#I love drawing fire but coloring it eludes me

[hoodiehorizon]

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[middle-earth-mythopoeia]

On Finrod’s battle with Sauron

There’s an interpretation of this scene that the battle of songs showed Finrod’s pride and hubris, and that he lost because of it, but that doesn’t make sense to me.

For one thing, Finrod only fought Sauron to protect Beren and their companions. It’s not like he sought out a duel with him or had a misplaced belief that he would win, the way Sauron sought out a duel with Huan. I’m sure Finrod didn’t think he would win. He sang a song of resisting.

If anything, Finrod’s decision to go on the quest with Beren shows his humility, because he doesn’t see himself as more important than the Edain, and he considers keeping his word to Barahir to be more important than his own safety.

Finrod’s loss to Sauron doesn’t reflect his pride; it reflects the fact that Sauron is a Maia and is far more powerful. And I think there’s something else going on.

He chanted a song of wizardry, Of piercing, opening, of treachery, Revealing, uncovering, betraying. Then sudden Felagund there swaying, Sang in answer a song of staying, Resisting, battling against power, Of secrets kept, strength like a tower, And trust unbroken, freedom, escape; Of changing and of shifting shape, Of snares eluded, broken traps, The prison opening, the chain that snaps. Backwards and forwards swayed their song. Reeling and foundering, as ever more strong The chanting swelled, Felagund fought, And all the magic and might he brought Of Elvenesse into his words. Softly in the gloom they heard the birds Singing afar in Nargothrond, The sighing of the Sea beyond, Beyond the western world, on sand, On sand of pearls in Elvenland. Then the gloom gathered; darkness growing In Valinor, the red blood flowing Beside the Sea, where the Noldor slew The Foamriders, and stealing drew Their white ships with their white sails From lamplit havens. The wind wails, The wolf howls. The ravens flee. The ice mutters in the mouths of the Sea. The captives sad in Angband mourn. Thunder rumbles, the fires burn— And Finrod fell before the throne.

It’s worth pausing for a moment just to say that I think this is one of Tolkien’s most beautiful and powerful poems. The imagery is amazing. It gives me chills every time. I love how you can hear what he’s describing, like the birds softly singing, and the repetition of ‘the sighing of the sea beyond, beyond the western world, on sand, on sand of pearls in Elvenland…’ And then the way he uses color—the red blood, the white ships—just makes it even more intense. The alliteration! The rhyming! The increasingly short sentences, and the crescendo of the last line! It’s literally INCREDIBLE.

I think it’s worth analyzing the imagery of the Kinslaying and why it seemingly allows Sauron to win—it appears that Finrod draws on the ‘magic and might’ of Nargothrond and Valinor, and then Sauron turns it on him by singing about Alqualondë—but my impression from this is not that Finrod is too proud.

Sauron was never able to learn their identities (‘secrets kept’), none of the companions betrayed each other (‘trust unbroken’), Finrod broke his chains (‘the chain that snaps’), the fortress is destroyed (‘the prison opening’), and Beren is rescued by Lúthien (‘freedom, escape’).

What if it was Finrod’s song of power that later allowed him to break his chains and save Beren from the wolf? What if Finrod actually shaped reality with his song of power?

Yes, Sauron defeated him, that was almost inevitable. But Finrod’s song still achieved something, even after it was over. I think Finrod knew he couldn’t win. I think winning wasn’t his objective. Protecting Beren was.

[host-club-hq]

Call of the Scar pt. 1

➼ pairing: harry potter x reader

➼ genre: sfw, fluffy, fantasy

➼ word-count: 3.4k

➼ summary: Harry Potter and Y/N Weasley embark on their great journey together in their fourth year at Hogwarts. What does this unsuspecting year hold for them this time?

➼ part 1 of many :)

➼ want to request? do it here. let me know what i can write for you :)

➼ talk to the characters!

Frank Bryce sets a kettle on the stove and- with a shaky hand- adjusts the flame. He leans forward, squinting to get the fire right, and the window beyond his is revealed. Something flickers. Softly. Then again. Frank turns. 

Atop the hill, light dances in one of the windows of the manor. 

CLANG!

Frank emerges from the cottage, walking stick in hand. He limps into the yard and approaches a door almost completely covered in ivy. He fits a rusty key into the lock

The knob squeals dryly. The walking stick pierces the shadows, then Frank himself enters. His nostrils flare against the sour air. He cocks an ear. Frank's shadow spreads darkly on the landing. Above a small table is an old calendar, freckled with Mildew. August 1943

Frank reaches the top and stops. His breath drifts like smoke. 

