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ocean-in-my-rebel-soul · 3 years

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Handmade Hearts

A sweet, fluffy commission for @tea42, featuring their genderfluid Jurian Hawke (he/they) and Anders! Also, bonus Merrill and Anders friendship!

Handmade Hearts (read on AO3)

Characters/Relationships: Genderfluid!Hawke/Anders, Merrill & Anders

Rating: T

Words: 2,632

Tags: Knitting, fluff, romantic fluff

Anders learns to knit and finds it extremely rewarding.

The fire burns cheerfully in the main room of Merrill’s home, keeping warm against the rainy day outside. Dried herbs and flowers scattered upon the cinders perfume the air with a delicate sweetness, the perfect accompaniment to the long-cold tea set and a small plate of cookies that sit on the table between Anders and the hearth. The snaps and crackles of the hearth break up the quietness of the room; Merrill hums from her bedroom, the open door letting it float to his ears where he sits on the sofa.

Anders readjusts the deep red working yarn over his hand. He can’t help the way his hands want to cramp, or that his tongue sticks out from between his teeth. A length of lumpy knitting drapes from between the four needles, something that might become a sock but is still yet far from it. Frowning, he calls out, “Are you sure I’m doing this right?”

“Hm?” Merrill pops her head out through the doorway. “Oh, I’m sure you are,” she says airily, dismissing his worry with a wave of her hand. “You are an excellent student, Anders.”

“‘Excellent student’ my arse,” Anders mutters. He’s half-tempted to rip it all apart and start over. Again. The motley yarn is relatively soft but inconsistently spun, a fact he’s been wrestling with for hours. “You didn’t see me in the Circle.”

“You’re so smart, you couldn’t have done too badly.” She returns with a project of her own, a half-woven… something stretched out on some sort of loom and an armload of small yarn balls. Merrill sits on the floor beside him and sets her contraption up against the table. It’s built of scraps, small bits of wood tacked and nailed together into a frame and the various other bits of it. Thin strings run the length of it and hold up a section of the variegated blue weave.

He watches her from over his misshapen sock. You couldn’t have done too badly. If only that were the half of it, he thinks, but he keeps that locked tight behind his teeth. No need to drag her down with him, or any of them, for that matter. Anders has tried to let go of the fierce jealousy, the rage that simmers in his gut when he thinks about it too hard, but it just sits there and curdles. He had overheard once, from the whispers of templars too loose with their tongues, that the Dalish mages were wild, almost feral; that they were simply too dangerous to try to bring into the Circle. Apparently, a friend of a friend of a colleague of someone they’d trained with had been killed by a Dalish clan when they tried to capture one of their young mages, and to hear it told in the frigid corridors of the Kinloch Circle, the clan had sent that knight back to the Circle in a crate.

Merrill smiles to herself absently as she threads the shuttle through the warps, building up the next row of soft blue. It’s so serene, too much so compared to the way he’d watched her suffocate a man to death with thick, thorny vines just the week before. He’s very glad for the tenuous olive branch of peace between them, more for Jurian’s sake than anything, but he’s still glad.

“Oh, you’re holding it too tightly,” she murmurs.

Anders jolts back into himself to find her frowning softly at his knitting. Dismayed, he sees exactly where he’d gone wrong; the thin yarn draws the already bumpy fabric into a bunched-up wrinkle, and he’s let the stitches slip and go wonky. Anders tosses the mess onto the sofa behind him and buries his face in his hands, fighting down the urge to scream. “I am a Maker-damned surgeon,” he bites out. “Why can’t I get this?”

The sofa shifts and creaks when she perches upon it. “I think we can fix it,” she says, like it’s easy, and Anders peeks out from behind his hands. Merrill picks up the discarded sock, or what this third attempt tries to pass as being a sock, and eyes it, prodding here and poking there. Her deft fingers wrangle it back to being mostly flat, not a small victory. She realigns the knitting needles for him before handing it all back.

“Here,” she says, and Merrill takes his hands in hers. The shallow scars that mar her palms press into the backs of his hands. It’s an immense effort not to shudder at the way they brush his skin as she repositions his fingers over the needles and shifts the working yarn. “There, that should help.”

He looks dubiously at his project but works the next stitch, then the next, and then the next, until he’s got another row down. “Oh,” he says, relieved, “that actually does help. Thank you.” When Anders looks up, Merrill wears a soft expression, a tiny little smile so different than the one she usually wears for him. “You’re really good at this,” Anders mutters. He looks away, unable to take in the surprised gratitude in her expression, knowing that he’s rarely as kind as he could be, should be toward her and too cowardly to admit it.

Anders puts the haggard sock down long enough to trace small glyphs upon his palms with his fingertips and grabs the cold ceramic teapot from the table. He focuses intently on his hands and a moment later warmth builds; in the span of a few breaths the tea is hot again. Merrill watches him from the corner of her eye as she works on her own weaving, and when he pours her a fresh cup, she smiles brightly at him.

It’s a new, fragile peace, but it’s theirs, for as long as he can manage it. They sit and chat and work into the late afternoon and Merrill eventually teaches him how to finish it, to wrangle the messy bits into a semblance of proper, useful purpose. It isn’t until night truly approaches and the rain pours down in sharp, heavy sheets that he packs away his project. He leaves with a bag heavy with his gifted supplies and a heart all the lighter for it.

-------

“That’s almost right,” Anders mutters to himself, relaxing further into the plush cushions of the sofa. His hair is still damp from the frantic walk back to the estate, but he’s long forgotten the dwindling flames of the hearth. He slips the last few stitches off his needles and reworks them, only to sigh and pull them apart again. Anders frowns at the pinched area in question. “How did she do that, again…?”

A voice breaks through the quiet solitude of the den. “What are you working on, love?”

Anders scrambles and drops the half-finished sock altogether in his fumbling. Jurian leans over the back of the sofa to hug him from behind, their chin resting on his shoulder. “Knickerweasels, Jurian, you surprised me!” Anders tilts his head to rub their cheeks together, the stretch a bit awkward for a kiss but still wanting the contact. “Didn’t expect you back yet.”

“Got home early. Mind if I join you?” Jurian murmurs. They lay a kiss on his temple and round the couch when he nods, reclining against the arm to watch him.

