#(Me with heron maiden)

[noctilu-uca]

I love photography and yet i am not in a photography class

[anjelicawrites]

The lost honor of Badger's crossing

Paring: Abraham x reader

Synopsis: you are adjusting to your life as Abraham’s wife. Everything seems to be perfect, when two strangers come knocking.

Warnings: reader has burn marks, angst, fighting, Abraham’s possessiveness, reference to arson, reference to murder, reference to prejudice against the Romanichal community, kissing, oral (f receiving), p in v sex, kissing, scratching, overstimulation, conceive kink if you squint your eyes.

A/N 1: I don’t know anyone from the Romanichal community and used Google for my research for this fic. I tried to be as accurate and respectful as possible. Please let me know if I’ve written something wrong so I can make the needed corrections!

A/N 3: Abraham doesn’t have a surname, I had to use Google to look for Romanichal surnames and pick one.

A/N 3: reader is AFAB but not described. Where needed, they/them pronouns used.

Abraham stares at you with a small smile on his face as you put some more wood inside the stove; the vardo is paneled with thick wood, but you like to be warm all the time, for this reason you're wearing one of his oldest cardigans: a ratty thing you had stitched back together with love and patience, that you wouldn't let him wear outside but it's perfect to stay indoors while doing chores. 

NSFW and 18 + only under the cut!

Quickly you finish putting together his lunch and give him the tight knotted cloth, hoping the food will not get too cold by the time he eats it. 

His big hands cover yours and he kisses your forehead gently; Abraham is such a different man in the privacy of your vardo, more affectionate and less aggressive than anyone has the luck to see him.

“Are you staying here today?”

You can see the worry in his eyes, he doesn't like when you wander around on your own, even flanked by the dog he bought for your safety. 

“Yes, I have so much work accumulated I will have my hands full for the whole day.” 

You’ve been elbow deep in your own old book trades, the only thing you bought with you from your old life, that you let the normal chores slip a bit and you don't want anyone to think that you're not taking care of your husband properly. 

“Good.”

His warm lips find yours in a deep kiss and you have to force yourself not to slip out of your clothes: the horses need him, he has his share of work to carry out. 

He's near the door when you stop him hastily. 

“Wait! Put this on, it's awfully chilly already!”

You wrap his long neck in the warm scarf your adopted mother knitted for you when you were a child, using thick, red wool and a simple, yet elegant, pattern. 

“You worry too much.” He jokes, but you can see in his eyes that he appreciates your care. 

“It is my job, you know. Take care of you.”

“My perfect little wife.” He growls, his free hand lands on your hip to grab the soft meat there. 

“Oh no Mr. Heron. Off you go!” You laugh as you walk backwards deeper in the vardo. “I’ll see you later!”

He stares at you with a burning stare that tells you he's not going to let you sleep tonight. 

The commotion happens later in the afternoon. You’ve been a busy bee for the whole day: doing the accumulated washing up, deep cleaning the vardo and cooking yourself a quick lunch. You had just put the heatless curlers in your hair and pulled out your sewing kit to start working on the random array of ruined socks that needed some mending, before the sun sets, that you hear shouting outside and the dog at your feet starts growling.

You step out of the vardo and mingle with the women standing behind the wall of men partially shielding you all; you can still see the two men dressed in cheap suits and the car they drove to the field where you are all currently living.

Between the shouting and the drove of buzzing chatting all around you, you can barely make out what the men are saying and froze when you pick up that they are policemen and they are looking for you; when they shout your maiden name, your instinct is to step up, but Mrs. Lee grabs your arm to stop you from moving and her husband shouts that there’s no one with that name living in the community: it is a technicality, you’re now Mrs. Heron and those men don’t know that, yet, but they will.

Without having spoken to them you know they will come back with questions about Badger’s Crossing.

You scuttle back into the vardo to curl on the bed and cry: for how long will that place hang over your heads? 

You catch a whiff of Abraham’s aftershave and the tears come out harder: you wish he was here to keep you safe in his arms, but you know it’s better that he wasn’t around: he’s so protective of you and aggressive with the outside world, that you fear he would attack those men and put himself in a ocean of troubles just to keep them off your scent. 

He’s not going to like any of this: you know he’s deluded himself into thinking that the matter with Badger’s Crossing had been resolved, but it’s always going to come back and haunt the whole community, even though none of them had anything to do with it.

Your fears have been proven right when he enters the vardo like a storm; likely Mr. Lee has already spoken with him and he’s charged himself up with rage, which explodes in a shouting match between you two.

“You’re not talking to these men!” 

He orders and boy how much that doesn’t sit right with you!

“You don’t tell me what to do Abraham!”

“You are my wife! You will do as I say!”

“I’m not your possession! And I do whatever I feel it’s better!”

“This is not your decision! The community will decide what’s better!”

This is something you still struggle with: you are used to shoulder the consequences on your own, make your bed and lie on it, as your adopted mother used to say, do what you think it’s right regardless of what others think (and if you hadn’t followed this mindset, you would have never met Abraham in the first place), now you have to do the polar opposite. You understand that your circumstances have changed, that gadji see the community, not the person and all excuses are valid to perform violence and persecution, but those policemen came for you and, to protect the community, you should do your part, even though the idea makes you sick.

You go to the assembly still angry at Abraham and stand stiffly by his side, only to slip away as soon as voices are raised: you know where this is going and you know you’re going to say something you’re going to regret.

You walk to the edge of the camp, Cyril the dog flanking you the way Abraham teached him and you scratch his head; the animal is still young but he’s big, a mongrel with some shepherd dog in him, by the way he tries to move you towards the path he thinks it’s the safest for you to walk.

You can hear in the distance the sounds of the assembly and you desperately wish for a pack of smokes.

“Penny for your thoughts’” Mrs. Lee says from behind you and you jump out of your skin.

“Jesus Christ!”

“I didn’t mean to scare you child. I didn’t see you back there, I thought you wanted to express your opinion on the matter.”

You try to look into her eyes but darkness has fallen and you can barely make out her form.

“If I were to voice what I think, I would regret the words immediately.”

You can’t see Mrs. Lee, but you can sense her gaze weightining you. She’s an impressive woman who commands respect not because she’s married the head of the community, but because she exudes a charisma you’ve rarely felt from other people. 

You’re not sure she likes you, she’s accepted you and helped you when you had no one else, like everyone else has done, but you wonder if she just did it out of affection for Abraham, or if she saw something in you.

You often ponder about this matter, if Abraham’s extended family simply tolerates you because he’s imposed you to them through marriage; on some levels you know you’ll always be the gadja that’s now living in their community, who tries to adapt but will always be something else, bought up following a different set of rules.

“What would you say that’s so scandalous, child?”

You take a deep breath and try to organize your thoughts.

“There shouldn’t even be a discussion happening at the moment: those people came calling for me, I should address whatever issue they have with me.”

“It became ours when you joined us. And we were at Badger’s Crossing as well.”

“None of us did anything wrong!” “Are you so naive to think that truly matters?”

The ice in her voice stops you: you still forget that the privilege you grew up with has never extended to them.

“No, I suppose it doesn’t.” You hang your head. “I still don’t think pretending I don’t live here or, God forbid, leave, will solve the problem. Those men will come back time and time again, until they’ve got what they’re after.”

Mrs. Lee hums and you feel her heavy gaze on you again.

“We should have never stopped in Badger’s Crossing, it was never part of our atching tan: we should have known better and now it’s our problem to shoulder, not yours alone, child. You didn’t bring that in our lives, if that’s what you fear, it oozed in our direction the second we stopped.”

You let go of the breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“I don’t trust the police.” You tell Mrs. Lee. “Half of the problems at Badger’s Crossing would have been solved if our constable had done something. I don’t know why they want to talk to me, but they didn’t come guns blazing, perhaps if they get what they’re after, they’ll leave us be.”

Mrs. Lee's hand curls around yours; her palm is dry and work hardened, still is gentle and holds the faint memory of your birth mother’s touch.

“I’ll talk to my husband, just promise me you will not do anything without talking to him. The discussion is still ongoing.” She clutches your hand tightly. “You should do the same with your husband. He means well.”

“I know he does. We’re both stubborn like mules.”

When you get back to the vardo Abraham is nowhere in sight, he is still discussing the matter at hand, probably, and you wish a final word hasn’t been said on the matter.

You enter and go to the stove and put some more wood in there, before you light some candles and start undressing.

The vardo is bigger than the one Abraham used to live as a bachelor and far more decorated than the masculine, but simply furnished old vardo even was: you two want to expand your family and will need the space one day.  

You two had decorated it as newlyweds, you wanted more colors and painted all the wooden paneling with botanical designs and put pretty fabric everywhere, Abraham letting you because he knew he couldn’t stop you and helped you with all the patience he had: it had truly been a work of patience to live in an ongoing project and isn’t that the perfect metaphor for marriage? Still you don’t want to talk to him right now because you’re reeling from the fight and how he addressed you as his property and not his wife, the memory stroking anger and sadness in your chest, so much so that you can feel the tears already forming in your eyes: you need to sleep on this before you can even start to think about addressing the situation with him.

Abraham comes back later to the silent vardo. The fire is dying in the stove and the air is not as chilly as he thought it would be; you’ve left all the stubs of candles you two own to illuminate the vardo for him and he smiles at your thoughtfulness. He undresses as quietly as he can and slips inside the bed, next to your form.

You’re facing the wall and pretend to be asleep, you don’t see the way Abraham’s hand lifts towards your form, before he turns on his side to try and sleep a handful of hours: if he were a more courageous man, he knows he would curl his arm around your sleeping body, making sure that you know he’s still here for you, your fight be damned, but he fears your rage and can’t stand your rejection, not today, not when the world of the gadji came back to hurt you and he’s afraid of not being able to protect you.

So close, he had been so close in Badger’s Crossing to lose you, he feels like the air is escaping his lungs at the mere thought of harm befalling you: he needs to keep you safe, whether you want it or not, he’s too selfish to think of a life without you, why can’t you see it?

You wake up alone and cold, not because the stove isn’t burning, Abraham left it going at full mast and he’s put some more covers over you, but because you haven’t slept in his arms as usual and it feels wrong, as it had been going to sleep still angry at one another. You and Abraham haven’t been married for too long, shy of a year and you don’t want that to happen ever again.

You quickly eat your breakfast, your heart swelling when you see that Abrahams has brewed tea and left the pot on the stove to keep it warm for you: you will talk to him as soon as he gets back, loathing that the fight has lasted this long.

You feel the nervous energy pervading the whole camp and are glad that your chores are outside, for the day, having decided to go look for mushrooms and special herbs for old Mrs. Doe: she’s ancient and her poor knees and ankles don’t work anymore the way they should, you’re happy to help her any way you can. 

You’ve been walking for the good part of three hours, Cyril unleashed but never wandering around and with a big basket at your hip, full of mushrooms and herbs. 

To go back home you have to walk the last leg on the country road and leash Cyril just in case: there aren't many cars around but you don’t want to risk it.

You’ve almost arrived when you see the two policemen, they are smoking next to their car parked on the curb and are eyeing the road.

“Mrs. Heron, it has been difficult finding you.”

As you approach you can observe them: the one addressing you is tall and lanky, with a long, thin face and piercing eyes, his colleague is as tall but bulky, with a fat face and small, dark eyes.

“Who are you?” You stop at a distance and Cyril stands in front of you.

“I’m DCI Anderson and this is DS Thomas. We would like to have a word with you about Badger’s Crossing.”

You stiffen, even though you expected that to happen.

“There’s nothing to talk about. The whole matter was sorted by the coroner.”

“I still would like to talk to you. I’m curious to understand what happened.”

Both men are moving closer to you and your first instinct is to step back, keep the distance between you three.

“I think you can easily access all the documents you need. If you don’t mind, I have some work that needs to be done.”

“Actually, we do mind.” 

As if on a cue from his boss, DS Thomas’s hand curls around your wrist, stopping you from sidestepping them, Cyril growls at him.

“Keep that mongrel at bay!” He barks.

“Then keep your hands off me!”

You try to pull your arm away and his hold only tightens painfully.

“There’s no reason for violence. We’re here to help. We're all friends: let Mrs. Heron go.”

The brute does as he’s told and that’s all you need to know about their dynamic.

“As much as the paperwork was informing, I very much like to know what had happened from one of the survivors, and why you left.”

“I don't wish to revisit that and it's none of your business the reason why I don't live there anymore.”

You don't like this DCI Anderson, the more you look into his eyes, the more the coldness there seeps into your bones. 

“We decide what's our business, not you.”

DS Thomas barks in your face and your mind goes to the small knife in your pocket. 