At the end of the hallway, a door stands ajar, casting sliver of light across the dusty floor. Frank edges closer and sees a narrow slice of the room beyond. A feeble fire flickers in the grate. From within: voice.

"But where here, my Lord? It seems so... inhospitable.

"How fastidious you've become, Wormtail. As I recall, only recently you called the nearest gutterpipe home. Could it be that the task of nursing me has become wearisome for you?"

"No, my Lord! I only meant-"

"I have my reasons for coming here. Thirteen years of reasons."

"Perhaps if we ere to do it without the boy..."

"No! The boy is everything!"

Just then, the tip of Frank's walking stick vibrates against the floorboard. He eyes it curiously, then- in mute horror- watches a giant snake emerge from the shadows behind him. As it skims past his shoes and into the room, an eerie hiss greets its arrival.

"Nagini has interesting news, Wormtail. According to her, there is an old Muggle standing just outside this room."

The door flings wide, revealing a short balding man- Wormtail.

"Where are your manners, Wormtail? Step aside so I can give our guest a proper greeting..."

Slowly, Wormtail withdraws. Frank's eyes dilate. A flash of green light sears the walls. The walking stick clatters to the floor, handle charred black, weeping smoke. A brittle whistling rises from the shadows of the empty Gardener's Cottage, a tea kettle squealing madly, rising like a scream on the night sky. 

Harry Potter sits bolt upright, a gasp in his throat. He winces and presses his palm to the scar on his forehead. Across the room, Ron lies sleeping. 

"Having a bit of a lie-in, are we?" A smug voice comes.

Harry spins, seeing you, his closest girl friend, grinning from beside his bed. 

"Y/N. When'd you get back?" Harry breathes heavily. You had gone for a morning walk- as you usually do when sleep eludes you.

"Just now. You?" you’re referring as to when he arrived at your family’s burrow.

"Last night." Harry begins to sit up.

"Must have missed you. Though, how could I? With your clumsy arse." you ruffle his hair and Harry groans. 

"Says you." Harry bites back playfully. You grin. 

Hermione comes stalking in loudly and Ron wakes. "Bloody hell!" Ron bolts up and tugs the blanket over his chest.

"Oh, honestly. Come on. Get yourself dressed or we'll miss the whole thing." Hermione claps at Ron. 

You watch as she leaves, then look at Harry. The two of you stare at each other before you whack him upside the head. 

"Blimey, Y/N! What was that for?"

"I dunno, maybe I just wanted to hit your dumb ass." you walk out.

Harry rubs the back of his scalp before turning to Ron, who was still on the verge of sleep. 

"What are you looking at me for?" Ron grumbles. 

"She's your sister. I wonder where she gets it from." Harry throws his feet over the bed. 

"Not bloody likely... more like all that time she spends with Hermione. God awful, the pair of them."

"Don't be dramatic, Ron." Harry shoves him slightly as he gets dressed. 

A string of sleepy silhouettes- Fred, George, Harry, Ron, you, and Hermione- trail a huffing Arthur Weasley. Fred has a battered pair of omnioculars slung over his neck.

"Where is it exactly, where we're going?" Harry turns to you. 

"Dunno. Say, Dad. Where're we going?" you holler forward. 

"Haven't the foggiest. Keep up!" Arthur replies. Harry looks at you expectantly. 

"Why are you looking at me like I know where we're going?" you raise an eyebrow. 

"Why don't you know where we're going?" Harry teases back. 

"Because I've never been to the bloody thing. Merlin, Harry, sometimes you're so daft." you sigh, teasingly, again. Harry eyes her curiously. Daft? Yeah, right. 

A ruddy faced wizard appears atop the crest ahead. 

"Arthur! It's about time, son!" The man shouts in greeting. 

"Sorry, Amos. 'Fraid we got a bit of a sleepy start. This is Amos Diggory, everyone. Works with me at the ministry. And this strapping young lad must be Cedric, am I right?" Arthur guesses. 

An extremely handsome 17-year old boy shakes hands with Mr. Weasley, whom he towers over. 

"Sir." Cedric confirms. 

"Bloody hell." you sigh. Harry looks to you.

"What? You think he's attractive?" Harry raises an eyebrow.

"How could I not? Look at him." you grin widely. Harry pouts.

"Don't be a baby, you're still adorable." you pinch his cheek and he yelps.

"Bugger off." He swats your hand away.

"Merlin's beard! You're Harry Potter, aren't you? Ced's talked about you, of course. About playing Quidditch against you last year. I told him- Ced, that'll be something to tell your grandchildren, that will: You beat Harry Potter!" Amos grins. Lorelei frowns and steps beside Harry.