“Well, it seems the cat’s already out of the bag.” He retrieves the wayward sock from the floor and shows it off. “Your birthday’s coming up, and I thought…” He trails off at the way Jurian stares, blank-faced, at the sock. “I thought it’d be nice to make you something,” Anders finishes weakly, unsure. “A—a surprise.”

Jurian lets out a shaky sigh. “Come here?”

Anders goes immediately, and Jurian’s arms are strong and secure where they wrap around his ribs and hold him to their chest. “What’s that face for?” he asks against their collarbone. “Do you not like it?”

They nuzzle his hair, and they’re so quiet that Anders can hear their heartbeat. “It’s been a while since anyone made me something, let alone for a birthday,” Jurian eventually says. They hum. “I think… I think maybe it was Bethy; she knit a scarf for me, the winter before the blight.”

“That was years ago…”

“Yeah,” they mutter. “Mother… Mother would make us things through the year—scarves, socks, mittens, things like that. But after Father died… She got so busy, selling her skills to the others in town. Mother’s a rather brilliant embroiderer, you know, and she took to other fiber crafts like a fish to water. But she got so busy that she was tired, all the time. It was all she could do to keep up with the work, it was hard enough to take care of us.” They pause. “I don’t mean she wasn’t a good mother, but… She just wasn’t the same after Father died.”

“So Bethany took on that job.”

“Pretty much. Carver enlisted in the militia as soon as he was old enough; it was good money and good training, and no one could blame him. I had to run the house when Mother couldn’t and so I took a job closer to home, to keep an eye on things.”

To keep an eye on Bethany, Jurian doesn’t say, but Anders hears it all the same.

Anders presses a row of kisses along the column of their throat. “You deserve all the softest things, Jurian,” he murmurs into their skin. “You deserve everything.” Anders pulls back, not quite lifting from where he lay draped across their chest, just enough to shyly look them in the face. “Do you want to see them? I’ve finished the first one. You could—could try it on, if you wanted. Actually, if you could make sure it fits, that would be great.”

Jurian kisses the tip of Anders’ nose. “I’d love that.”

Anders gets up from his comfy perch and reaches over the couch to snag his project bag. He yelps; Jurian’s hand rubs against his rear, soothing the playful smack they’d just left as he bent over. “You’re a menace, my love,” Anders laughs, and he leans back into the plush cushions. He fishes the finished sock from the bag; the main red coloring is deep, almost more black than anything else, but it’s offset by streaks of gold-ish yellow that Merrill had helped him with. “It’s a little… rough,” he allows. “The yarn is mostly scraps and discards. And I’m not very good yet—”

“It’s perfect,” Jurian whispers, taking it in hand. Their fingers rub against the wool; it’s still a little scratchy, at least to Anders’ sensitive skin. The sock crushes in their hand and comes out just fine, and Anders smiles.

“Try it on?” he coaxes.

Jurian snorts but dutifully takes off their slipper and rolls up the leg of their trousers. Anders isn’t sure who’s more nervous as they slide it on, himself or Jurian, but it’s worth the nerves to see the way Jurian’s face lights up at the way it sits halfway up their calf. “It’s beautiful,” they say. “Perfect. Just like you, Anders.”

A warmth builds in Anders’ chest at that, and he blushes, looking away to dodge the weight of their quiet declaration. “I—well. Not perfect, certainly, but—”

“No.” Jurian shifts to face him. Their brow pinches and a soft frown pulls at their mouth. “My love, I cannot help the way you feel about yourself,” they start, and they crawl forward, slowly pressing Anders onto his back. “But please don’t try to qualify my feelings for you.” One hand holds a position just above Anders’ head and the other clutches the arm of the couch behind him. They lean down. “I say you are perfect because to me you are perfect.”

Anders sighs into the kiss. Jurian’s weight above him makes the fluttery thing in his gut settle. His hands wind into Jurian’s hair, anchoring them together, and the pressure of teeth nipping at his bottom lip draws a moan from him. It’s not rushed, it’s not frantic, but it is thorough—teeth and lips and tongue, hot, scorching breath and soft gasps that hitch between them. He wraps his legs around Jurian’s own, hooking his knees over the back of their thighs, but Jurian doesn’t stop the slow, methodical work of taking him apart.

It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s lightning in his veins, velvet on his skin. He makes a noise, a punched-out little whine, at the blissful sensory overload. They part enough for Anders to nudge his forehead against Jurian’s own, and the face they make is so sweet it makes him ache. Anders has to fight to gather his thoughts again, cheeks flushing at the way Jurian lay between his thighs. “You drive me crazy,” he groans. Jurian grins and bends to dust light kisses just at the edges of his mouth.

“Good,” they say, “means I’m doing something right.” The breath of their gentle chuckle is warm against Anders’ reddened cheeks. “Thank you.”

It takes Anders a full ten seconds to place what for. He follows Jurian’s wandering mouth and kisses them sweetly, his hands coming up to cup their face. His thumb drags along the rise of their cheekbone. “You deserve it,” Anders murmurs. “I mean it. You deserve it, and more, more than some socks—and I promise to make you everything I can, to take care of you the best I can. But you’re welcome, for the socks.”

“You do, too, love.” They smile and lean down to press kisses along his hairline, over his brow, along the ridge of his nose. Their lips brush over every inch of his face before returning to his mouth and Anders can’t feel anything over the sheer vastness of everything blooming in his chest, security and desire and yearning and things he can’t even begin to name feeding the growing warmth in his belly when Jurian next speaks. “And I’m going to show you, care for you, in every way I know how.”

His breath escapes him with a shuddering sigh at the low promise. “Ah, you keep talking like that and I won’t be able to get anything done on the other sock…”

Jurian hums against his cheek. “I think maybe we can be done with knitting for the night?” they suggest, nosing along his jaw. Jurian presses a kiss just below the hinge of Anders’ jaw. “Haven’t seen you in three days. I missed you.”

“A dreadfully long time, that,” Anders wheezes. His hands clench in Jurian’s hair and it’s a hard decision, staying like this or following the possibility in their words. The anticipation wins out, helped by the desire that simmers in Jurian’s gaze. His heart thumps painfully in his chest. “I think I’m a bit knitted out, actually. Think I can be persuaded into something else.”

Jurian laughs at that. They help Anders off the couch and wrap him in their arms again. “You’re going to be mismatched until I finish the other one, you know,” he says helpfully, and Jurian grins.

