune is to abstain from the fury and mire of human veins. By the mid-thirties, when Wodehouse had largely switched from short stories to novels, Bertie was as skeptical of affairs of the heart as Jeeves. The turning point was Brinkley Manor, aka What Ho, Jeeves (1934), which set in motion a collection of entangled and star-crossed lovers who, thanks to Jeeves, all married happily, though the consummations were delayed for a good thirty years. The Epicurean Roman poet Lucretius notoriously found it pleasing to stand safely on the shore and watch the sufferings of those at sea tormented by the storm.3 Both Jeeves and Bertie are made of softer stuff, and, confronted as they invariably are by victims of internal rather than external weather, always strive to intervene—Bertie ingenuously and disastrously, Jeeves with the effortless hand of the Creator (or the Author). But in both cases, intervention is only possible if one is one’s self immune to the tempest within.4

Jeeves and Bertie are scarcely three-dimensional characters, and the supporting cast distinctly less so, but over the decades that he wrote about them, Wodehouse rang the changes on the limited notes available to him so ingeniously that—for the addicted, at least—they remained ever fresh and vivid. The result is that, I suspect, all true devotees have a “perfect” Aunt Dahlia and a “perfect” Madelaine Bassett, not to mention a perfect Bertie and a perfect Jeeves, already fixed in their heads, so that the poor actors and actresses (if I can use such a term) who portray them almost invariably appear as disappointments or even frauds, for the perfect is always the enemy of the good.

In the “Blandings” stories, revolving around Lord Emsworth and his kin, and most particularly his prize pig, the “Empress” and set in the “eternal Twenties” of Wodehouse’s imagination,5 the perfect rarely intrudes The few I read from the series struck me as a distinctly lesser creation, stories that Wodehouse wrote as a sort of vacation from the Wooster/Jeeves high-wire act. Without Bertie’s perfect voice—the Blandings stories are written the third person—and without Jeeves perfect schemes, we have little more than a stock company road show of silly ass Englishmen, good-hearted chorus girls, good-natured, big-bellied, empty-headed lords, imperious dames, and sherry-slurping butlers, all wandering around the sort of enormous country estate that drove me half bonkers in the unspeakably wretched Downton Abbey.6 But at Blandings, it works.

Rather remarkably, given the degenerate nature of our time, the producers of the show made no attempt to position themselves as superior to the material, no effort to show what life was “really” like in those bad old days, which was in fact pretty horrible for everyone below stairs and for half of those above it. Wodehouse deconstructed would be a sorry sight indeed, and we don’t get it. The only updating that has been done is pretty much limited to the occasional pig fart, and (probably) more “muck” jokes (manure) than P. G. would have allowed himself. Instead, we have the amiable Lord Emsworth (Timothy Spall), sporting a thoroughly “English” set of teeth, his amiable son Freddie Threepwood (Jack Farthing), his unamiable sister Lady Constance (Jennifer Saunders), and his stout butler Beach (played first by Mark Williams in the first season and by Tim Vine in the second), all cavorting and disporting themselves in a suitably Wodehousian manner. Freed from the burden of perfection, and avoiding on its own the burden of pretense, it’s pretty damned good road show all around, and I’m sorry it didn’t get a longer run.

Another invigorating look at the Roaring Twenties with a British accent—more substantial, this time around—comes from Down Under in the form of Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries, three full seasons of hour long treats on both Netflix and ABC that make Sydney, Australia look surprisingly like London—and sound like it too, because all the leads have surprisingly (to me) posh accents.7 Miss Fisher, played by the charming Essie Davis, is unsurprisingly and unchronologically up to date in all her attitudes, being (of course) independent and quite capable of clambering over walls and scaling buildings in pursuit of evil-doers, even in high heels. Phryne, as her first name is, has a sweet companion, Dorothy Williams (Ashleigh Cummings), somewhat lower down on the social scale and naturally a bit intimidated by Phryne’s upper class lack of inhibition. Both gals have steady Eddies, in the form of Chief Inspector John Robinson (Nathan Page) for Phryne and Constable Hugh Collins (Hugo Johnstone-Burt) for Dorothy. The Chief Inspector, virtually a walking Rock of Gibraltar and a titan of middle-class inhibitions, is naturally entranced by the wicked Miss Fisher, who keeps his Herculean physique tightly wrapped around her little finger for all three seasons, and it must be said that Constable Collins’ fate is only a little less circumscribed.

As should be obvious, Miss Fisher is largely a chick show, of particular interest, I would say, to women who worry about their boyfriends’ hair, because both the Chief Inspector and the Constable have coifs that are, invariably, perfect. Some of the “backstory” for the show—the bitterness many Australians felt at the way the “Mother Country” used them for its own purposes in World War 1, for example—shows some real thought. There is, unsurprisingly, a gaping omission when it comes to the subject of race, and the position of the “aborigines”, which in the twenties was entirely deplorable. Most unattractive is the difference in the treatment of two of Miss Fisher’s many lovers, one Chinese and one “black”. The Chinese lover comes from a prominent family, speaks excellent English, and has come to Australia to flee an arranged marriage in order to marry the woman he loves, whose father is a communist. The black lover is an extra in a film, has not a single line, and clearly functions as a one-night stud. Naughty, yes, but not very nice.

For now, that's it. So don't say nothing's on. Say almost nothing's on.

Latest and worst heavy TV of all is the execrable Game of Thrones. The sappy English accents alone make it unwatchable, not to mention the entire fur coats, tits, and bloody murder ethos of the damn show. Livin’ in the Age o’ Trump is already terrible, but this show makes it worse. ↩︎

As a young man, Wodehouse wrote “straight” rom com novels like Mike in the City and Leave it to Psmith!, whose heroes were impecunious public school men, rather like Wodehouse himself, ↩︎

The opening stanza of Book II of De Rerum Natura, aka “The Nature of Things”—a Roman catchphrase. People are always taking a look at rerum natura. ↩︎

Wodehouse did marry, Ethel May Wayman, an English widow. They had no children, but Wodehouse adopted Wayman’s daughter, to whom he was quite devoted. Supposedly, Ethel was the Jeeves to Plum’s Bertie. ↩︎

“First and last,” I squealed in impotent and ineffectual rage, “I was overwhelmingly put off by the idea that it’s okay, in any sense of the word, for five people to be knocking about in a house the size of Grand Central Station, with two or three dozen menials rushing about night and day to keep everything looking just so.” Blandings rather shamelessly elides the issue by pretending that Lord Emworth’s immense estate is cared for by a handful of servants, who spend most of their time either feeding cake to pigs or drinking sherry. ↩︎

Actually, Wodehouse’s stock characters are really pre-World War I, as George Orwell explains. Orwell’s essay discusses Wodehouse’s early work in some detail, on its way to giving what I found to be too much deference to Wodehouse’s unthinking behavior when captured by the German Army in France in 1940. Wodehouse gave a radio broadcast making it sound as though being imprisoned by the Germans was rather jolly. Wodehouse’s wife was also a prisoner, so it’s not surprising that he wanted to cooperate, but there’s a difference between cooperating and being coopted. I suspect that Wodehouse, like many rich people, hoped that the Nazis wouldn’t be so bad. ↩︎

A contemporary Australian series, Rake, also available on Netflix, which I gave up on because it kept expecting me to identify with a coke addict, features noticeably less posh accents. ↩︎

#tv #Archer #Call My Agent!#Blandings #Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries #Jeeves

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