"Harry fell of his broom, Dad. I told you, it was an accident-"

"Yes, but you didn't fall off, did you? Best man won. I'm sure Harry'd say the same." Amos grins. Harry frowns and you take his hand in yours. As much as you tease each other, you both know how much you care for each other. 

"We'll see about that this year, won't we?" you challenge with a subtle smirk. Amos's eyebrows furrow before Arthur interjects before his daughter escalates.

"Well, shall we? We don't want to be late." Arthur clears his throat, as he should. 

"Hm? Oh, right. It's over there." Amos points. 

Harry cranes his neck. Lying in the short grass is an old boot. Each person places a finger to the book, arms extended like spokes to a wheel. Harry leans to you and whispers. 

"Can you tell me why we're all standing here pressing our fingers to this manky old boot?" Harry grimaces.

"It isn't just any manky old boot, mate." Fred interjects. 

"It's a Portkey." you finish. 

"A Portkey? What's a-"

SWOOSH! The hill lurches then tilts. The sky begins to spin. A howling wind rises and the sky spins faster and faster and faster still... and becoming a blur... until...

... Harry slams hard onto his feet and- like the others beside him- topples onto his back. Above him, the sky reels dizzily, like a carousel, spinning slowly to a halt as Arthur, Amos, and Cedric cycle into view, windswept but upright. 

"That'll clear your sinuses, eh!" Arthur exclaims. 

"And I thought I hated Floo Powder." Harry groans. A hand comes into his view and he trails his eyes up the arm that connects to you. 

"Come on, then. Up you go." He takes your hand and helps himself to his feet.

"Floo Powder is still my least favorite. Getting covered in soot just to land in a ruddy fireplace." you grimace as you recall your first Floo Powder experience. 

Harry looks past you to the field beyond. Thousands of tents stretch to the edge of a steep cliff, to the deep bowl of a stadium.

"This reminds me of just how many witches and wizards there are sometimes." you appear next to Harry, your knuckles tightening around the straps of your backpack as if you were anxious. Or, you could be excited- Harry can't tell. 

"That's an interesting way to look at it." Harry acknowledges you with the tilt of his head, nudging you. 

"Keep up, we don't want to be left behind." He starts off first, trusting you’ll follow. And you do. 

Harry glances about in fascination as he and the others trudge through the sea of tents. Exotic accents dance upon the air, every nationality in evidence. 

"Well, here we are!" Arthur pulls aside the flap of a small tent. A very small tent. Harry watches curiously as the others pass through. 

"How in Merlin's name are we all meant to fit in that?" Harry gestures lazily to the tent in disappointment. You peer in from his point of view and shrug. 

"Dad's got all sorts of tricks up his sleeve- just you watch." you inhale deeply and disappear inside the tent. Harry draws in the same sort of breath and ducks inside himself. 

Harry looks around and smiles- he's standing in what's equivalent to a 3-bedroom flat. "I love magic." He grins as she sloppily drops his bag on the floor. 

"I'll take that. You're welcome." you sling Harry's and your bag own over your shoulders. Harry rolls his eyes and follows you at your heal. 

"I could've done that myself." Harry says matter-of-factly.

"You wouldn't owe me that way, would you?" you raise an eyebrow at Harry. You know Harry can't raise a single eyebrow and you take every chance that you can get to tease him with your ability. 

"Ah, I knew there was a catch." Harry grins goofily as you place his rucksack on one of the beds on the boys' side of the tent. You turn on your heal to place your own where you and Hermione will be sleeping. 

"We're separated?" Harry blurts unknowingly. The color red creeps onto the apples of his cheeks as you turn at his query. 

"Yes... why do you ask?" you tilt your head as you turn your body to face him. Harry shrugs nonchalantly. 

"Harry..." you gently takes his hand in yours, causing Harry to look down at you with sparkling eyes. 

"I'm sure you'll be alright for a night or two. What do you do at home when I'm not there, hm?" your thumbs stroke the back of his hand as you look up to meet his eyes. 

Harry learned that you were quite skilled at helping him through his nightmares and you were more than happy to lend your skill. Often when you were younger, you helped Ron through rough nights of nightmares after he'd eaten too much for dinner, or too much for dessert. You quickly learned that it was best to not wake him, for he could reel all too quickly back into reality and startle himself. You would bring the blankets back up over his chest to restrain the thrashing, stroke his cheek to maintain the mumbling, and whisper positive affirmations into his ear to send the nightmares into the abyss- replacing it with a nice, pleasant dream. As soon as you saw the smile on Ron's face, you’d known you’d done your job, and would quietly slip out of the room back to the welcoming warmth of your own bed. The nightmares often only came once a night. You wouldn't have to go back after that. 