“Are you accusing me of something?”

“No one is accusing anyone of anything, Mrs. Heron. I'm just curious to know why an Oxford graduate decided to change their life so drastically.”

“Then again, not a crime. We all need a change of scenery.”

DCI Anderson stares at you with unreadable eyes and you know he’s like those dogs who don’t stop chasing their prey until they’ve grabbed it. 

“Take my card, Mrs. Heron, there’s my phone number, if you ever need it. I'm not here to cause you any harm.”

“There’s no need for that:”

You three were so focused  that you didn't see Mr. Lee and some of the other men arrive; you use the sheer number of them to put as much distance between the policemen and yourself: hopefully they’ll let you go.

“Don’t be afraid to ask for our help, Mrs. Heron!” DCI Anderson says with a cold voice. 

Someone takes the basket from you as Mr. Lee asks you if you're alright; you don't truly know what to answer, something in the interaction irks you. 

As soon as you all arrive at the vardo, you can see Abraham pacing in front of the door. 

“What are you doing here? Is everything alright?” You blurt out. 

“Did they hurt you?”

His hands land on your arms and curl there to stop himself from checking all over you in front of the whole camp. 

“How? Abraham? I'm fine.” You half lie to him. 

“I’ve sent Paul’s children to collect him. We need to discuss this.” Mr. Lee interjects. 

“Yes, of course.” You say, opening the door of the vardo.

The two men sit around the table and you wish you were alone with your husband: now, more than ever, you need the comfort of his embrace. 

“Cuppa?” You ask, unable to sit still. 

“Thank you.” Mr. Lee answers

You zone out from the conversation and focus on what you're doing in the vain attempt to understand what irked your brain so much. 

Like an automaton you fill the kettle and put it on the stove, the drone of the men's voice not truly entering your brain as you try to decide which tea to brew and which biscuit to offer to Mr. Lee. 

“They think you stole me.” 

You say, putting the tray with the teas on the table, cutting through the men’s discussion. 

This is an old habit of yours, losing yourself in your thoughts to simply blurt them out, something both your birth and adoptive mothers used to scold you about

“That horrible DCI saying that he wants to help me. Yes, he wants to know about Badger’s Crossing, but he thinks you’ve taken me against my will, even married me into the community in the same fashion.”

The two men stare at you as if you’ve sprouted a second head. 

“That's why he was so pushy yesterday and ambushed me today. He believes me captive.”

Abraham stands up abruptly, almost sending the tea set flying around the vardo. 

“I’m going to kill him!”

“You're not going to do such a stupid thing, son!”

Mr Lee is already on his feet, back against the door of the vardo, ready to stop Abraham from doing something stupid. 

“It is not the worst thing gadji accused us of. They have no honor, they can't understand.” Mr. Lee adds. 

“That's why I need to talk to them.” 

You stand in front of your husband with one hand on his beating heart, Mr. Lee stands behind you, forgotten. 

“I'm not letting them steal you away!”

Panic and rage tinge your husband's voice, more than ever you wished you two were alone. 

“I'm not going anywhere but the matter needs to be addressed or it would truly appear as if I am a prisoner here.”

“Do you truly think those men will believe you?” Mr. Lee stares at you dubiously. 

“The only opinion that matters is that horrid DCI’s, the DS is just his guard dog, I don't even think he has a brain.” You pause to let the information sink in. “And me not being a romni could probably help: they’ll never believe any of you, they might me.”

You can feel Abraham's chest vibrate under your palm, his strong muscles shifting. 

“If they put a hand on you!” He growls. 

You hope no one will ever tell him that's already happened. 

“No one shall ever touch your bride, not with all of us ready to protect them.” Mr. Lee says. 

“No, that can't happen or it will truly look like I am not free to talk with them. And I don't want them in our space.”

“I'm not letting you be alone at their mercy. It is not negotiable.”

You recognise the possessive tone in Abraham's voice, understand that's his way to express his concern, and guilt envelops you like a blanket: he shouldn’t be suffering for you. He shouldn’t live in fear for you.

“The clearing is surrounded by trees.” Mr. Lee’s voice is reasonable. “We can easily hide there, they'll never see us.”

Abraham keeps you in his arms, after Mr. Lee leaves, his masculine smell, mixed with the horses’, fills your nostrils and calms you.

“Do you have to go back?” Your question is muffled against the wool of his jacket.

“No, Ben and his children can manage for today.”

Abraham’s arms tighten around your body, his face finds home against the curve of your neck.

“You don’t have to go. You don’t have to do this.”

“I know. I hate it.” It comes out more broken than what you’d like.

“I’ll never let them take you from me. Never!”

“That will never happen. I’m yours Abraham.”

His arms tighten to the point of pain and you wish you’d never have to leave the safety of his hold, of your vardo, to face the past again, after the onslaught that had been the inquest.

You still wish you were in Abraham’s arms, instead of standing in the clearing, having to endure the small talk of DCI Anderson.

“I’m glad you called, Mrs. Heron.” He says with a flat tone: now that you’re here he doesn’t have to pretend.

“I didn’t feel like I had any other choice, DCI.”

“I’m sorry you feel this way, Mrs. Heron. My job is asking questions, even when people don’t want to answer them, it is no one’s fault.”

“In this case, your enquiries are about a matter that has been closed and that reopens a wound, DCI Anderson.”

You know all your answers are stiff, but you can’t help but feel the same wave of pain you did when Badger’s Crossing was set ablaze, killing many of the people you used to call friends.

“It wasn’t my goal, Mrs. Heron and I am truly sorry.”

You want to ask him how much truth there is, since his DS snorts at your words, but you don’t want to derail this conversation.

“You should ask your questions, DCI Anderson.” You try to inject as much steel as you can in your words: those men don’t need to know how off putting this whole conversation feels.

DCI Anderson’s cold eyes bore into yours, trying to assess you.

“Badger’s Crossing was an idyllic place to live. Why not go back?”

You bark an unhappy laugh at his face: you can’t help yourself, this man is far more of an imbecile than you thought he was!

“I think you should scrap that ideal country village image from your mind, DCI. Badger’s Crossing has been my home for years, but it wasn’t an idyll. What happened was a long time coming.”

“The arson? The murders? It is hard to believe, Mrs. Heron.”

“To you, maybe, who live in the big city. I have been living there since the war, I knew those people and the violence was simmering.”

“Mr. Simmons was a decorated official…”

“Who used to beat his wife into a bloody pulp.” You don’t let him finish.

“A bit of behavior correction never hurt anyone.” The DC adds, and you know he pulls that at home constantly.

“Truly? She mustn't have gotten the idea when she decided to leave, instead of risking her life every day!”

“You shouldn’t exaggerate, Mrs. Heron.” DCI Anderson intervenes.

“I am not and this is the truth. Take it or leave it, I don’t care if you like it. Mr. Simmons was a cruel man who loved bullying anyone smaller and less strong than he was. From the moment his wife left, he started raining his violence on the whole community; constable Smith knew and did nothing to stop him.”

“I don’t see how scolding two gypsy girls is raining violence.” the DC adds with a scowl. “They were going to steal anyway. He did what any good man should.”

“What happened to be considered innocent until proven guilty? He berated those girls without any reason and didn’t like it when I told him to stop. It happens when you act the asshole in public!”

“I didn’t go to war to hear this disrespect!” DC Thomas advances towards you and you fear the men would do something stupid. “A man has the right to protect his community!”

“Well, both my parents died during an air blitz, this gives me the right to protect anyone, according to your logic.”

“Mrs. Heron, my colleague doesn’t want to offend anyone, but we all know how those people are.”

“Oh, so you know all of them. You probably know the whole of humanity. Did you know that Mr. Simmons attacked and threatened his neighbors for no reason? That Mrs. Ashtown and her son were two blackmailers and that the wife of the vicar had intercourse with half of the men in town? Badger’s Crossing was my home and had many secrets.”

You take a big breath as you let the men absorb the barrage of information.

“We all had secrets, only exacerbated by living in such a small community. Mr. Simmons needed help, he came back from the war a different man, more cruel than he ever was and lived among us, until he did the unthinkable.”

You will never know why he did what he did, what did the Ashcrofts did to deserve to be annihilated and if Mr. Simmons ever wanted to destroy the whole village, or if he couldn't control the fire he set at his neighbor’s home.

No one will ever answer those questions.

“You want to know why I chose this life? Because that place is cursed now and I can’t live in another village without thinking about Badger’s Crossing, without imagining the horrors hiding behind the nice cottages and farms.”

You move the patch of hair you use to hide the burn marks on the side of your head.

“I have to live with this. I have more on my body and I was lucky enough to find a way out of the burning village.”

Abraham saved you. He faced the flames and the smoke to pull you out of the inferno that was your home, when you were too frightened to find a way out yourself; you often wonder if your birth parents felt that way during the air blitz that killed them, if fear petrified them as your home caved on them, or if your dad had tried to save you mum, and failed in the process. 

“Is this enough of a reason?” You ask, removing the fingerless gloves you always wear and roll your sleeves to show the extent of the damage.

Both men are visibly repulsed by the mess that’s your skin and whatever questions they might still have, die on their lips: DCI Anderson’s cold demeanor seems to fall as his eyes land on your body and you know he’s trying to imagine if there’s more scars that you’re not showing, DC Thomas looks haunted and you wonder if he’s seeing someone else, someone who never made it home.

“It was my husband’s people who nursed me into health, as the inquest went on. They went against their own interests to keep me safe and sound, no survivor of Badger’s Crossing ever came forth to ask about me, how I was fairing, and those people knew me ever since I was evacuated there. They saw me grow up and be adopted, they came to me at the library asking for reading suggestions, they bought their antiques at my adopted dad’s shop. I was part of the village life and no one wondered about my health.”

Slowly you cover your scars and adjust your hair.

“And you ask me why I don’t want to go back to that life?”

You don’t know what those men came looking for, or if your answers were what they wanted, the only thing you know is that you feel drained, that your feet barely carry you away from the clearing and that those men let you go with haunted eyes; not that you care.

You seek Abraham’s embrace as soon as you’re away from the clearing, ignoring the men around you: you’re shook and need to be with him, as he does.

Abraham had to be stopped by the other men as soon as he sensed DC Thomas’s animosity towards you, his rage the only way he knew how to express his fear for you, and the pain, when you had to show those men your scars, as if your words weren’t enough to justify your decisions. 

Ever since the fire, he lives with the fear of losing you, of harm befalling you and him not being able to come to your rescue again. In his life before you he had never thought he would care for someone as much as he does for you. He was raised in the knowledge that he needed to be the good man who provides for and  protects his family; the fire had showed him that there’s a limit to what he can do to fulfill this, that anything can happen to you and he would not be able to protect you: how is he supposed to live with this? When the buried past comes haunting you and you have to relive it, and he is powerless against it?

Abraham helps you up enter the vardo and gently removes your thick jacket and boots, he seems to be unable to keep his hands away from your body to show his brain that you’re real and alive, and still with him, that those men hadn’t kidnapped you to bring you back to that accursed place.

You let him remove the pins in your hair and the bandana you always wear and follow him to the sofa in front of the stove, where he makes you sit and covers you with a thick blanket, one of the memories from his own mother and he makes tea for you.

He feels big and clumsy with the dainty tea set in his hands and the biscuit box that you two are supposed to replace, but he needs to move, to do something, anything to ward his fears away.

“Abe?” You raise your hand to grab his trousers. “Abe, come here?”

He falls between your splayed legs to hug you and you hide your face against the side of his neck to muffle your sobs; you can’t control your emotions anymore and simply let go, opening the floodgates as you grab your husband with desperation and he hugs you as tight has he can, crushing you against his body in the vain attempt to absorb you within himself, the only place he knows you’ll ever be safe.

He knows he’s possessive and that it’s hard for you to accept, free as you are, but how is he supposed to show you that he cares? He is a simple man, words don’t come easily for him as they do you, he has to make sure that you know how important you are for him, in any way possible.

His big hands caress your head and back with a gentleness that’s still foreign to him, he murmurs in your ear the same nonsense he does with the horses when they are skittish, until you stop crying and are silently hugging him with all your might.

“Abe?”

Your voice sounds so small it breaks his heart.

“Yes, my love?”

He tries to keep his emotions under control for you, because that’s what you need, but he hears the tremble in his own voice and hates it.

“Will you make love to me? Put your child in my belly? Show anyone who comes knocking that I belong with you?”

You two have been trying since your wedding night, without any luck. You asking him this, now, it’s your way to show him how much you care, your unwillingness to be parted from him, to change your body irreversibly, this time on your own terms.

“Yes, I will.”.