“I’m not worried.” They brush their noses together in a butterfly kiss. “You can take your time. I can wait.”

“I can’t,” Anders murmurs, catching Jurian’s gaze meaningfully. He looks off in the direction of the stairs and back in open invitation, and it takes exactly two seconds for Jurian to walk him backward toward the door. Together they manage to stumble from the den, draped along each other, arms wrapped around ribcages, unwilling to part even for a moment as they make their way upstairs. Anders leads them into the bedroom and closes the door behind him with a satisfied sigh.

“Now,” he says, cupping Jurian’s jaw, “let me show you how much I missed you.”

#Handers #Hawke #Anders #Genderfluid!Hawke #Dragon Age 2 #DA2 #fanfic #fanfiction #commissions #writing commissions #ocean writes #soulrebel writes #reblogs comments and likes welcome and highly appreciated! thank you!

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faveficarchive · 5 years

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Appetite

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Xena/Gabrielle

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: Post-FIN, Gabrielle lands in a cell in Judea with Salome. If you aren’t familiar with Salome, here’s a tl;dr:

She was the daughter of King Herod’s (tetrarch of Judaea) second wife, and she was known as a great dancer, and when she danced for Herod one night, he was so jazzed he granted her any one thing she desired. So as per her mother’s request, she asked for the head of John the Baptist. That eventually lands her in jail because of the request and the outcry that came of it.

Salome: …I am athirst for thy beauty; I am hungry for thy body; and neither wine nor apples can appease my desire. What shall I do now, Iokanaan? Neither the floods nor the great waters can quench my passion.

—from Salome, Oscar Wilde

When I danced that night, I imagined dancing only for him. I knew that if he saw me move, if he saw my body set in motion purely by love of him, then he would renounce all his beliefs, his God, his savior, his comrades. If only I'd had the opportunity. I would have tied my scarf around his throat, tethering him to me, yoked in an impossible bond. He would gorge himself on my love. I would be his only appetite.

This passion I felt when first I saw him was so deep that I imagined it had no real beginning. It emerged—fully formed, monstrously born—as Athena from the skull of Zeus (if I may be forgiven in using the barbarian gods of the Greeks in this analogy); one would expect such love to prove all-consuming. And yet, I would have been content with a mere kiss, a mere touch. He glowed, holy and pale, slim as an exotic figurine, unlike any man I had ever seen. And when I did touch him, the world suffered in comparison. The silk that I revered was no longer the expensive clothes I wore, but his skin.

But he resisted me, he rejected me. Ridicule curled from his tongue. The root of it all proved to be the sickening sham of his religion. I wanted to kiss him. I begged him for that. Begged. Had I ever begged anyone for anything before? Did I even need to? Still, he refused.

I didn't know what else I could do. And thus, here I am.

* * *

There is a great deal of confusion as to what my fate will be. My name embraces infamy but the woman behind it all is forgotten. They remember the dance and the act that followed. That's it. Many assumed I was killed immediately afterward; of the stories that circulate, that is the most prevalent ending. Perhaps it would have been better that way, because right now I sit in a cell, alone, clothes drooping in filthy finery from my body, youth falling from my bones.

Herod comes to me at night. No, I am not imagining it, and no, it's not what you think. Even though I would give it to him now if he wanted it, I would give it to him because it doesn't matter any more. In fact, it seems fitting somehow; why else did he ask me to dance for him? It all began with his appetite for me, which mocked his marriage to my mother. It seems only right that it would end with him taking what he had wanted. And while I am now like spoiled meat to him, his hunger remains. It brings him back to me. He wakes every morning because of it. He can't solve the riddle of his appetite. So he comes to me, always surprised that he is drawn to me, always surprised that I am still the same woman he detests. He speaks with me from behind the safety of the cell door; he asks what he should do with me.

Admittedly, it is rather considerate of him to ask.

"Set me free," I said last night, as I always do.

His thick, nervous swallowing was the initial response. "I can't," he finally replied.

We go through this every time he visits me. As usual, I grew bored and exasperated with him. "Well," I sighed, curling the edge of my tattered skirt in my hand, "whatever you do, don't kill me." As if this off-hand reminder will guarantee my life. Yes, Tetrarch, meet with your advisors after breakfast, review your troops, sign some bits of paper raising taxes, oh, and by the way, make sure you don't kill me today. All right? Fine, that's all then. Have a good day.

Herod was silent for a while on the other side of the heavy door—as vast a boundary as another country—and I would have thought that he left, except that his torch remained flickering outside the cell.

Then he spoke. "You'll have a surprise later."

He almost sounded pleased with himself, like a wife who has arranged and planned an elaborate dinner for her husband. "I must go."

The light vanished, and I could hear the sound of his soft tread trampled underneath rattling keys, clanking armor, and thumping boots.

It is still dark when I see light dappling the hall outside once again. The door opens quickly and a figure is tossed in, like a sack of potatoes. In the flash of light I can tell it's a boy, wearing a gray cloak. He grunts as he hits the floor. Does he think that he's alone? He must, for he says nothing. His heavy breathing is pinched into silence like a candle's flame extinguished between thumb and forefinger. Is he dead? It occurs to me I could check. It also occurs to me that I could be run through with a dagger for such curiosity. I decide to wait for morning.

The night dances for me. Every minute passed is a veil falling away from my sight.

In the clarity of morning, which makes everyone look older anyway—thank God I don’t have a mirror— I see that my boy is actually a woman—small, sturdy, well built. Obviously a warrior of some kind, who has lived hard. I see it now in her face. Even in her dirty, disheveled state, her short blonde hair gleams like grain under the sun. There is a wound upon her thigh, deep and slashing, like a bloody mouth. Her open cloak reveals a bare midriff mottled with fresh, darkening bruises the color of plums.

She breathes.

However, she does not wake when the door is opened and food brought in. Water in a jug, half a loaf of bread, two bowls of thin broth. The broth, I know, is a special treat.

I nibble at some bread and watch her. Her lips, dry and cracked, move a little as she sleeps. It occurs to me she might be Amazon, even though word has been that the Amazons are a dying nation, decimated by the Romans and any man who hates women enough to kill them. And the world has never seen a short supply of those. Perhaps the surprise here is that the Amazons have existed for as long as they have. I think of Herod and what he might still do to me. It occurs to me, sometimes, to wonder why I live, why I want to live. Force of habit? Fear of the unknown?