Abraham unfolds his body and stands to his full height, before he lifts you up, bridal style, to carry you to the bed.

With infinite care he sits your there and starts removing your clothes, kissing your scars as they come to light, until you’re naked in front of him, in all your glory.

“I don’t know how you can stand looking at me.”

“I don’t have to stand anything. I chose you for myself and that’s all it matters to me.”.

The certainty of his voice, the blaze in his blue eyes tell you that he is not lying; perhaps another man would wax poetic about your ruined skin, he touches you with reverence and love, calloused hands that become feathers where he knows you still hurt, chapped lips that leave butterfly kisses everywhere as he undresses himself, until he’s naked in front of you, strong muscles born of hard work and his cock, hard and leaking already, just for you.

“I need you Abe, don’t make me wait.” You beg, spreading your legs to show him just how much you need him.

“Never.” He growls from between your thighs.

His hands are strong on your hips when he pulls you towards his mouth, his tongue thirsty for all the sweet nectar you’re about to give him and he feasts on you, his lips everywhere on your cunt, sucking, kissing, nibbling; he moans when your juices hit his tastebuds, making you shiver in his hold and his lips fasten around your clit, sucking harshly, hungrily for more as his fingers explore your depths, looking for that special place that makes you kick against his face and he fucks against it, fast and unforgiving, needing you as wet as possible, mad for him as he is for you.

Your hands grab his hair and pull, desperately, trying to control his movements, how fast he’s throwing you in the throes of your own orgasm, to no avail: you’re at his mercy, your hips are pushing against his face without your control, seeking the pleasure he’s giving you, rubbing against his nose and chin, until he’s drenched and fucking your hole with his tongue becomes a need and you keen, muscles clenching desperately around the intrusion, your own legs manacles around his face and he woudln’t want to die in any other way but drowning in your juices.

He removes his face with a grunt and you cry out, your orgasm so close.

“Ride me. I want you to feel me in your throat. Remind you whom you belong to.” He growls, low and hungry, as he lays on the bed.

His cock is proud and red, small pearls of precum bubble on the tip and you swiftly lick them, not wanting any of his essence to go to waste.

You’re so wet when you straddle him, your hole loose already for him that his broad head breaches you easily as his nails rake down your unburnt skin, his hands explore your body possessively, one finding home around your throat, the other grabbing your hips to help you move with gentle figures if eight that make his cock burrow inside your cunt all the tighter.

You grind against his body, your clit sending shockwaves of pleasure with every pass, his hand curls around your throat when you start begging for his cock, to go faster, please! He intends to savor you properly, suck on your breasts as you move over him and keen and moan when he finds that spot again and bullies it mercilessly.

“Abe please!” You sound so pitiful and lost, luckily he’s here to keep you safe. “You’re spitting me in two! Abe please!”

His hips move faster now, a trot that has your breasts sway over his face and your cunt squelch around his cock, your muscles pulling him in with every pass and his hands are the only thing keeping you up, now that his hips are pistoning inside of you and your vision blurs with tears and pleasure.

“Pleasepleaseplease.” 

You beg and you feel yourself tighten painfully, your cunt barely able now to house his massive erection and he keeps going, fucking you mercilessly, opening you up to his invasion, spurred by your desperate keens of pleasure.

You come with a scream, your body rigid as he keeps fucking you, prolonging the pleasure until he has to slip out: he’s not done with you.

You’re still trembling over him when he rolls you on your back and bends your legs against your chest, before entering you again with a grunt of pleasure.

You choke on your words as he fucks you hard and fast, your legs around his hips, his hands grabbing the mattress to propel himself inside of you and you’re reduced to a puddle of pleasure and tears, your cunt sore and hungry for his cock and seed, his head reaching so deep inside of you it almost hurts with how full you feel.

You can feel another orgasm surging, stronger than the one before, your whole body curls around him and he has to be brutal to keep fucking you, opening you up again and again, deaf to your pathethic sounds of pleasure, spurred on by your nails on his skin and the small pain they’re causing him.

You’re crying now, your whole body arching under him, your cunt strangling him when his thumb brutalizes your poor clit and you beg him, pathetic and desperate for what you don’t know, needing the pleasure and fearing the band tightening in your belly.

You come abruptly, and he follows you with three sharp pushes and stays rooted inside of you, his weight carried by his arms and legs, his face hidden in the curve of your neck.

“I can’t risk having any of it going to waste.” He groans in your ear.

You kiss him, hungry for him as your cunt is for his seed.

“I can’t wait to have your baby.” You pant, body still shaking.

“I can’t wait to see you full with my seed. Time and time again. See your belly swell and your breast fill out. Show everyone that you’re mine.”

“Yes Abraham, yes. Let everyone know I’m yours.”

He kisses you again and you try to push your heel against his lower back when he moves to dismount.

“Don’t go anywhere. I want to feel you grow hard inside of me.”.

He groans, eyes crossing at your words: he’ll do anything for you, anything you ask, as long as you’re happy and safe.

[itsagrimm]

He who Comes from under the Water

Chapter 3 - The Fish, the Fox and the Fairy Lights

CN mentions of cannibalism in a fairytale-esk way, implied mentions of femicide, arranged marriage, sexism and patriarchy, talking animals, slight dip into paranoia, isolation, missing dead family and human connection, mourning process and grieving, talk of sex, talk of ‘virginity’ and insecurity, eating habits that could be read as pica behaviour, generally food and weight play a bit of a role here but not in a judgy way.

Much tanks to @queenquazar for editing and pointing out that yes indeed we can go more monstrous and that this is in fact very sexy and romantic.

Masterlist

Notes for better understanding at the bottom!

It became a silent ritual. You got up, dressed, and stepped into the garden after the knocks on your door. Every morning you collected a new pile of fish from König under the watchful eyes of the Heron. And with the fish, arrived a fresh stack of firewood and two buckets of water, ready for you at your doorstep.

Reliable and useful. It was a nice gesture…or a trap.

It made you uneasy.

Taciturn, you kept to yourself, mumbling a few polite words to the heron, and staying mostly around the house for the rest of the day. Now alone, you had plenty of things to do. 

No one was there to share the work with you. No friends or neighbours to help with repairing the house or harvesting berries or sharing some of the household chores. Biting your lips, you laboured on alone, no longer crying yourself to sleep at night but falling asleep as soon as you closed your eyes.

The silence was the hardest. It broke you down more than any working day could. No words or gossip or laughter or songs filled the house anymore, grinding your need for seclusion down.

The only companion you had were your own creaks and groans as you struggled with heavy tools and an even heavier, lonely heart.

One day, you could not bear it anymore.

“Does König catch these fish, master heron?” You asked casually while walking through the grass, wet from morning dew, a big bowl already in your hands.

“Yes, he goes fishing. For you! The fox told me,” The heron replied and swayed on its spindly legs like branches of the willows in the wind, “The dirty furball insists on guarding you at night. Of course, he only does it for the fish he gets from the King if you ask me. He thinks it's clever and subtle.”

“And you? What do you get?” you asked as you kneeled to pick up the fish. Crucian carp and walleye this time.

The heron master cackled, the sound loud and teasing in the morning air.

“Maiden,” it said, “I may be a bird flying high above the King’s deep kingdom, but I fish on his waters – his kingdom is right below the surface I stare at for hours. Serving your husband and earning his good will is better than a fish or two from him. Besides,” It cackled again, “you will make a fine, kind queen. You share your food with me every day!”

You smiled politely, “Governed by the stomach are we then, master heron?”

“Aren’t we all?”

“Indeed. A chalice then, again?” you asked simply as you grabbed some wood for the cooking.

“It would be very welcome.”

You nodded before grabbing the buckets and closing the door behind you.

Alone again… to some degree. Except for a fox guarding you at night, a heron at day, and König visiting your house as you slept. 

You had been right with the feeling of eyes on you.

Sinking in the chair, you stared at the bowl with fish. It was too much, far too much for only you to eat. Maybe König wanted you to cook for him as well? To share a meal, have a bit of company. He helped you, after all.

Like a husband would.

You shook your head at the thought.

No, you did not know him, did not know why he wanted to marry you and what he wanted with you. As far as you were concerned, he could still plan on fattening you up to eat later. You remembered stories of girls getting married, only to vanish. Why else would he bring you food but not visit you otherwise?

You pushed the thought aside, the air of death terrifying, threatening to cripple you now with memories too fresh to be just memories. 

The pond was still too real.

You got up and started to pile up the wood. The heron was right. Everyone had something to gain, and you needed to know what a king from under the waters wanted from you.

You were just a peasant girl, you thought to yourself as you lit up the fireplace. No ordinary king from the cities knew of you or cared about this village, likely never even heard of it and certainly not about you. Kings married queens. Princes married princesses. No one married the poor bumpkin without a family. All you had was the flesh on your bones, the hair in your plaits, and the dress on your skin.

But König was no ordinary king.

He was no human.

And he chopped the wood for you.

The thought of the strange, tall man, collecting and chopping wood for you in the dark made you chuckle.

How royal.

How odd.

Was that what kings did? 

You had no idea. What you needed was to learn more about him. You looked at the pile of fish and grabbed your knife. Maybe you needed to face your fears before the silence took you as the waters once tried to do. And maybe you could get to know your future husband a bit better over a shared meal.

This night you forced yourself to stay awake. Not lighting any fire or candle, you sat in your kitchen, wrapped in a scarf against the cold, and waited while sipping on your Sage tea.

Gathered by your mother and dried hanging from the roof of the kitchen, it calmed your nerves. It’s mild taste pleasant on your tongue, comforting and familiar.

You listened.

Outside the leaves rustled, the wind making the birch trees in the garden sway. The light steps of an animal walking close to your house, eating and smacking from the plate with fish left out, made you lift your head.

That must be the fox.

You took another sip.

An owlet cried somewhere in the woods, it’s “Kowitt, Kowitt!” hushed in the distance. It reminded you of your brother. He used to imitate all those cries, claiming one day he would learn all the bird’s sounds. He did not get to that.

Tock, tock, tock! The sound of wood getting chopped made you put your thoughts and your tea aside.

You got up, checked your plaits, and straightened your shoulders before grabbing your prepared package and stepping out of the house.

It was dark. The moon wasn’t even half full, so dark you could barely make out the steps down and into the garden.

“There, there. Here comes the bride!”

You stilled at the sound of the unknown voice.

“Is that you, master fox?” you asked into the darkness.

A rustling sounded before something warm pressed itself to the side of your legs and you smelled the little animal.

That definitely was the fox.

“Master?” the fox spoke with an amused ring, “So the heron was right. You are polite. No one ever calls me that. Say, why are you up and out at night, hm? It is dangerous for pretty women and future queens. You might run into monsters.”

“From my experience monsters care very little if the sun is up or down to be dangerous,” You replied. “But I could use some help walking at night. Would you like to make sure I don’t fall by accompanying me?”

The little animal around your knees shifted and smelled your hands. You felt a cold, wet, snout at the tips of your fingers.

“And where might you want to walk, eh?” the Fox said.

“To König.”

Immediately it stopped twisting and turning around you.

“Oh… OH!” The Fox exclaimed, “How romantic. Or stupid. In my experience, those two things can be very similar, hm? I will bring you to the king.”

For a quick moment the Fox left your side and stood in silence before a cold, wet snout at your shoulder nudged you onwards.

With wide eyes you moved.

“Don’t you worry, queen,” The fox rumbled somewhere above you, “I see well enough for two at night. You just walk.”

You nodded, too speechless from the tiny fox suddenly being tall enough so that you walked between its front legs, holding onto his fur to steady yourself.

“You are a brave one, eh?” The fox spoke.

“It is not like I have a choice.” You replied as you walked. “But, I am only putting out only one plate for you, no matter how tall you make yourself. I cannot have the heron accuse me of favouritism.”

A deep grumble erupted behind you, a laugh, you realised, as you stepped somewhere deeper into the forest. The ground changed from soft grass to  roots threatening to trip you, despite clinging onto the fox’s leg.

“How stern of you, maiden,” The fox teased.

You walked on, further, and further, deeper into the woods, with the sound of chopping coming closer and closer, louder with each thwack.

Finally, the Fox stopped.

“King of all that is under the water!” The large animal rumbled through the dark forest, “I brought to you your bride. She wanted to see you.”

The chopping sound stopped, as an axe was driven down onto the wooden block.

“What a surprise! Here I thought humans sleep at night,” you heard König say, “Thank you, Fox.”

You felt the animal move and suddenly you were alone again in the dark.

“How are you, my bride?”

“I,”you started, thinking about what you could say before deciding to go with the most practical, “I cannot see you. Do you have a light?”