No. If I die, I will lose him somehow. And even though there are moments when I can't bear to even think of his name—like right now—the thought of this permanent state of oblivion is even more unbearable.

Lost in these morbid thoughts, I nearly relieve myself when she sits up, feral and panting, apprehensive as a panther. Her hands claw the earth floor, muscles ripple along her torso and neck.

Her eyes are an extraordinary color. They take in me, the cell, the door, and finally, the food.

She looks at me again. It's tempting to knock over the food, the water, and dance about the cell in a frenzy. If I doubt her mercy now, then surely such an act would see my neck snapped with bare hands; her savage look impresses me that much. But a laugh—short, terrified, defiant—escapes me. She stares at me curiously. What shall she do? Beat me? Rape me?

I squirm across the cell, the disgraced hem of my dress trailing me like a mute supplicant—and when I open my mouth, expecting mocking, laughter, or even a simple protest at this invasion of my hovel, nothing comes.

Her eyes, softer now—there is a tint of hazel warmth in them—never leave me. Slowly she picks up the water jug and drinks from it. Her lips, now damp, look better—I can focus on their softness. I will kiss you, Iokanaan, I will bite your lips like ripened fruit. And I did. I kissed your lips. No more.

No more.

She rips a hunk of bread, and attacks the broth as well, dipping the crust into the bowl. She starts off eating greedily, quickly, then becomes aware of this and paces herself accordingly. Nonetheless she finishes off most of the loaf and a bowl of broth.

Food is a civilizing influence—or so I hope. Gradually I creep back to her. But she is still as blasé as an untamed cat, barely tolerant of preliminaries in a combat that she is certain to win.

I've never been what one would call a nice person. I don't do things just out of the goodness of my heart. I've done things to achieve my own goals, to keep happy those who will keep me happy. How this might benefit me, I don't know, but I find myself pushing the second bowl of broth in her direction, cautiously navigating the bowl with the tip of my finger as if she were my north star, the highest point in my compass.

She's suspicious, of course, and raises an eyebrow. After all, I've done nothing thus far to indicate I'm trustworthy.

Does she think it's poisoned? I dip my finger in the bowl, then lick it. Her brow furrows but she accepts the bowl. This too she drinks slowly.

When she is done, she looks at me again, then clears her throat. "Thank you." Her voice is soft and husky. If it were a fabric, it would be worn linen. She sits the bowl on the tray and fixes me again with those eyes. "Who are you?" She is wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. I knew it—a peasant girl. But could this be a rhetorical question, a metaphysical question that I hear, unfurling from the tongue of this solid Amazon peasant-warrior-whatever she is? Is she a great philosopher in disguise?

No. She clarifies her question: "What's your name?"

"What's your name?" I counter almost playfully, quite a radical departure from the piss-inducing fear I experienced earlier and so I heartily congratulate myself on it.

She smiles a little, which goes a long way in sloughing years off her face. "I asked first," she reminds me gently.

"Yes, you did, didn't you?" I stare at my hands, watch the fingers of my right one twirl and gavotte upon the stage of my left. "I danced for the King of Judaea." I pause, allowing her to take in this information. "That's all you need to know, really."

Her lips part, and the shadow of recognition falls upon her face. Was she informed of my act before she was placed in here? Or did she know my story before setting foot in our country? Has the news of my deed spread across the known world? Perhaps it's not surprising; a severed head is always a good story. No. I will not think of this. I will not think of this now. No more, Iokanaan. As they severed your head I severed my lust. The moment I took your head was the moment I threw it all away—freedom, desire, you, the whole bitter entanglement of it.

I am a little disappointed in my guest: She is neither enraged nor repulsed. She pities me, I see. So this grand gesture of love earns nothing more than a small, petty emotion? And it was wasted, so marvelously wasted, upon you as well, was it not, Iokanaan? From which simple-minded tribe does this blonde barbarian come from? "Are you an Amazon?"

"Yes. An Amazon Queen," she adds quietly.

Runt of the Amazon litter, most likely. "You?"

She smiles again. "That's not an uncommon reaction."

I cannot control a snort of laughter. It's really undignified, but I am sitting on a dirt floor in a prison with some barbarian who has the audacity to lie to me, so I feel no shame in it. "Well! How shall you prove it to me?"

"I don't know. If my word isn't good enough for you, what is there? Do you expect a tiara?" She gestures at her lithe body, her cracked boots, her dirty cloak.

"They should give you something." A piddling act of kindness for the day: I am outraged for her.

"There's a mask, a staff...." She trails off, shrugs, as if she can't be bothered to even mention them. These things—marking her as royalty, distinguishing her from the mud and blood of the masses—are apparently unimportant to her. It confirms that she is either a liar or a madwoman.

"And what is your name, Amazon Queen?" I struggle not to sound mocking; obviously, behind those alert eyes, is a quick mind. And the smarter the barbarians are, the quicker they are to anger.

Yes, I see she is not amused. "Gabrielle."

But this is too much. I burst out laughing. Initially she appears quite angry, yet just as rapidly as that anger appears it's gone, replaced by some sort of rueful resignation. "Named after the great Greek bard, then?" When I was young, my mother told me stories of the Warrior Princess and the Battling Bard. Sometimes ambition got the better of me and I had mother’s slaves enact various scenes from the scrolls she read to me. My directing career ended after a somewhat disastrous attempt to stage the famous ladder fight between Xena and her nemesis Callisto; my Xena—a portly eunuch named Ashurbanipal—fell and broke his neck. Mother was quite cross. Ashurbanipal was one of her favorites.

No matter.

But now I have a real live Gabrielle! How exciting! Her jaw shifts, and she speaks carefully. "I suppose you wouldn't believe it if I told you I am that Greek bard."

"No, I wouldn't. I'm not that foolish, dear." I pick up the water jug—a disgusting old stone pitcher—and try to sip from it without the foul rim actually touching my lips.

Again, she shrugs.

As if I am some idiot in a tavern, confronted with an even bigger idiot who refuses to see common sense, I cannot resist her indifference. I slam the pitcher down on the ground. "So you would have me believe you are the Gabrielle of Potidaea, chronicler of the Warrior Princess, Amazon Queen and warrior?"

"Yes. Believe it or not."