A chuckle, an amused human chuckle, sounded through the forest before you heard a few whispered commands.

You waited for a heartbeat in the dark, listening to the owlet cry far, far away now.

“There they are,” König spoke into the dark.

You looked around. Little swamp lights danced around the trees, coming closer with soft laughter and with it an alluring feeling of security. You felt your legs long to walk with them, wanting to go with those lights wherever they went, laugh and dance with them the whole night.

A hand grabbed you by the arm, breaking the spell.

It was König, his hand firm and warm on your skin.

He stood beside you, casting a long shadow with his frame.

You looked up, confused as to what happened.

“You must not go with the swamp lights, or you might drown for good, bride,” he muttered, “Do not look at them. Ignore them. Enjoy their light from afar, and you are safe.”

Dizzy from the light’s callings, you nodded, blinking slowly.

König’s eyes were light and reflective, like the water mirroring the moon. Aside from that, he looked human. A young man with a trimmed beard and kempt hair..

Good-looking.

Bashfully, you turned away. That is not what you came here for.

“Why are you here, bride?” he asked and tugged you to a fallen tree.

You sat down on the wood, and he took a seat on the ground in front of you. With his tall size you were near eye-level with him and his watery eyes.

“I wanted to see you,” you trailed off. You had made plans, thought up words, explanations, lies. Now, all gone and forgotten, you were left with nothing but yourself.

“Are the Fox and the Heron not treating you well? Did Ivar return after all, and I have not heard?”

“No. it is all fine,” You paused. König looked so real, so unlike the terrifying stranger haunting your mind when you were alone. Maybe you could marry this man and become what your grandfather had wanted you to become.

“Why do you want to marry me?”you ventured.

The watery, bright eyes blinked before settling on you again.

“The old man told me stories of kings- of kingdoms. What it is supposed to be like.” A soft smile danced over his lips.

“I am a king of a kingdom. I have all that is supposed to be of kings. All I am missing is a queen. That would be you.”

“So, you want to marry me because I accidentally became available to you? Because my grandfather offered my hand in marriage?”

“Yes.”

It was your turn to blink. Was that all to it? Was it just a swampy being playing king and you got caught up in it? No other intentions other than that?

“How is it supposed to work?” You asked, “I am a human. I am much smaller than you, and I need air.”

“I thought about it and have decided to build a new palace. That is why I have been so busy. It will be both in the water and on it. You will have to tell me what else you require to live except air. As you can see, currently, I am getting the wood ready needed for the foundation.”

He pointed at the fallen trees and chopped wood.

“And for the size – we can put you on a chair or something.” He eyed you up and down before adding, “maybe we put that chair on a box too. But it will work.”

“How?”

“What do you mean how? You will look taller that way.”

“What about when I am not on the chair and the box?”

Confusion knitted his brows.

“I don’t know. For what else do queens need to be representative for?”

You eyed him with confusion. You knew little about what queens were expected to do. But, you figured it included other marital expectations… bedroom expectations.

You felt your face turn hot.

“König,” you asked. “How do you think people marry among humans?”

He tilted his head, “I was told there is a feast.”

“And?”

“And then the bride and the groom stay together for the night.”

“Yes?”

“I suppose they have a good night’s sleep.”

“I doubt there is much sleeping going on during a wedding night,” You snorted.

“Oh,” He paused. “Oh. I did not know that.” He cleared his throat.

“We don’t have to do that.” He shrugged, “Who could tell anyway? And who would care to ask?”

You looked down at your fingers, your left hand nervously fumbling with the package you bought with you. Was it odd to know he was willing to lie to not… to not touch… not to feel… You were unused to thinking of yourself this way, assuming once you would get married, your mother and your already married girlfriends from the village would tell you all about this. But they were all gone, you were about to marry a man from the swamp, and all those things would always stay a mystery to you. You did not even know what it was you were missing, not even sure how to name it.

“Is that fish?” König asked, “ I smell fish. That is fish!”

Relieved for the change in topic you nodded.

“Yes, I wanted to say thank you for all the food you brought me. It is very thoughtful.”

You passed him the package.

“It’s not much but, maybe, you would like to have some din-”

The words stopped coming out of your mouth as König took the package and gobbled it up in one go without even unpacking it from the pressed birch bark.

With your mouth still hanging open you starred.

He bit down with a crunching sound on the fish and bark, his sharp teeth reflecting the swamp lights before chewing a few times with a thoughtful look on his face as if he was tasting something for the first time.

You closed your lips before you choked on the dinner invitation on your tongue.

“Ah, so that is how cooked food tastes like,” He finally stated after swallowing down with an audible sound, “Delicious. Thank you very much, my bride!”

He licked his fingers with a wet slurping sound and wiped his face from the birch bark crumps with those large clawed hands - hands that looked like they could snap your neck like it was a stick.

He burped before continuing.

“Pardon. It’s nice, easier to eat this way than when they still wiggle.”

Still fixing whatever face you were making into something less baffled, you mumbled an, “I need to go,” and got up.

König rose with you, whispering a few commands.

“The lights will guide you home. You humans can’t see in the dark, right?”

“Ah yes. Thank you.” You replied weakly and turned around to leave.

“Wait,” he called after you. “What was it that you wanted to say?”

You turned back. König looked at you, waiting patiently for you to speak. The terror was still in your bones, the crunching sound still ringing in your ears as he bit into the package like it was nothing. Was that what he could do with you too? Your body frail and fragile against the large and imposing König and he only waited for you to become his to do as he pleased with you and your body, consuming it whole like he had with your little gift?

“I-“ you began, fumbling with your now empty hands.

He waited as your heart raced fast against your ribs. A part of you screamed that you needed to run from this terrifying man who wanted to parade you around on a chair as his queen, ate like you had only seen in your recent nightmares and nearly drowned you. He was no human and commanded powers you did not understand.

But then he looked at you, a kind, patient face, who stood up for you when you needed it and was concerned for well-being.

It’s for now. I am safe until the wedding, you thought to yourself.

“I wanted to ask if you would like to have dinner with me, sometime?”, you said out loud.

XXX

Notes for better understanding:

-   I use the word ‘plaits’ for readers hair to describe the braided hair style of the reader I know as ‘косы’. Since translating it as braids technically would have also been correct but invokes a different meaning for most English speakers due to distinct cultural codes, I used ‘plaits’. However, if you have braids or hair that can be braided, feel free to read the word ‘plaits’ as ‘braids’ or at least understand yourself as included in the description. This was very much a technical translation problem with words not being translatable 100% and ‘косы’ simply meaning any type of braided or plaited hair.

-   some of you might not be aware of foxes’ smell. It’s a very strong and not pleasant to most.

-  Female owlets cry ‘Kowitt!” which sounds like the german ‘komm mit’ / ‘come with me’. Therefore, it is said in German folklore that the owlets are birds of death wanting to take a soul with them or warning of the impending death of those who listen to it because it was heard so much around the dead and dying. Owlets and many other nightly birds of prey were hunted because of that in German speaking regions. The real reason for owlets crying around the dead is a different one: the lights of the wake for the dead drew the birds in at night.

-   Sage grows wild nearly everywhere and is calming as well as anti-inflammatory. It is a medicinal tea so one should not drink it regularly due to it being very potent. Also, the sage reader is drinking is a native sage known as green sage so please don’t go and get white sage if you just want to have a tea.

- birch bark is a very versatile resource used in many cultures as a means to e.g. write on or to make other wares out of it

XXX

Taglist: @thesinsoflust @kdkj122920 @die-prophetin @lillianastuff @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore

[enbyleighlines]

Misc. thoughts about the Forging Bonds (with the Dawn Brigade):

Leonardo’s conversations are kind of super boring and bland, but I suppose that’s on point for him. He does seem to be a rather boring and bland person.

I did appreciate Prince Alfred randomly showing up to, once again, affirm how gay he is for muscled men.

Also, they made Leonardo seem kind of… stupid? I always figured he was the smart one since he’s portrayed as being more mature than Edward, but he was very clueless. He was absolutely baffled by Alfred saying he was a passerby who appreciated a good physique. “What does that mean?” Leonardo asked. It Means He Gay, Leonardo. Keep up.

I haven’t gotten very far with Edward’s story, so I don’t have much to say about it.

However, Edward apparently likes to draw? Was that in RD anywhere, or did they add that to his character?

The fact that the Dawn Brigade is so reluctant to join the Order of Heroes just because some of the people are from Begnion is… understandable, but at the same time, they didn’t put up that much of a fuss over fighting for Begnion during part 3 of Radiant Dawn. Like, they questioned it a bit, but they also got over it pretty quickly.

Of course Micaiah’s whole story is about her focusing on the fact that the Order of Heroes is super diverse. At that point in the story, she is worried about what Daein would think if they found out their Silver Haired Maiden was part laguz. It was the obvious choice for her forging bonds. Nevertheless, I appreciate that they acknowledge what Micaiah was going through at that time. Micaiah being Branded is more of a sub-plot, and doesn’t get nearly enough focus, in my opinion.

Micaiah asking someone to make her a dress to match Sothe was super cute. I love how Sothe’s reaction was to just stop functioning for a moment. That boy is down bad.

Also, Sothe’s reaction to seeing Micaiah was to shout “Micaiah?!” much in the same way that in Engage Soren shouted “Ike?!” and I gotta give a nice chef’s kiss to the cinematic parallels.

Sothe’s insistence that Micaiah hasn’t aged at all since he met her is… super weird. I know that’s in line with that picture of their first meeting, but it’s just… so weird. And it does not fit with what we know of canon.

At most, Micaiah would be 24 or 25 years old in Radiant Dawn. Yet the game wants me to believe that she hasn’t aged in over 10 years, which is nearly half of her total lifespan? What, did she speedrun her childhood and adolescence in her first 10-15 years and then stop aging completely? That’s… not how Branded aging works??

Also, if heron Branded really did age even slower than Soren, a dragon Branded, then don’t you think someone in Begnion would have noticed that the Apostle just… doesn’t age?

Sothe and Micaiah’s relationship is supposed to be a parallel to Ike and Soren’s. Ike and Soren met as kids, about 10 years prior to PoR. Ike saw Soren and realized that he needed help. At the time, they appeared to be the same age. But later, when they meet up again, Soren looks younger than Ike due to the fact that his aging has begun to slow. But at the same time, Soren really doesn’t look thaaaat much younger.

So how could Micaiah be the exact same after a decade has passed? It doesn’t make sense! Make it make sense!

Overall, I will continue to take the Christian approach to feh, wherein I decide what it is or isn’t canon according to my own personal preferences.

And besides all my nitpicks, I am enjoying the Forging Bonds. It’s nice to see Edward and Leonardo given some time and space to exist as actual characters, and not just units meant to help the player progress from one chapter to the next.

[spiritshaydra]

Oh yeah funny story

So I went on a field trip yesterday out to this field station on an island out in the hyper-saline lagoon that’s like,, right down the road to collect botanical samples for my wetland ecology lab.

Left a little while after 2pm.

We were on the island for about two hours collecting plants (and finishing the trip off with some king cake) before hopping back on the boat. It was about 4:30pm

So,, normal lab field trip right?

WRONG.

Our boat stops suddenly and a big plume of mud is sprayed out from behind the skiff. Not a good sign. Four guys hop out of the boat and start trying to push the boat free- Laguna Madre is VERY shallow, especially in this area since we weren’t where they had dredged it out for the larger ships, so the water was about knee deep where we got stuck.

We started moving again. Kinda. I see the guys get these poles out and start using them to turn the boat like those gondolas in Venice. (Sadly no accordion) Also not a good sign.

THEN the guy who was sitting at the wheel gets up and walks up to the front where we were sitting and pulls the anchor out, and then drops it out into the water. NOT A GOOD SIGN.

Then I hear my professor talking about calling the biology lab coordinator to figure out what the fuck to do, and then she’s on the phone with someone talking about how we need someone to come out and tow us back to the boat ramp. 💀

It’s 5:30pm now and the sun’s beginning to set. (And my other lab back on campus had just begun, which I obviously wasn’t able to attend unless I could teleport) My brother also happened to call me which I answered with a “hey you won’t be able to guess where the fuck I currently am.” Never a dull moment.

Another hour passes and FINALLY the lab tech guy shows up with another boat to tow us back (while wearing his Iron Maiden shirt like an absolute legend, we love lab tech guy) it’s now sunset and we’re finally moving. Slowly, but moving’s moving.