"Oh—and I neglect to mention—also the lover of the same Warrior Princess." I throw out that salient little fact, to see if she really has the stomach for this charade, even though all Amazons are said to go in for that sort of thing. The stories my mother told me, of course, were not explicit in that manner, but only a fool couldn't see what was going on, threaded in the lines of the stories.

"Yes." This she affirms emphatically, without hesitation, obviously caring that I believe, more than anything else she has said, that she is the beloved of the great Xena.

"I see."

Her eyes flare at that. But as she shifts her leg, she winces. There is a small shoulder bag—a pouch, really—visible from under the cloak. She pulls a piece of cloth out of the bag and sloppily binds the thigh's wound.

"So where is she?"

She must know her task is useless; she needs stitches. Nonetheless, she is immersed in it. "Hmm?"

I know the "hmm" so well—its artifice of stalling, like a note grotesquely trilled by a flute, cloaked as absentminded condescension. Does this intense, focused creature really have no idea of whom I speak? Dear Gabrielle, I am fond of you already. I will play along, I will trail behind you, pied piper of oblivion. "Xena. Where is Xena?"

"She will come for me."

"But you don't know where she is."

She is pulling tightly on the bandage, lips pressed together in fierce concentration, strangling her own flesh—the skin around the bandage is whiter than the cloth itself.

I cross my legs daintily, suddenly demure in front of this woman. Her animal vitality seems to drain me of my own sensuality; I am unsure of my own beauty, clumsy and plain as a cow, thinking that any man in the world may very well pick this unwashed savage over a princess, a daughter of Herodias. "Are you so sure?"

"Am I so sure of what?" Her voice is harder.

"That she'll rescue you. Maybe she's—"

She looks up—quite effectively silencing me—and suddenly I believe everything. There is so much in that one glance—more than I have ever been spared by anyone close to me—that I see the story of her life there, the story I became so familiar with in my youth. She is the child in love with words, the girl who wanted adventure, the misfit who wanted love, the seeker of a divine truth, the woman who found her soul, the survivor who lost it all. As water becomes snow, mist, torrential rains, she is all these things, yet fundamentally, elementally, she remains herself. If I can see this, then anyone who has ever loved her will recognize this.

"No."

She is stretched over the wounded leg, poised like a diver in some strange position, pouring her body, her belief into that one syllable.

The sun mimics this gesture; light gradually fills the cell from the high, barred window.

"She will come for me."

* * *

A healer arrives later in the day. He cleans her wound and stitches it. She bears it with the stoicism of someone who has not only been cut with a sword many times, but has also repeatedly tended to such injuries in others. She is given some sort of medicinal tea. Then she falls asleep.

She sleeps into the evening, as darkness layers itself upon us. Usually I wait until the cell is black with night before I waste lighting the meager candle that I possess. Herod permits me to have this light; it's a liberty that I don't take lightly. I roll the candle between my fingers—cold, white, almost glowing in the dark.

It reminds me of his skin. When I first touched him he flinched, as if I were the Whore of Babylon. In fact, he called me that—daughter of Babylon. To her credit my mother was amused. But I wasn't. I was a virgin. I suppose I still am, though I feel he took something away from me. He soiled me with his rejection. He, who fought desire, who hungered for nothing but his God, ruined me. I want to tell him that. I want to tell him how ironic it is, how, even in death, he is not pure of flesh. He corrupted me.

But I can't do that.

The shift of her breathing—from pacific calm to jagged wave—startles me. She is awake, perhaps escaping from a dream that, surprisingly, is worse than the black reality of a prison cell.

"Are you still there?" Her voice is plaintive, childlike, and divorced from the image of the commanding, dangerous woman I first saw this morning. Who does she think she speaks to? Me? Her lover?

I could say nothing. But I don't. "Yes."

She says my name with a beckoning softness.

He never said my name in this manner. In fact, he never said my name. If your beloved never speaks your name, do you cease to exist? "What?"

She asks one simple, horrible question: "Why?"

My voice is my only shield, my only protection, but she will be relentless, I know. "What do you ask?"

"Why did you do it?" she croaked.

A dangerous question. It makes me think. I detest that.

"You killed what you loved."

"No."

"But yes. You did. You did not perform the act itself, but it was your wish, your desire which brought about what happened to him."

"No. I don't believe that."

"Your desire had consequences."

"No."

She sighs. I clear my throat and grope for the water pitcher, almost empty. "I did not kill him. I merely asked for his head. I killed my hunger for him, for his love."

"But don't you see, it is as if you took the sword and"—she falters, choking on the mere thought of it—"killed him yourself. Don't you see? Do you think it's what he really wanted?"

"But I could have given him everything he ever wanted, everything he ever needed."

"Do you really believe that?"

There is such yearning in her voice as she tries to convince, to blanket us both in her confusion. She pretends that she does not comprehend the mysteries of appetite and the lengths a woman will go in order for satiety.

Or does she? "But it didn't really—stop, did it?"

His lips were so thin. And—when I kissed them—so cold. I wanted to taste his holiness.

It was too late that I discovered this amaranthine aspect of appetite, its constant renewal, unbending, unyielding, undying. And she too knows this. While I am grateful for the mask of night that hides my face, I cannot help but believe that she sees me with total clarity. Like an arrow her voice seeks out my heart and pierces it; she touches my shame.

I don't light the candle.

* * *

The days and nights blend as if I am dancing, faster and faster, out of control, helpless, spinning wildly, a dervish of time. The black of night and the glare of day are swirled into a fine gossamer web of gray. This world is perpetual twilight to me; I will always remember it as such.

At the behest of the healer—presumably in the interest of keeping clean the wound—she is permitted an opportunity to bathe. In privacy, away from the cell. When was the last time I saw my own bath chamber? My attending slaves, the water sheeting down my body, the glint of bath salts upon the water like the finest jewels?

I thought—since her arrival—that perhaps my nocturnal visits from Herod had permanently ceased; this is not the case. He capitalizes upon her absence to visit me in my enduring twilight. So clever, Herod! And so needy. I have poisoned your heart, clouded your mind, sickly sweet, with forbidden honey.

"So what do you think of her?" His whisper is as thick as fog. I can taste his breath in the air: a ripe susurration of wine and fruit dangling before me, a mockery of the life I once had, all of it just out of reach, as if I am Tantalus. (Ah, again, the barbarians and their legends. They do tell a good tale.)

"Interesting."

He laughs. "And is that it?"

"Well, she is mad, Tetrarch, surely you see that. You must feel that."

"Oh. Oh yes. Of course."

"Yes. You know."

His mocking, almost jovial tone dissipates quickly. "I know nothing anymore," he hisses. "Love is hate, pleasure is pain, life is death, fidelity is sin. You have changed everything—everything. Surely you see that." He flings my words back at me. "The omens. I should have heeded the omens that night. There was blood upon the floor. I slipped in it. Do you recall? No, of course you don't. But I slipped in it. I was marked by blood. And there was the moon, so full, so clear, so—wanton in its movement across the sky, like a woman seeking a lover. And then the wind, like a terrible beating of wings, like a bird struggling for freedom—"

He goes off like this every once in while. It's tedious.

After a while, he comes around again to the subject of Gabrielle. "So you think she's mad?" He is incredulous.

"Madness is other people, Tetrarch."

"Yes," he replies slowly, "it is true, is it not?" He grunts as he stands; I can hear the click of his jewelry as he moves. "You should enjoy her company then. And she will enjoy yours. I make a gift of her to you. She is your companion. For as long as you both rot in that cell."

"Until I die?"

"Until you die."

"Do you give your word? Your oath?"

Talk of oaths—like talk of omens—will bring him back to that night, the night that I danced for him. He swore he would give me whatever I wanted. Could a king break an oath? I found out. "What is it," he begins—the wonder of it all spills over in his voice—"that I ever saw in you?"

I want to hack through his simple, stupid neck with the dullest knife I can find.

"Give me your word, Herod, as you did the night I danced for you."

"No, you filthy whore, not again."

"Give me your word."

"You're a cunt. He was right about you. And the Nazarenes, they were right about him. For he knew. He knew right away what you are. You are as common as mud, every inch of you is corrupt."

"Give me your word."

"Why does it matter so much to you?"

"Give me your word."

He stops, breathless, then releases a cry; it’s a crack of lightning across a humid summer sky—clear, aching with promise, all too brief. He speaks as a broken man. "I give you my word."

"How kind of you," I reply. "How very kind."

* * *

The heat of the day is lost upon us. From the barred window, so very high that only a trio of tall acrobats could reach it, there is morning, clear and strong, offering only a stingy benediction of light.

She stares up at the window. Then she paces in a circle around the cell, looking at corners, touching walls, and once again gazes to the window.

What follows is even more peculiar, and performed with such astonishing quickness that I wonder what I missed when I blinked. She begins to run in a circle around the cell, faster and faster, gathering speed until she leaps onto one wall, ricochets to another, and from there launches herself at the window.

Her hand, splayed against the dun-colored wall, narrowly misses the ledge by a scant inch.

Then she is sliding down the wall and crashing to the ground, where she lands before me, awkwardly on bended knee, like a suitor from heaven.

But my suitor bleeds! Is this how the Amazons romance one another, dear Gabrielle? Opening their wounds and revealing their hearts floating upon a river of blood? Her stitches are ripped, her mangled flesh oozes red into the dry dust upon her leg. Her expression trembles as she struggles to maintain her warrior demeanor, her cherubic lower lip quivers endearingly.

Of its own accord, my hand reaches for her hair, but then wavers, battling the foreign sensation of compassion. Of course, it is not so far removed from mercy, and that is what I gave to you. I saved you from a lifetime of loving me. From the filth, the banality of a day-to-day life, of flesh touching, of time passing, of watching my beauty dry up like a dead flower. You had nobler goals in mind.

The blonde hair is thick, coarser than I imagined, yet my fingertips create eddies upon its bright surface. "I did give him what he wanted."

Her beautiful eyes, glazed with pain, cannot quite focus on me. "What?"

"It is easier to die than to love."

She close her eyes to this. I drop my hand.

I fetch the water pitcher from across the room, and dump the contents on her wound. She growls and hisses as the water extinguishes the fire of her pain.

"There are bars up there, in case you hadn't noticed," I inform my madwoman.

She tilts her head back, eyes still shuttered against the world, against me. This cell is her world now, I am the prominent star in her cosmos, and how I pity her for that. "I know," she murmurs. "But I wanted to have a look at the window. The bars could be loosened. No prison is perfect."

"It depends on which prison you speak of."

Now she looks at me.

Perhaps I will tell Herod to release her. For what is inside her mind is worse than this cell, worse than being here with me.

"I know," she begins slowly, "that you think I am insane, that I'm a fool."

"I have never said that."

"You don't need to. I see it in your face. I may be insane, but I'm not an idiot."

"If you believe she will rescue you, then why do you attempt escape?"

"I can't just sit here and do nothing."

The exertion has left a sheen of sweat upon her face.

"If you're hot, remove your cloak," I suggest. She has worn it, like armor, since her arrival.

She shakes her head.

"No?" I prod, as if she is a recalcitrant child. The back of my hand grazes her slick forehead. "You're burning up."

She moistens her lips, then swallows. "Good."

"No. You can't want that."

Her voice cracks. "Don't I?" The tone of it defies me to contradict her. Like a stubborn drunkard hopelessly outmatched in a tavern brawl, she staggers to her feet. She touches the sleeve of her cloak to her face. That's when I notice her face shines with grief and bright tears shake in her eyes, like jellied stars.

It was foolish of me to dump the entire pitcher upon her leg. But I'm certain if I ask for more water, it will be given. We must be kept alive for this—the continual hunger for what we do not have. And do we deserve that? If we are not insane yet, when will it come? This appetite is the path that leads into the madness. To want a truth other than what we see in front of us, to crave a life or a state of being that is irretrievable, lost. Still, we go on. We wake every morning because of it.

I may hate myself for it later, but I rip two strips of cloth from the already ruined hem of my dress. I press one against her wound, then I dab at her eyes with the other. "We—can't have you getting ill. You don't want to be ill when she comes for you, Gabrielle. I will have them bring the healer again. Take off your cloak. Rest."

Her face softens, her anguish slackens. She is somewhere far away. "Yes."

"Yes?" With brazen intimacy I cup the back of her neck and push at the heavy wool covering her.

"All right."

I smile. The cloak puddles at her feet like gray mud and my hands slide from her. She smiles too, but uncertainly, as if she were a child unsure of reward or punishment for dropping her clothes on the ground.