The sun set completely and I had dozed off a little as there really wasn’t much else to do. It was also COLD with the wind blowing off the water and the lack of sunlight. Thank GOD I decided to wear both my hoodie and wind breaker, along with a bandana to use as a scarf. Eventually we made it back to the boat ramp at around 7pm. So I’d finally be able to go back to my apartment and have some warm hot chocolaty goodness right?”

HA if only it was that easy.

It probably took them an hour to get the boats back onto their trailers because they kept loading them incorrectly and would have to retry. Me and some other classmates stood out in the cold for about fifteen minutes before we realized that we could hop in the van where it was warm, and wait in there. So that’s EXACTLY what we did. Luckily I packed some snacks because I thought it wouldn’t hurt to bring them along, so I just kinda,,, passed around a bag of trail mix.

Something something hour later we get back to campus at like 8pm where I was finally able to go back to my dorm. (My wonderful roommate brought me hot chocolate bless her)

Anyways I’m tired <33

TLDR: Went on what should’ve been a three hour long field trip for hehe swamp science fun times and our boat's steering went out so we were strANDED FOR TWO FUCKING HOURS IN THE LAGOON. We were out in the sun for like five hours and gone for six. I love being a stem major <333 yippee!!

(For those biology nerds out there we saw mullets jumping out of the water, sea grass beds, black mangroves, various salt flat succulents, stupid plant with wickedly sharp thorns that ripped apart the sample bag it was in, wolf berries, mosquitoes, a tiger moth caterpillar, turkey vultures, dolphins, brown and white pelicans, mosquitoes, a crested caracara, tons of laughing gulls, great blue herons, mosquitoes, egrets, white ibises, cormorants, and black tipped skimmers.)

[roninreverie]

Tiny break from my regularly scheduled fanfic art to draw up some STRQ parents, featuring the Ooblecks.

Strangely enough, it was this post about snail color dyes that made me be like... I need a blue, snail-man named Tek in this story right now... but where?! I never named Bartholomew's dad, and they've got slime-based Semblances, so BOOM! It was all downhill from there!

Spoiler-free versions of my character notes for these guys under the cut:

Phyllis “Merryweather” Xiao Long:

Tai’s mother.

Is kind of the unofficial community leader of Patch's social circles.

Her maiden name is in reference to the fairy from Sleeping Beauty.

Her first name is a RvB reference that started as a joke placeholder and accidentally became permanent. 🤣

Yichen Xiao Long:

Tai’s father.

Ran a dojo on Patch.

His name is based off of Chinese characters “Yi” 奕 , meaning “great: and “Chen” 辰 meaning “early morning/ sun/ dragon of the Chinese zodiac… which is in reference to Taiyang’s own name meaning “great or little sun dragon” (—buuut IDK Chinese so all this is speculative Google searching on my part).

Sheila Oobleck:

Bartholomew’s mother and Phyllis’ best gal pal.

She loves gossip and wears yellow. She crashes any car she gets behind the wheel of.

Her name is PURELY and INTENTIONALLY a RvB reference! Semblance is strictly cosmetic, like Bakugo's mom.

Tekhelet “Tek” Oobleck:

Bartholomew’s father.

Archaeologist, studies ruins. Wears Blue.

Semblance would probably be related to the slime from snail trails. His name is a color Blue, based on a stray tumblr post (see above) I saw about blue dyes, Tyrian purples, snails, and Jewish historical fun facts.

Zariyah “Gale” Rose:

Summer’s mother.

She was kind and gentle, had an angelic singing voice, and baked a mean batch of cookies.

Her Semblance was akin to a “gentle breeze”.

Both her names are a reference to “wind”.

Ryley Rose:

Summer's father.

His Semblance allowed him to grow seeds into flowers just in the palm of his hand (though they died shortly after). If used on seeds in the ground, his Semblance instead helped the vegetation grow stronger and healthier than it ever would have on its own.

His name means “rye clearing” in homage to his Semblance and “growing crops” as a farmer. 

Heron Branwen:

The twins' father.

He is the leader of the Branwen bandit tribe.

His Semblance is "Positive Outlook" - a precognitive ability to alter probability and bring about the most beneficial outcome through visions of differing scenarios.

Ardent:

The twins' mother.

She was said to like tea and birdwatching; had red eyes, an explosive temper, and was good with a sword.

I always thought her Semblance might have something to do with shadow-based teleportation.

Her name is one I use in fics sometimes because it's unique-sounding. It means "burning; enthusiastic, passionate" and I believe is also a shade of Red.

[ask-subaru-kagami]

With the topic of kabuki on my mind at this moment, I was thinking of the Heron Maiden. Watching the dance reminds me of how beautiful kabuki is as an art form.

[iviarellereads]

The Shadow Rising, Chapter 9 - Decisions

(THIS PROJECT IS SPOILER FREE! No spoilers past the chapter you click on. Curious what I'm doing here? Read this post! For the link index and a primer on The Wheel of Time, read this one! Like what you see? Send me a Ko-Fi.)

(Crescent moon icon) In which, what are you doing here?

Three days pass in lethargy due to the heat. (1)

PERSPECTIVE: Mat learns the lordlings have spread all manner of rumour, and even some of the servant women who used to enjoy a cuddle are avoiding him. Perrin and Thom seem to be doing their own thing. Moiraine, the one person Mat wants to avoid, seems to be around every corner, though she doesn't approach him. And still he keeps finding excuses to stay just one more day. Once, he carries a lamp down to the Great Holding area, just to look at something new.(2) He also goes into the city, dicing for what feel like small stakes now.

PERSPECTIVE: Perrin sometimes sees Mat in the taverns, but avoids him instead of trying to find out why he's acting so irritable. Perrin isn't there for wine or dice, he's buying bad ale for anyone who looks foreign, looking for any rumour of something that might draw Faile away from Tear. He's sure if she finds something that might put her name in the stories, she'll chase it without him. He hears what he believes to be outdated rumours about the Seanchan and the Horn of Valere. Ghealdan is rioting, Illian is suffering from mass madness, Cairhien is in a great famine, slowing the civil war, Trolloc raids are increasing in the Borderlands.(3) He can't send Faile into any of that.

PERSPECTIVE: Egwene spends more hours questioning Amico and Joiya with Nynaeve, to no avail. No word comes from Tar Valon, to say whether the threat to free Taim is being dealt with or not. Aviendha sometimes visits with Egg, and Egg enjoys the company, though she sees unasked questions in Avi's eyes. Elayne's been busy with something, and Nyn's been spending time with Lan, even cooking foods he likes (or trying, she's never been good at cooking), so Egg is especially glad to find she and Avi have a lot in common and more to talk about.

PERSPECTIVE: Elayne doesn't attend the Black Ajah questionings. Instead, she's become very adept at being nearby when Rand has a free moment, and finding secluded corners where they can be alone. She even makes a sort of deal with the Maidens who guard Rand, who think it's great sport to help El corner him. He asks her advice in governance, and follows it often. She thinks she could love him just for those two things, even if he weren't also kind.

PERSPECTIVE: Rand meets with High Lords, both at appointed times and sometimes when they get together in secret but Thom can ferret out what's going on. He finds El's advice very useful with them, but she tells him not to give her credit: a ruler should take advice, but never be seen taking it. He feels like he's putting off some decision, even though he's building his plans. He thinks of asking El to stay, but he doesn't know what he wants from her besides her presence, and that wouldn't be fair.

Eventually High Lords Meilan and Sunamon come to him with a proposal for a contract with Mayene, to use their ships to move the excess grain for trade elsewhere, but he rejects it as too obsessed with Tairen interests, burns the vellum with the Power, and tells them to go negotiate with Berelain or he'll hang them both. They disgust him almost as much as he disgusts himself, threatening to hang men, and meaning it.

The third evening, he looks at the herons branded in his palms, and remembers the prophecy lines that foretold them. He wonders what the next lines refer to, what are dragons? Lews Therin Telamon was one, but perhaps the creatures on his banner are also dragons. Even Aes Sedai don't seem to know.

Lanfear shows up and says he looks stronger, harder than when last she saw him. She frowns at his face, saying he's been marked, but it's no matter, he was and ever is hers.

He's confused, saying he doesn't know how she got here, he worried she was still in Cairhien, maybe hurt or worse. She can stay in the Stone, but all there ever was between them was companionship, and that's the end of it. When Cairhien is at peace again, he can try to see that her estates are returned to her.

She says she might have had estates there once, but so much has changed. Selene is just a name she uses sometimes, the name she made her own is Lanfear. She shields him from the Power, and he realizes she isn't lying.(4) She keeps calling him Lews Therin, he keeps insisting his name is Rand. He asks if she means to kill him, and she says no, she means to have him forever. He was hers long before Ilyena stole him. He loved her[Lanfear], she cries, and he replies, and she loved power! He's dazed for a moment wondering where the words came from.(5)

Lanfear is as startled as Rand for a second, but continues that he's learned much, unaided, but he's still fumbling in the dark. Some of the Chosen[Forsaken] fear him too much to wait, but there are those who could teach him. Rand says he would refuse even if it was offered, he stands against everything the Forsaken are and do. He will destroy them all, if he can. Lanfear says they fear him because they fear the Great Lord of the Dark will give him a place above theirs. Rand asks if they can't say his name either, and she says it would be blasphemy, and besides, the Great Lord told her himself. Rand says that's ridiculous, he's still bound, or he'd be fighting Tarmon Gai'don now. Lanfear says he is bound, but at Shayol Ghul, in the Pit of Doom, you can hear him. She asks him to kneel to the Dark One, and they can rule the world forever, together.

Rand sees a Gray Man enter his room, and he pushes Lanfear aside, the shield drops so he takes saidin and wields his fire sword, and kills the man. He asks why she'd be so sneaky, when she could have killed him easily. She says she doesn't use the Soulless.

She asks him again to come with her, there's still time. Or does he mean to kill her now? She appears ready to counter an attack, but Rand doesn't make one. He knows she's served evil for three thousand years, in her way, but all he can see before him is a woman, and he can't do it, though he knows it's foolish of him.

A sudden thought boiled up in his head like a hot spring. The Aiel. Even a Gray Man should have found it impossible to sneak through doors watched by half a dozen Aiel. “What did you do to them?” His voice grated as he backed toward the doors, keeping his eyes on her. If she used the Power, maybe he would have some warning. “What did you do to the Aiel outside?” “Nothing,” she replied coolly. “Do not go out there. This may be only a testing to see how vulnerable you are, but even a testing may kill you if you are a fool.” He flung open the left-hand door onto a scene of madness.

=====

(1) I'm very cross with this chapter because it doesn't indicate the perspective shifts. The other chapters all have a double line break, a visible section separation. This one just flows. Very annoyingly. It just shifts every few paragraphs until you get a bunch of pages in a row with Rand. (2) The narration doesn't mention the redstone doorframe, but it's implied. (3) The Seanchan we've seen holed up in the Sea Folk's home, so who's to say whether the rumours are outdated. Ghealdan, isn't that where we last heard Masema ran off to? Illian mass hallucinating under Sammael, and Tear judging as if they weren't suffering Be'lal and Ishamael for who knows how long. Cairhien's civil war devastating an already precarious country. The only bit we don't necessarily have any relevant information about is the Borderlands, but it does make sense Trollocs would be raiding more as the final battle looms over the world and forces prepare. (4) Oh, Rand, you really didn't even suspect? (5) That doesn't seem like a good sign. His past life speaking through him. Nobody's mentioned that as a possibility. But, he did start hearing, perhaps not a real voice, but an urge, all the way back in book 1. Little prompts, to act this or that way. And, is he using his magic instinctively, the way Nynaeve learned her Healing, or is he remembering a skill born of hundreds of years of use?

[sloshed-cinema]

The Boy and the Heron [君たちはどう生きるか] (2023)

It’s interesting to see what sort of story a master wants to tell over the course of their life. While it lacks the workmanlike nature of Kiki’s Delivery Service, the vast epic stakes of Princess Mononoke, or the spiritual abstraction of Spirited Away, The Boy and the Heron, despite its interrogative title in the original Japanese, seems to reach inward with its narrative thrust: How do I feel? This is an introspective journey even as Miyazaki retraces familiar steps to earlier films. Mahito is a schoolboy moving to the countryside after a bombing raid on Tokyo claims the life of his hospitalized mother in a fire. He is hollow and emotionally distant, quietly angry at Netsuko, his aunt and the woman his father has fallen in love with. But when she goes missing, Mahito follows her to rescue her and (according to the mischievous grey heron who plagues him at his new home) his own mother. This has the building blocks of a tale akin to something from CS Lewis, but quickly becomes far more absurdist and surreal (perhaps closer to one of Lewis’ later stories). As Mahito fights off parakeet soldiers and chases after the fiery maiden who rescued him before her own capture, we see him grappling with his mother’s loss and a drive to, beyond all reason, save her. Life and death are omnipresent in the world Mahito enters, and he wants to preserve all of the life he can. It abruptly takes a turn for the cosmic and existential, his Granduncle at the center of Italy, speaking to the fragility of existence and the balance of things. But is it better to preserve perfection in tenuous balance, or to accept the good with the bad? Looking back on it all, Miyazaki seems to signal a preference for radical acceptance.

Miyazaki’s films have a really interesting way of animating fluid. When Mahito strikes himself on the temple with a stone after a tussle at school, blood flows in such torrents as to rival a wound inflicted by Ashitaka in Princess Mononoke. It is dramatic and extreme, underlining the rage that he is expressing in this self-destructive act. Later, when he drinks water from a tap in the other-world, it has such a viscosity as to emphasize his thirst, showing just how refreshing and essential a good, cold drink is at the end of a long day.

Joe Hisaishi delivers an elegant and simple score for this film, heavy on piano. Not quite pointillistic in its sensibilities, it refrains from bold statements. And yet it’s all the more powerful for it. The four opening chords of each reprise of the “Ask Me Why” queue are enough to shatter my soul.

THE RULES

SIP

Someone says 'Mahito'.

The heron makes weird goblin noises.

Bird shit. Why is there so much bird shit?

The heron attempts to repair his beak.

BIG DRINK

The Granduncle is referenced.

Hisaishi's score jerks some tears outta the ol' ducts.

Certified Ghibli Food Moment.

[everlaneptune]

Third official post! Yay! Also hi! I apologize for the wait. Like my second post, I've been experiencing severe writer's block. Writing these takes a while, too.

Allow me to place where credit is due. Thank you to Hoyoverse for providing the silk flower for my custom-made Tumble header, which I made myself!

Italicized paragraphs is Xiao's inner monologue, also provided by official Hoyoverse lore. Although, it's not as extensive of Part 1. Speaking of! This is Part 2 of "Qingxin and the Golden Eyes." Go read Part 1 if you haven't done so!

Now, please enjoy!

WARNINGS: Gore (blood, severe injury), character death.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.

•°•

Petals of the Lingering Memories

Xiao

Moonlight beams down onto the stone pillars of Jueyun Karst. Herons peer down from the high cliffs, beaks grooming at their feathers. Birds along the cobblestone pathways peck at the ground in search for food. Amber on Mount Hulao glistens beneath the moon’s smile. A Dihua flute echoes through the valley, performing a song all recognize to be ‘Lover’s Oath.’

Shadows flee while the sun rises. Demons retreat at the sound of the Dihua flute. A vigilant yaksha pursues the mellifluous tune. He navigates the stone spires efficiently, footsteps featherlight as he traverse one stone to the next. Luminescent eyes of molten gold search for the source of the Dihua flute. His gaze concentrates on a maiden perched on top of the highest pillar, qingxin surrounding her lonely form.

Crouching one last time, he leaps into the air and flies to her location. He lands gracefully on his feet like a cat. Shock courses through him before it disappears from existence. The yaksha kneels before her, his head bowed in a display of respect.

The melody stops briefly. A gentle laugh escapes the maiden.

“Welcome back, Xiao,” she greets him. “Have you completed your chores for the night?”

He answers. “The demons near Qingce have been terminated. Entities tainted by karma will not be able to detect a trace. Passerby will not suspect anything is amiss.”

“As expected of the Conqueror of Demons,” she titters softly. “And how are you feeling?”

A pause. Xiao analyzes himself for any physical injuries. The blood on his person belongs to the demons, not him. He proceeds to examine his mind, which remains untouched by his karmic debt. It’s a normal occurrence nowadays since she plays the Dihua flute while he slays demons. Once he confirms nothing seems out of the ordinary, he replies.

“I’m fine.”

The maiden before him turns, her soft pink hair swaying with her movement. Her gentle, mint eyes gaze at him so tenderly. She gazes at him as if he’s the only person who matters during these warring times. Yet, he wishes that he could hide away from her gaze.

That gaze should be directed at someone else who deserves it, not him.

Lady Qingxin has always been his saving grace, but he doesn’t consider himself to be special. She treats everyone with respect, treating them like how she would like to be treated. Alas, she is tentative to the yaksha’s needs. When his karmic debt overwhelms him, the nullifying tune of the Dihua flute relieves him of the pain. She aids him in the battle against the gods’ anger, relieving everyone from karma and demons plaguing this land by cleansing it with song.

Even though the corruption has stopped spreading long ago, she continues to play to ensure his safety. She does not want him to succumb to his karmic debt.

A flick on his forehead pulls him out of his thoughts.

Xiao stumbles away, his hand lifting to shield his forehead. He notices that the group of qingxin drifts alone in the wind. Now, Qingxin has left her spot on the cliff and kneels before him, her arms resting on her knees.

“You’re doing it again,” she says. “Retreating into the deep recesses of your mind. ‘I am unworthy of such praises,’ or ‘I do not deserve such tenderness.’” She rests her chin on her hand. “Something along those lines, yes?”

Xiao gazes at her. Then he shakes his head.

“No,” he answers. “I am thankful for your praises, Lady Qingxin.”

If he responds with the truth, the Dihua flute will be beaten against his head. Yet…

THUNK!

Xiao grimaces when the wooden instrument strikes his head.

“Liar.”

Qingxin sighs. She rises from the ground, yet he remains kneeling. He knows better than to stand at the same time. When her foot taps his knee, the yaksha stands.

Warm arms envelop him suddenly. Xiao tenses, the sensation foreign to him, yet he melts shortly after. He reciprocates the embrace, his head burying into her shoulder.

“Welcome back, Xiao,” Qingxin repeats. “You must be exhausted. Shall we go to Wangshuu Inn and have almond tofu?”

“The offer sounds tempting, my lady,” he replies. “But I would like to remain here for a moment more. It’s… peaceful.”

She laughs softly. “I knew you’d say that.”

The maiden guides him over to the cliffside. Xiao complies with her request to lay down, remaining mindful of the qingxin around them. He situates himself, his head coming to rest on her lap. Qingxin cards her fingers through his wild mane, untangling knots and rat’s nests. The soothing touch tempts him to close his eyes and enjoy the sensation.

“What would you like for me to play?” she asks him. The girl readies her flute, her fingertips covering their respective holes.

“The ‘Nameless Song,’” Xiao replies. “Or whatever you call it.”

“Wu Ji?” Qingxin titters quietly. “Of course.”

She checks her instrument by executing random notes.  Once she deems her

She plays a few random notes to check the condition of her flute. Once the instrument passes the test, a harmonious sound floats into the night. A gentle breeze drifts past them, and Xiao knows Barbatos carries it across Liyue. From Minlin to its neighboring regions: Bishui Plain and Lisha. From the plains, the Qiongji Estuary. From Lisha, the Sea of Clouds.

He knows because he often hears her music from miles away.

Xiao enjoys the tranquility of the moment. He listens closely to the harmony that she plays. His hands rest on top of his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Ba-dump… Ba-dump… Ba-dump…

The image shatters when he recognizes the warmth of blood.

Xiao jumps to his feet.

Instead of laying on the stone pillar at Jueyun Karst, he stands in a field not far from Wangshuu Inn. Demonic corpses lay on the ground, and crimson stains the gravel. The reeds have been sliced to ribbons from the brutal blows of his polearm. Demons surround him, cackling to each other. He pays no mind to the creatures surrounding him.

His only desire is to find the source of the blood.

That’s right.

He pivots on his foot to find Qingxin standing there, her arms spread wide. A demon stumbles away in fear. The yaksha swiftly catches the maiden before she falls onto the ground. His eyes widen upon spotting blood staining her gown, turning white silk into a deep maroon.

He examines the wound. Several layers of bodily tissue have been cut. It spans from her right shoulder down to her left hip. He sees a bone peaking out between the muscle and tissue. It’s deep… Too deep.

For the first time, Xiao experiences a mundane emotion.

Fear.

“Qingxin?” he calls out quietly. “Moondrop, can you hear me?”

Why does he treat her so gently? It seems out of character for him. Xiao has never shown such tenderness towards someone. He is fearful of displaying his vulnerability, afraid of what Qingxin might think of him.

At that moment, he forgoes his fear. The stone walls around his heart collapse.

“Xiao?”

A soft and gentle voice calls out to him. Xiao almost cries out in relief upon hearing that voice. Almost.

“I’m here. I’m here,” he answers. The yaksha holds her close. His eyes sting, and he sheds a tear when he blinks. “Please, hold on. I’ll get you somewhere safe, I promise. Just hold on, okay?”

“Xiao,” Qingxin says again. “I need you to do me a favor.”

Dawn approaches, and so does the inevitability of death as it encroaches.

It’s too soon.

“I will do whatever you ask of me,” Xiao whispers. “I will terminate these demons and take you to Wangshuu Inn. I will ensure that-”

“Swear to me that you will live a fulfilling life.”

What?

“Do not dwell on my death. Instead, fight for the people of Liyue.”

“You’re speaking nonsense,” he hisses through gritted teeth. “You’re not going to die here! Not if I have anything to-”

“Adeptus Alatus!” Qingxin interrupts. She coughs out the blood congealing in her lungs. “As the Goddess of Song, I order this of thee!”

Xiao attempts to resist her command, his body and mind combatting his instinct to obey. Qingxin notices that resistance, as she always does. She makes the process less painful, the tender caress of her hand momentarily distracting him.

Chains of obedience bind to his wrists and lock around his neck. Her order forces onto him the instinct to protect mankind. Most important of all, Xiao replies to his name bestowed onto him by the Archon of Geo.

Reluctantly, the yaksha lowers her onto the ground. His mind screams not to abandon him, clashing with this newfound instinct to protect humanity. Her gentle smile reassures him that her sacrifice is necessary. She lowers her hand from his cheek onto her abdomen.

“As… As you wish,” Xiao forces out.

Her smile never fades. Qingxin closes her eyes, breathing her last breath.

Xiao rises from the ground, the familiar weight of his polearm appearing in his hand. The demons surrounding him draw near. When the first beam of sunshine peaks over the horizon, illuminating Qingxin’s pale complexion, the yaksha strikes.

Anger devours him completely and drives him to eliminate every foe. Xiao refuses to forgive the fallen gods who have taken her life, his beloved Moondrop, neither will he forgive himself. He doesn’t care for the flesh blood staining his clothes.

He doesn’t mind how everything hurts: how his muscles ache from swinging his polearm so fiercely, or how his energy drains from utilizing Barbatos’s gift.

Instead of collapsing, Xiao supports himself with his weapon. The yaksha turns to Qingxin, ready to pick her up and carry her back to Jueyun Karst. Where she laid now has qingxin.

The yaksha turns to her body only to spot a patch of qingxin. Without a second thought, he picks them as delicately as he can. At the end, he cradles a bouquet of twelve qingxin with care.

Archons, how his heart aches.

“Twelve is a remarkable number,” Qingxin has told him. “A bouquet of twelve roses stands for love and passion. Their stems communicate the perfection or completeness that one feels. The number itself is associated with an entire year, the twelve hours of a day, and the twelve signs of the zodiac. Quite fascinating, don’t you think?”

He stumbles back to Jueyun Karst.

Stumbling back to Jueyun Karst, he intends to inform Morax about his daughter’s death. Alas, the sound of a Dihua flute distracts him and lifts the karma plaguing him. Knowing that the cleansing is necessary, he trudges into the direction of the mellifluous tune, never surrendering the qingxin.

… 

How long has it been?

Xiao slows to a halt. He lifts his gaze to the lanterns strewn across the pathways of Liyue Harbor, signifying the return of Lantern Rite. Bustling streets arouse a sense of claustrophobia in the yaksha, but he pays them no mind for the traveler’s sake.

He remembers that Aether excused himself a while back. Morax - Er, Zhongli has dragged him off somewhere and failed to tell him. At least Xiao doesn’t have to listen to Paimon during this chaotic, yet joyous, time.

Xiao can always disappear from these streets, and the traveler will never know of his absence.

At the same time, the yaksha has a feeling that he cannot shake.

“Qingxin!”

A name. Her name. It floats into the air amidst the public.

He startles a few passersby when he leaps into the direction of the voice. His heartbeat thunders like an echoing gong within his ears. Xiao navigates the turquoise rooftops with surprising efficiency, even though he doesn’t travel around the harbor often. He stops occasionally to listen for the voice. He darts into that direction when he hears it again.

He stumbles upon Heyu Tea House where Tea Master Liu Su stands. The yaksha recalls Zhongli mentioning him in the past. The mortal describes a familiar story that Xiao recognizes immediately. It reminds him of those painful memories about that evening. 