When she turns around to look up at the window once again, I see it. The tattoo covering her back is monstrous in its beauty, it appears to leap from her flesh, as if a vision torn from a dream, a dance spiraling into the unknowing, blind excesses of ecstasy. As I danced for you, every movement a different gradation of my desire. Even when I close my eyes the colors, hauntingly indelible, remain in my mind.

My eyes are still closed when she speaks, her gentle voice and firm belief entwined with the burning image of her flesh. "She will come for me."

We wake every morning because of it.

Finis

#xena #xena warrior princess #xena/gabrielle #xena/gabrielle fanfiction #author: vivian darkbloom #mature #femslash #fanfiction

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thelostcatpodcast · 5 years

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THE LOST CAT PODCAST TRANSCRIPTS: SEASON 4: THE HOLLOW CITY: EPISODE 09

SEASON 4: THE HOLLOW CITY: EPISODE 09

Episode released 7th December 2018

http://thelostcat.libsyn.com/season-4-the-hollow-city-episode-9

Allow me to jump forwards in time: 24 hours, in fact, to the next night. We find Lisica stood in the same spot on the edge of the Bottomless Lake, in the Weeping Park.

Beneath the lake the Hollow Leaders’ palace, above the lake the grey tower of the Fillers. Practically on top of each other, and both working with each other to crush the Hollow People.

And her eyes are set like stones. Her make up an angry smear of black across her face. She is not laughing anymore.

She has a gathering bag over one shoulder, dripping. Over the other a heavy rucksack, full to the brim with all sorts of things, and with wires peeking out from the zip. She holds in her hand a small electronic control device.

She has been busy these last 24 hours.

But what has Lisica been doing? Well:

THE LOST CAT PODCAST SEASON 4, BY A P CLARKE: THE HOLLOW CITY: EPISODE 9

This is what she had done in the24 hours since her conversation with the head of the Filler organisation.

She went down in to the Hollow City. She had to gather her allies. She had to warn everyone. But as she approached the first guards she met, they refused to let her past.

“I am just returning with business in the city, friends.”

“No further, Ma’am.”

“I am under direct orders of Dr Uremides.”

“He said you’d say that. Ma’am.”

She made sure they rested comfortably after she was done with them, and then carried on.

She had to sneak the rest of the way to the hospital. She had no problem with sticking to shadows, and, as it happens, that area suffered strange blackouts of its lighting system all that day.

She found the room where Bowen was recovering quickly. He was bruised beyond belief, but he moved. A woman sat by the bed, facing away, gently holding one of his battered, scarred, hands.

Bowen noticed Lisica, and tried to sit up.

The woman turned around. She wore a dark red scarf around her head, covering bandages from a recent surgery, and wore large, dark glasses.

She said, “Lisica!”

Lisica moved past her to talk to Bowen.

“I have so much to warn you about. Nothing you have been told is true. Now where is the Ghost. I have to warn her too.”

“Lisica,” said the woman. “Lisica,” and she took off her glasses. “I am the ghost.”

And Lisica stared in to the woman’s eyes and stopped short as she saw the truth. They say the eyes are the window to the soul. Now imagine what they are for Hollows. And her eyes, dark and wild, were the Ghost’s eyes. And the eyes fit in to this face. Not too large, not too small: they were hers. The line of red around the edges of her eyes, all raw and new, told the story of the recent surgery to place them back in her head, as a single tear of blood leaked and fell down her cheek.

And her movement was more smooth in this body. More natural. It was hers.

And it was a kind face. It showed care. And her eyes - the Ghost’s eyes - stared out of it.

Bowen sat up and when he spoke his voice sounded different. “Lisica? You should not be here. We were told you could have been compromised by the enemy.”

Lisica looked closely and could see that the whole lower part of his face was different now, and there was an ugly scar that ran straight across his chin and bit in to his lower lip

And Lisica recognised that scar, and in that moment Lisica knew.

For it was not his mouth. It was the mouth of the poor soldier Bernard who was killed two nights ago, out there on the Maze Roads, that she and the Ghost carried in to the hospital. Bowen’s face had been torn off as he escaped the headquarters, and so they just grafted on a new one.This was the story of Bowen. Every part taken from another, sewn in by Uremides when necessary.

A patchwork man, held together only by the needs of his leaders, not allowed to die.

“What have you done?”

“Please Lisica,” said the lady, looking imploringly. “Please”.

“What did you do to her? What did you do to the girl?”

“This is a war, LIsica. We are more than ourselves”

“No.”

“Who else would a child trust, but another child.”

Lisica ran from the room, leaving Bowen holding the woman’s hand.

The Ghost called after her. “I had to save the children.”

But Lisica was gone. To the one secret door that no-one could enter without the key around Dr Uremides’ neck.

It did not stand in her way for long.

Inside was dim and dense with incense. In the middle of that great cacophany of things, she stood very still, held her breath, and listened.

And, from somewhere below, she heard sobbing.

She went to the central table, checked the markings and scratches on the floor, and then pulled the table away. Beneath it was a trapdoor.

It opened smoothly, silently, and all was dark within. A stink of rotting came up from the hole. She dropped down in to it.

“Hello? Hello? This is me: Lisica. I am here to help.”

“Help me,” came a small voice from the darkness

“Where are you?”

“I do not know where I am. Help me?”

Lisica held up her flare.

“Come towards the light. I will find you.”

But the voice did not move. It only repeated: “Help me? Please, help me.”

Lisica walked in to the darkness towards the sound of the girl’s voice. She walked through the pitch black of the basement that seemed to stretch out in all directions. The light from the flare did not reach the walls. She passed indiscernible shapes as she moved deeper in, and the stench only became worse.

“Do not worry, I am coming. Keep talking to me.”

“I do not know what is going on. Help me.”

She came across a sticking pile of pale gathering bags, emptied but for blood. Bone Sister bags, gathering organs for Dr Uremides. She moved on.

“You are alright now. I am nearly there.”

And there she passed a pile of Hollow corpses, flattened like sacks, all of them missing some parts of themselves. She moved the flare over to it and saw the ruined face of the soldier Bernard, with the whole of the bottom half of his face gone. She moved on.

And still the sobbing came from deeper in.

And, in the darkness of the far end of the room, she could make out a small figure, all in white, looking down to the floor, not moving.