What am I wrestling with? The tactful answer would be old grudges, unfilled dreams, the lamentations of the vanquished.

Xiao cares not for what Liu Su says. It doesn’t surprise him when the tea master mentions his millennia-long suffering known as ‘Bane of All Evil.’

A familiar, gentle voice speaks up, and the yaksha’s heart skips a beat.

“Why is that his millennia-long suffering is referred to as the ‘Bane of All Evil?’”

He peers down at the tea master’s audience, and he nearly collapses at the sight of her.

She sits at a table by a young boy. Her pink hair lays in a braid behind her, the end grazing the floor. Her minty orbs peer at Liu Su curiously. She adorns clothing similar to that of Zhongli, but the only difference between them is the color. He wears black, earthy brown, and gold while she wears black, forest green, and white.

One key feature gives her identity away, and that is the hair clip that he gifted her years ago. It is an artificial qingxin with two leaves and red beads.

A question arises deep within his mind.

Why take her away from me only to bring her back, Celestia?

“That’s where our story ends, ladies and gentlemen!”

He almost falls off the roof when Liu Su’s voice booms throughout the quiet area. The audience applauds him, and the sound pains his sensitive ears. Xiao wonders why the traveler invites him to lantern right when Aether knows that he doesn’t like going into public places.

Realization hits him like Morax’s boulder.

Qingxin.

The yaksha peers down to see her spot vacant. He leaps down and leaves Heyu Tea House. With a sniff in the air, he detects a faint trace of glaze lilies. Xiao pursues that soft fragrance, walking swiftly to avoid making a scene.

He refuses to let this opportunity slip from him!

“Wasn't that amazing, Qingxin?” The young boy’s voice says again. “I never heard a story like that before! This version is better than the original!”

“It was amazing.” He hears Qingxin reply. “But we have to hurry home, or else Mom and Dad will start to worry.”

Mom and Dad?

Xiao slows. He doesn’t recall her having a family.

He reminds himself that she’s a potential reincarnation of the goddess.

Keep it together!

Qingxin descends a ruby stairwell leading up to the tea house. She holds the young boy’s hand and guides him through the crowd. The girl’s back faces him, and Xiao knows better than to sneak up on her.

He sprints towards her, his hand reaching out and latching onto her wrist.

“Qingxin?” he calls out her name faster than he realizes.

The bustling streets of Liyue Harbor fades into the background. Turning to him, she studies him for a moment. No recognition sparkles in her eyes.

She retains none of her memories.

As it should be expected from someone who underwent reincarnation.

She goes to speak, but he interrupts.

“I have mistaken you from someone else.” He releases her hand. He steps away to create distance between them. “Excuse me.”

Agony embraces his heart, the mundane emotion overwhelming the yaksha. He disregards the tears forming in his eyes. Xiao flees, but the pain doesn’t stop him from looking back.

He watches Qingxin hurry over to the young boy. Once their hands intertwine, she peers back at him. Their gazes meet for a moment before the young boy drags her away. Her brother, he finally assumes.

He doesn’t entertain the possibility of meeting her again. A life of solidarity is a difficult one. The last things he needs is a mortal Qingxin becoming part of it.

Xiao meanders to the back entrance of Liyue Harbor. He leaps down to cross the wooden bridge that will take him to Lisha. From Lisha, to Minlin. He wants to venture to the stone pillar where Qingxin once played. He starts his patrol there and forces himself to remember the fading song of the Dihua flute.

When he reaches the stone arch of Lisha, a voice calls out.

“Wait! Wait, stranger!”

Xiao faces her, surprised to find her sprinting towards him. The distance closes between them, and Qingxin hunches over to catch her breath. He watches her, having no clue what to say. She does, however. She speaks for them.

“At least tell me your name before you leave!” she says. “And where to find you! I know that you’re the voice in my head! The one who told the story alongside Tea Master Liu Su!”

He’s shocked.

When has he spoken to her? If so, he hadn’t done it intentionally!

The yaksha averts his gaze. He shared his story unconsciously with her, and he admits that it’s his mistake. He had no idea that he had that ability!

How selfish could he be?

“Adeptus Xiao,” he replies. He ignores how his heart leaps with joy. “You will find me at Wangshuu Inn.”

With that, he disappears into the night. His heart rejoices at the reunion between two lovers.

Xiao wonders if it has a mind of its own.

. . .

© everlaneptune 2024

[frauleindermorgen]

Miacaiah feels a light tug against her shirt following her last class’ bell. Turning around will reveal to her that Idunn, another Black Eagle, has followed close behind–vying for her attention. There is something in her hand.

“I remember you. From the battle… You’re Leonardo’s family.” 

Stated as though she’s reading a transcript. 

Idunn suddenly thrusts her gift toward Micaiah’s chest, naively counting on her taking anything pushed close enough. “I made this for you. He helped me. I hope… You can smile, at the ball.” 

Looking closer reveals a certain level of intricate craftsmanship. The card itself is blue as a base, but uses a regal accent along its borders to add a substantial amount of white. Grass is drawn along the bottom of the card, because Idunn remembers green grass during their encounter, and a bright sun adorns its top corner. It was sunny back then, too. And in the last bit of free space Idunn had drawn a picture of Micaiah and Leonardo drawing hands, in the kind of blobby shapes a child would use. She knows how important family is to humans, and trusts that such a detail would make the maiden happy.

  She’s gotten into the bad habit of reading while she walks, so Micaiah is doubly surprised when a light touch brings her eyes away from an old, thick Fodlan tome and up into the heterochromatic gaze of her fellow Black Eagle.

“That’s right,” Micaiah replies easily, her tone warm at the reminder Idunn knows Leonardo (and though there is no hint of it in the other’s voice and her touch as cold as anyone else’s this time of year Micaiah thinks there is a certain shared respect for the term there), “I remember meeting you not long ago.”

A piece of parchment thrust at her causes Micaiah to hastily move the tome under one armed, but practiced as she is at such a mage-like action it does not take her long to get a better look at Idunn (and Leonardo’s?) creation.

“This is…” it takes her a few moments to actually place how it connects to Iduun’s mention of a ball, but there is only truth in her voice as Micaiah enthuses, “it’s lovely! Did Leonardo choose the base? I always thought blue suited him, and this must be the two of us…”The two of us, seen through another's eyes. Micaiah had not been wrong to call Idunn beautiful. Their gazes meet again.

“Thank you very much, and though I have no gift in return can we meet at the ball Idunn? I am entering the White Heron Cup with my partner Pelleas but I would very much like to save a dance for you, as well. I hope you too will smile alongside us all!”

[bamboomusiclist]

9/19 おはようございます。Althia & Donna - Up Town Top Ranking / Mighty Two / Calico Suit LIG506 等更新しました。

Jo Stafford Paul Weston / G. I. Jo COR105 Freddie Hubbard / Ready For Freddie B1-32094/bst84085 Freddie Hubbard / Breaking Point bst84172 Herbie Hancock / Maiden Voyage Bst84195 Herbie Hancock / Takin' Off bst84109 Sonny Clark / Cool Struttin' bst81588 Ramsey Lewis / Maiden Voyage Lps811 McCoy Tyner / Song of the New World Msp9049 Althia & Donna - Up Town Top Ranking / Mighty Two / Calico Suit LIG506 Marvels / Come To The Wedding - Angelo 45/CC8 Delaney & Bonnie / Accept No Substitute eks74039 Mike Bloomfield / It's not Killing Me s63652 Gil Scott Heron / Winter in America Ses19742 Caetano Veloso / Caetano 832938-1 Caetano Veloso / Qualquer Coisa 6349142

~bamboo music~

info@bamboo-music.net  

530-0028 大阪市北区万歳町3-41 シロノビル104号

06-6363-2700

[ladysunbite]

💘 + Olgierd

kiss and tell time! send 💘 + [ person / topic ] for my muse to disclose something about their love / lust life meme

ORIANNA It is the curse of our land of love and wine, catching up to me at last, I suspect. Years without any dripping morsel of a gossip, a hidden tryst or two and the wagging tongues are eager to pair me up with any man, who enjoys my hospitality and my friendship. Although, I would not been able to fake a more satisfying image for the starving crowd. Mysterious, foreign, handsome and discretely dangerous. Someone has caught an echo of a rumour there was a price upon his head for some daring crimes in 3 kingdoms and that his heart was cursed to remain as still as one of a marble statue, until a kiss of true love made it beat again. In short, Olgierd von Everec is a dream incarnate of any proper Tousaintee maiden. Blessed be the heron, he is more artful with a sword than with a lute. Otherwise, I dread what Her Enlightened Ladyship would do, following the local fashion. Do you know that one of the prized possessions in my collection is a portrait of master von Everec and his wife, a very talented painter in her own right? You do not get deeply involved with a person, whose wife's portrait graces your wall and whose ghost - presumably - walks your halls. That's just another ludicrous and embellished rumour, of course.

[ natanis & nistana: our dear sunbite's denial is...rather fervent, don't you agree? ]

[mad-rdr]

March Reads

10 books!

Astrid Parker Doesn't Fail by Ashley Herring Blake (★ ★ ★/5): I loved getting to see Astrid be a normal human being with wants and needs and I especially loved her getting with a woman!! And telling off her awful mother!! (mommy issues hit hard bro)

Blue Monday by Nicci French (★ ★ ★/5): this was such an interesting little mystery involving twins and I loved how Frida was like "I'm a criminal investigator now" and broke like 10 laws. I was also not expecting that ending holy shit (he killed his twins and took his place)

Lady Smoke by Laura Sebastian (★ ★ ★/5): honestly, I'm not sure anything actually happened in this book aside from a weird love triangle, this 16 yr old queen realizing she doesn't know shit and some half-assed revival from the dead “twist” at the end.

Ember Queen by Laura Sebastian (★ ★ ★/5): this series finale wasn’t too bad, I still feel like if it was written as an adult book it could’ve done so much more with the characters and plot, but I’ll accept it. People die, Theo learns to wield fire, and there’s a lot of unnecessary injures. Truly, where would they be without Heron. Don’t get me started on the dream walking.

The Power of Trees by Peter Wohlleben (★ ★ ★/5): this was a good book, if a little more scientific than I was expecting. Definitely made me think about the human relationship with trees and how we really do take them for granted.

By Any Other Name by Erin Cotter (★ ★ ★/5): I love historical tellings of gay people- factual correctness aside. I did not, however, enjoy the incessant use of the word “tis.” If you’re going to commit to 16th century England you gotta do it all the way and not just sprinkle it in here and there. I did loveeee our chaotic asf mc though- he doesn’t know anything except lust and money (and sometimes love)

From Blood and Ash by Jennifer Armentrout (★ ★ ★ ★ /5): finally got around to this book and let me just say… these new high fantasy authors need more editors. Has no one told them that repetition is the bane of my existence?? If I read the word “Maiden” one more time I’m gonna lose it. On that note though, this book wasn’t too bad overall. I found it highly predictable (like duh of course Hawke is the dark prince) but once I accepted I wouldn’t be surprised I was able to enjoy it. I love me a good vampire story and this delivered.

A Kingdom of Flesh and Fire by Jennifer Armentrout (★ ★ ★/5): someone please tell me why it took the entire book for the characters to move from one place to another. Seriously. There seemed to be little development character and plot-wise and while it was quite steamy... *something* should've happened in 600 pages.

A Crown of Gilded Bones by Jennifer Armentrout (★ ★ ★/5): this book was far better than the second one but I'm still chasing that high of book one. Book three is almost too much, Poppy goes from being crowned to kidnapped to rescued to dying to being revived and "Ascended" all within the first 80 ish pages... and then after that there's still 600 pages to go. In the course of the book her parentage gets "revealed" like 6 times and finally lands on her being a god? It was good, action-packed and smutty, but my god, someone needs to teach this author the skills of pacing.

Iris Kelly Doesn't Date by Ashley Herring Blake (★ ★ ★ ★ /5): this was such a good end to the little Bright Falls trilogy; I love me a good bisexual mess who doesn't know how much love she deserves. I just didn't like the breakup at the end, it felt like the author was trying to add a little angst in there and it didn't really work because we all knew they would get back together. But hey, I'm never gonna pass up a fake dating trope.