“There you are, my little Ghost.”

And she ran towards the figure, and placed her hand gently on her frail shoulder.

The girl looked up, and where her eyes once were, were nothing but two holes, with angry red lines all around the wounds, and tears of blood dripping down her cheeks.

“Oh my Ghost.”

“Who am I?”

“I am so sorry.”

“I don’t know who I am.” said the Ghost. She said, “help me.”

And Lisica fell to her knees, and hugged the little ghost girl.

Later that day, out in the Hollow City, everyone was excitedly hurrying towards the central concourse, for the signal of the leaders had been called, and they all gathered beneath the balcony above the palace gates and spotlights lit up the banners and the shimmering water such that when the two leaders appeared, they were bathed in a sparkling light. And there was Barnabus, stout and hearty, full of energy and joy, with huge arm movements and smiles towards the crowd.

And there was Xavier, tall, poised, regal, with an almost supernatural air of dignity and authority around him, waving calmly and graciously to the people.

And the people loved them. The sense of belonging that was in the concourse. The sense of shared purpose. The loyalty. The Hollow People would follow these leaders anywhere.

Lisica moved through the crowd carefully. She saw the band of Feral Children off to one side and beckoned them to the space behind the sties where they would often gather to share their gains.

“Children,” Lisica said.

“You aint supposed to be here.”

“Says who?”

“Says the guards,” said one. They flicked their knives open. “Says us, maybe.”

Lisica levelled her sword on them so quickly they flinched. Then she laid it on the floor.

She said, “listen to me. You are all of you prisoners. The Hollow City is a cage. The best kind of cage. The kind you stay in voluntarily. You are all of you slaves.”

She told them that their great leaders, Barnabus and Xavier, were working with The Fillers.

She told them about Bowen, and what happens to soldiers.

She told them about the Ghost Girl, and sacrifices you think are justified by the cause.

She told them they had to get out. That they had to get everyone out. That this was the only way.

She said: “will you help me?”

And all of them replied: “Yes.”

She gave them directions to Uremides lab, and where the ghost girl lay.

“When you find her,” said Lisica. “Give her this.” And she held up Benjamin’s necklace. “Maybe it will help.”

“We will,” said the children.

“When you find her,” Lisica said. “Hold her close.”

And as the great leaders took their exits from the balcony to cheers, the Feral Children quietly made their way to the lab, and Lisica moved towards her exit

But just before she reached the exit, there, in the shadows of one corner, Bowen stood, propped up on The Ghost’s arm. The bruise coloration was leaving his skin with remarkable speed.

“How’d you find me, friend?”

“I am, at least, smart enough to do that.”

“Aye, you are.”

“I can not let you leave. My orders are to protect this city, from all threats.”

“You are in no condition to stop me, friend.”

“Nevertheless, this is my duty.”

What else could Bowen do? This is just how he was built, out of nothing but the soldiers who had fallen for the cause, trained for obedience, built for duty: the good soldier. She knew there was no turning him from his path, so could only prepare him.

So she stood up straight, and said this: “soldier, what is your duty?”

“My duty is to protect the city.”

“The Fillers will attack the Hollow City soon. They will strike with everything they have. Soldier,” she said, and Bowen stood to attention before her. “You have to defend The Hollow People. You have to give them as much time as you can.”

“I would die for them.”

And she said, “you already have.”

She turned to the ghost woman. “You can still get out.”

“I stay by his side.”

“Who even is he?”

The ghost woman leant in close and said, “I love him. My love is the only thing keeping him real. If I leave, the stitch that is my memory of him will unravel, and he will fall to pieces, and be gone forever. I am staying.”

And she said this, perhaps even sensing that her love was the only thing tying her to what ever real thing she once thought she was. In this way, she had as little choice as Bowen.

“Protect the people,” said Lisica, leaving the two soldiers in the darkened corridor. They let her go without another word.

In this way, she left the Hollow City.

And all through that day, all through the city overhead, there were reports of burglaries where no one could quite identify the thieves, other than that they seemed very young and had no distinguishing features they could remember.

A wholesale butchers was attacked, with a large amount of pigs’ organs stolen.

At a gardening centre, a truly impressive amount of fertiliser went missing.

At electronics stores, all across the city, all sorts of equipment was lifted.

At pharmacies, a fascinating cocktail of medicines were gone.

And so on. And so on.

And now, after night had fallen, we are back where we started, with Lisica standing on the far side of the Bottomless Lake, staring up at the tower of the Fillers’ organisation, taking in the subtle aroma of rust and cut grass, with a hint of tamarind.

She held up the small electronic control device.

She said “the path of the fire,” and pressed the button.

Dozens of barrels of home-made explosives exploded, all along the park side of the grey tower. The ground rumbled as many more exploded under the surface.

The lights flickered off in the tower, then alarms sounded out in the darkness. The gates opened and van upon van, filled with Fillers, swarmed out of the compound. The entire fleet.

Then deeper, slower rumbles rippled the surface of the Bottomless Lake, as foundations gave way and the grey tower began to topple forwards.

Lisica took a step back.

Floors after floor of the tower disappeared in to the lake, swallowed by the water, waves swept out in to the park. The water level rose and rose. More and more of the tower crashed and collapsed in to the bloating lake, shaking the entire park.

Until finally, a rumble lower than all the others rippled through the earth, as the weight and trauma of the collapse cracked the very rock beneath the lake and the water level suddenly dropped a foot, then six feet.

Then a tiny whirlpool formed at the centre of the lake, that picked up momentum and size, deepening all the time, swirling great hunks of masonry with it.

Then there was a great sucking pop, and a huge exhalation of air that sounded like the earth roaring.

A spume of water launched a hundred feet in to the air, and then the lake, bed, tower and all, collapsed down in to the empty space beneath.

Lisica risked a peak over, as the water of the lake tributaries started forming waterfalls over the lip, and chunks of land and tower continued to fall. Right at the bottom she could see the rippling surface of a newly forming lake, lapping up against the towers and minarets of the palace of Barnabus and Xavier, the Hollow Leaders.

She saw the water level of the new lake begin to rise, as the palace began to fill.

Lisica stepped up right to the edge, she put her mask to her face, snicked open her blade, then ran a bloodied finger down her face.

“I mark myself revolution, and nothing will be the same.”

And then she dove in.

THANK YOU FOR LISTENING.

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