[jefferyryanlong]

Infinite Pau Hana - February 7, 2023

Hour 1

What's Goin' On / Mercy Mercy Me (The Ecology) - Rahsaan Roland Kirk Forest Flower - Sunset (live) - Charles Lloyd Colors - Pharoah Sanders Something in Air / The Revolution Will Not Be Televised - Labelle Laura Nyro Medley (live) - The Fifth Dimension I Loves You Porgy (live) - Nina Simone I Loves You Porgy - Miles Davis How Can We Mend a Broken Heart - Kahil El'Zabar

Hour 2

Truth - Kamasi Washington Funky Skull (Pts. 1 and 2) - Melvin Jackson Walking On - The Relatives Speak to Me - The Relatives My Girl - Rahsaan Roland Kirk My Girl - Orlando Julius That's How I Feel - Sun Ra Four Levels of Joy - Sorcery Black Classical Music - Yussef Dayes (feat. Venna and Charlie Stacey) Afro Cubanism - Yussef Dayes

Hour 3

A Change Is Gonna Come - Aretha Franklin Bridge Over Troubled Water - Roberta Flack Pieces of a Man - Gil Scott-Heron Me and the Devil - Gil Scott-Heron Maiden Voyage - Mr. Jukes Epilog - Jack DeJohnette Just Had to Tell Somebody - Dorothy Ashby Bold and Black - Melvin Jackson The Blessing Song - Michael White Take Me Girl, I'm Ready - Rahsaan Roland Kirk You Got to Learn to Let It Go - Sam Waymon

KTUH - 90.1 Fm Honolulu, 91.1 FM North Shore, ktuh.org

[7r0773r]

Devotions: The Selected Poems by Mary Oliver

STORAGE

When I moved from one house to another there were many things I had no room for. What does one do? I rented a storage space. And filled it. Years passed. Occasionally I went there and looked in, but nothing happened, not a single twinge of the heart. As I grew older the things I cared about grew fewer, but were more important. So one day I undid the lock and called the trash man. He took everything. I felt like the little donkey when his burden is finally lifted. Things! Burn them, burn them! Make a beautiful fire! More room in your heart for love, for the trees! For the birds who own nothing—the reason they can fly.

***

BLUEBERRIES

I'm living in a warm place now, where you can purchase fresh blueberries all year long. Labor free. From various countries in South America. They're as sweet as any, and compared with the berries I used to pick in the fields outside of Provincetown, they're enormous. But berries are berries. They don't speak any language I can't understand. Neither do I find ticks or small spiders crawling among them. So, generally speaking, I'm very satisfied.

There are limits, however. What they don't have is the field. The field they belonged to and through the years I began to feel I belonged to. Well, there's life, and then there's later. Maybe it's myself that I miss. The field, and the sparrow singing at the edge of the woods. And the doe that one morning came upon me unaware, all tense and gorgeous. She stamped her hoof as you would to any intruder: Then gave me a long look, as if to say, Okay, you stay in your patch, I'lI stay in mine. Which is what we did. Try packing that up, South America.

***

BENJAMIN, WHO CAME FROM WHO KNOWS WHERE

What shall I do? When I pick up the broom he leaves the room. When I fuss with kindling he runs for the yard. Then he's back, and we hug for a long time. In his low-to-the-ground chest I can hear his heart slowing down. Then I rub his shoulders and kiss his feet and fondle his long hound ears. Benny, I say, don't worry. I also know the way the old life haunts the new.

***

I GO DOWN TO THE SHORE

I go down to the shore in the morning and depending on the hour the waves are rolling in or moving out, and I say, oh, I am miserable, what shall— what should I do? And the sea says in its lovely voice: Excuse me, I have work to do.

***

COYOTE IN THE DARK, COYOTES REMEMBERED

The darkest thing met me in the dark. It was only a face and a brace of teeth that held no words, though I felt a salty breath sighing in my direction. Once, in an autumn that is long gone, I was down on my knees in the cranberry bog and heard, in that lonely place, two voices coming down the hill, and I was thrilled to be granted this secret, that the coyotes, walking together can talk together, for I thought, what else could it be? And even though what emerged were two young women, two-legged for sure and not at all aware of me, their nimble, young women tongues telling and answering, and though I knew I had believed something probably not true, yet it was wonderful to have believed it. And it has stayed with me as a present once given is forever given. Easy and happy they sounded, those two maidens of the wilderness from which we have— who knows to what furious, pitiful extent— banished ourselves.

***

NIGHT HERONS

Some herons were fishing in the robes of the night

at a low hour of the water's body, and the fish, I suppose, were full

of fish happiness in those transparent inches even as, over and over, the beaks jacked down

and the narrow bodies were lifted with every quick sally,

and that was the end of them as far as we know— though, what do we know except that death

is so everywhere and so entire— pummeling and felling, or sometimes, like this, appearing

through such a thin door— one stab, and you're through! And what then? Why, then it was almost morning,

and one by one the birds opened their wings and flew.

***

THE ORCHARD

I have dreamed of accomplishment. I have fed

ambition. I have traded nights of sleep

for a length of work. Lo, and I have discovered how soft bloom

turns to green fruit which turns to sweet fruit. Lo, and I have discovered

all winds blow cold at last, and the leaves,

so pretty, so many, vanish in the great, black

packet of time, in the great, black packet of ambition,

and the ripeness of the apple is its downfall.

***

PRAYING

It doesn't have to be the blue iris, it could be weeds in a vacant lot, or a few small stones; just ay attention, then patch

a few words together and don't try to make them elaborate, this isn't a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which another voice may speak.

***

HONEY LOCUST

Who can tell how lovely in June is the honey locust tree, or why a tree should be so sweet and live in this world? Each white blossom on a dangle of white flowers holds one green seed— a new life. Also each blossom on a dangle of flowers holds a flask of fragrance called Heaven, which is never sealed. The bees circle the tree and dive into it. They are crazy with gratitude. They are working like farmers. They are as happy as saints. After a while the flowers begin to wilt and drop down into the grass. Welcome shines in the grass.

Every year I gather handfuls of blossoms and eat of their mealiness; the honey melts in my mouth, the seeds make me strong, both when they are crisp and ripe, and even at the end when their petals have turned dull yellow.

So it is if the heart has devoted itself to love, there is not a single inch of emptiness. Gladness gleams all the way to the grave.

***

NORTH COUNTRY

In the north country now it is spring and there is a certain celebration. The thrush has come home. He is shy and likes the evening best, also the hour just before morning; in that blue and gritty light he climbs to his branch, or smoothly sails there. It is okay to know only one song if it is this one. Hear it rise and fall; the very elements of your soul shiver nicely. What would spring be without it? Mostly frogs. But don't worry, he

arrives, year after year, humble and obedient and gorgeous. You listen and you know you could live a better life than you do, be softer, kinder. And maybe this year you will be able to do it. Hear how his voice rises and falls. There is no way to be sufficiently grateful for the gifts we are given, no way to speak the Lord's name often enough, though we do try, and

especially now, as that dappled breast breathes in the pines and heaven's windows in the north country, now spring has come, are opened wide.

***

FLARE

1.

Welcome to the silly, comforting poem.

It is not the sunrise, which is a red rinse, which is flaring all over the eastern sky;

it is not the rain falling out of the purse of God;

it is not the blue helmet of the sky afterward,

or the trees, or the beetle burrowing into the earth;

it is not the mockingbird who, in his own cadence, will go on sizzling and clapping from the branches of the catalpa that are thick with blossoms, that are billowing and shining, that are shaking in the wind.

2.

You still recall, sometimes, the old barn on your great-grandfather's farm, a place you visited once, and went into, all alone, while the grownups sat and talked in the house.

It was empty, or almost. Wisps of hay covered the floor, and some wasps sang at the windows, and maybe there was a strange fluttering bird high above, disturbed, hoo-ing a little and staring down from a messy ledge with wild, binocular eyes.

Mostly, though, it smelled of milk, and the patience of animals, the give-offs of the body were still in the air, a vague ammonia, not unpleasant.

Mostly, though, it was restful and secret, the roof high up and arched, the boards unpainted and plain.

You could have stayed there forever, a small child in a corner, on the last raft of hay, dazzled by so much space that seemed empty, but wasn't.

Then—you still remember—you felt the rap of hunger—it was noon—and you turned from that twilight dream and hurried back to the house, where the table was set, where an uncle patted you on the shoulder for welcome, and there was your place at the table.

3.

Nothing lasts. There is a graveyard where everything I am talking about is, now.

I stood there once, on the green grass, scattering flowers.

4.

Nothing is so delicate or so finely hinged as the wings of the green moth against the lantern against its heat against the beak of the crow in the early morning.

Yet the moth has trim, and feistiness, and not a drop of self-pity.

Not in this world.

5.

My mother was the blue wisteria, my mother was the mossy stream out behind the house, my mother, alas, alas, did not always love her life, heavier than iron it was as she carried it in her arms, from room to room, oh, unforgettable!

I bury her in a box in the earth and turn away. My father was a demon of frustrated dreams, was a breaker of trust, was a poor, thin boy with bad luck. He followed God, there being no one else he could talk to; he swaggered before God, there being no one else who would listen. Listen, this was his life. I bury it in the earth. I sweep the closets. I leave the house.

6.

I mention them now, I will not mention them again.

It is not lack of love nor lack of sorrow. But the iron thing they carried, I will not carry.

I give them—one, two, three, four—the kiss of courtesy, of sweet thanks, of anger, of good luck in the deep earth. May they sleep well. May they soften.

But I will not give them the kiss of complicity. I will not give them the responsibility for my life.

7.

Did you know that the ant has a tongue with which to gather in all that it can of sweetness?

Did you know that?

8.

The poem is not the world. It isn't even the first page of the world.

But the poem wants to flower, like a flower. It knows that much.

It wants to open itself, like the door of a little temple, so that you might step inside and be cooled and refreshed, and less yourself than part of everything.

9.

The voice of the child crying out of the mouth of the grown woman is a misery and a disappointment. The voice of the child howling out of the tall, bearded, muscular man is a misery, and a terror.

10.

Therefore, tell me: what will engage you? What will open the dark fields of your mind, like a lover at first touching?

11.

Anyway, there was no barn. No child in the barn.

No uncle no table no kitchen.

Only a long lovely field full of bobolinks.

12.

When loneliness comes stalking, go into the fields, consider the orderliness of the world. Notice something you have never noticed before,

like the tambourine sound of the snow-cricket whose pale green body is no longer than your thumb.

Stare hard at the hummingbird, in the summer rain, shaking the water-sparks from its wings.

Let grief be your sister, she will whether or no. Rise up from the stump of sorrow, and be green also, like the diligent leaves.

A lifetime isn't long enough for the beauty of this world and the responsibilities of your life.

Scatter your flowers over the graves, and walk away. Be good-natured and untidy in your exuberance.

In the glare of your mind, be modest. And beholden to what is tactile, and thrilling.

Live with the beetle, and the wind.

This is the dark bread of the poem. This is the dark and nourishing bread of the poem.

***

GOLDENROD

On roadsides, in fall fields, in rumpy bunches, saffron and orange and pale gold,

in little towers, soft as mash, sneeze-bringers and seed-bearers, full of bees and yellow beads and perfect flowerlets

and orange butterflies. I don't suppose much notice comes of it, except for honey, and how it heartens the heart with its

blank blaze. I don't suppose anything loves it except, perhaps, the rocky voids filled by its dumb dazzle.

For myself, I was just passing by, when the wind flared and the blossoms rustled, and the glittering pandemonium

leaned on me. I was just minding my own business when I found myself on their straw hillsides, citron and butter-colored,

and was happy, and why not? Are not the difficult labors of our lives full of dark hours? And what has consciousness come to anyway, so far,

that is better than these light-filled bodies? All day on their airy backbones they toss in the wind,

they bend as though it was natural and godly to bend, they rise in a stiff sweetness, in the pure peace of giving one's gold away.

***

WHEN DEATH COMES

When death comes like the hungry bear in autumn; when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut; when death comes like the measle-pox,

when death comes like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering: what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything as a brotherhood and a sisterhood, and I look upon time as no more than an idea, and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth, tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something precious to the earth.

When it's over, I want to say: all my life I was a bride married to amazement. I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it's over, I don't want to wonder if I have made of my life something particular, and real. I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened, or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

***

THE SUMMER DAY

Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean— the one who has flung herself out of the grass, the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down— who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes. Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face. Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away. I don't know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, which is what I have been doing all day. Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

***

THE SWIMMING LESSON

Feeling the icy kick, the endless waves Reaching around my life, I moved my arms And coughed, and in the end saw land.

Somebody, I suppose, Remembering the medieval maxim, Had tossed me in, Had wanted me to learn to swim,

Not knowing that none of us, who ever came back From that long lonely fall and frenzied rising, Ever learned anything at all About swimming, but only How to put off, one by one, Dreams and pity, love and grace,— How to survive in any place.