All of the same techniques seem to work in calming Harry from his own nightmares. Although, you find it best to embrace him in his sleep to restrain thrashing, as the blankets can do next to nothing to restrain him. 

"Dunno." Harry bites the inside of his cheek and breaks eye contact. Your hand moves from his hand to his shoulder and you smile brightly. 

"If you really do need me, come and get me, yeah?" you pat his shoulder thrice and turn on your heal to the girls' side of the tent. Harry's eyes follow you warily as you walk and he sighs shortly. 

Ron claps Harry on his back, startling him as he spins around. 

"Don't worry too much, mate. She's a light sleeper. If she hears you, she'll wake and be at your side before you know it." Ron starts to unpack his rucksack and Harry nods. 

"Yeah... yeah, no, I'll be fine." Harry forces a smile, which Ron returns. 

Harry and the others climb to their seats. Flags of all nations ring the stadium and vendors apparate here and there among the crowd, selling their wares. 

"Get your Quidditch World Cup programs! Only five Sickles!"

Fancy gold handwriting races repeatedly across a giant blackboard: Gladrags Wizardwear- London, Paris, Hogsmead...

"There's the Peruvian Minister for Tourism. And that man there's the African Head of Magical Games and Sports. And- oh lord- there's Ali Bashir. He's been truing to import flying carpets for years. I keep telling him they'll never replace brooms, but he sees a niche market for a family vehicle..."

"Blimey, Dad. How far up are we?" Ron marvels, ignoring his father's rambling about their surroundings. 

"Well, if it rains, you'll be the first to know."

The voice is Lucius Malfoy descending the stairs with Draco. Arthur, tight as a drum, only glares.

"Father and I are in the Minister's box, by personal invitation of Cornelius Fudge himself." Draco boasts with a smug smirk. 

"Oh, bugger off-" you begin.

"Don't boast, Draco." Lucius jabs his walking cane into Draco's chest. Draco grunts and places his hand over where he was jabbed, looking at his father incredulously. 

You look to Harry with disbelief. 

"Well, that's a first-"

"There's no need with these people." Lucius finishes. 

"Ah." you cut yourself off with a disappointed sigh. Harry chuckles and nudges you. You smile. 

Malfoy's eyes trail nastily over you and Hermione, landing on Harry. 

"Mr. Potter."

As he passes, Harry eyes the walking stick in Lucius Malfoy's grip. A silver serpent encircles his ring finger, inlaid with emerald chips for eyes. 

Harry and the others have settled into the upmost row, where the wind whips coldly. As a fleet of broomsticks jet into view, a roar rises in the crowd. 

"It's the Irish! There's Troy!" Fred exclaims excitedly. 

"And Mullet!"

"And here comes Moran!"

Before Fred can finish, a fleet of dark-clad riders soar over the opposite rim of the stadium. The crowd roars again. 

"I don't see what all the fuss is about." Although your cheeks are smeared in green, (curtesy of your older brothers and Ron) your interest in professional Quidditch have never exceeded your brothers' of course. You do find a small interest in the magic of brooms, but the sport itself has never perked your interest. 

"Here come the Bulgarians!" George points as he leans over the railing. 

"Hm. Who's that?" you squint your eyes at one particularly young player. 

"That, sis, is the best Seeker in the world." George smirks with a smug nudge to your side. You swat him. 

"He flies rather well, doesn't he?" Hermione acknowledges. The boys exchange amused glances. 

"You could say that." Fred stifles his laughter as George nudges him. 

Fred lifts his Omnioculars to his eyes and spins a dial. He dials Krum in closer, then runs the image forwards and backwards.

"What's his name?" you ask as you place your hands on the railing. 

On cue, thousands of fans on the opposite side of the stadium flip large cards bearing the face of the surly looking boy with thick eyebrows. Each one is emblazoned with his name: KRUM.

"Krum?" Hermione guesses.

"Krum." Harry, Ron, Fred, and George assure in unison. 

As the boys look up in admiration, Krum gets past the vast mosaic of his likeness with a nary glance, flying with such breathtaking skill that Harry's jaw fairly falls open. You lean over and press your index finger to his chin, effectively shutting his mouth. 

"You'll catch flies." you smirk as Harry swats your hand from his face. 

"Lay off." he grumbles. 

In the ministry box, Cornelius Fudge rises as Lucius Malfoy and Draco take their seats nearby.

"Good evening! As Minister for Magic, it gives me great pleasure to welcome each and every one of you to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup! Let the match begin!"

A ball of light busts from Fudge's wand. Harry watches Viktor Krum rocket upward, the crowd roaring as he rises into the glittering night sky, the stadium growing smaller, a glimmering disc of light. 

Harry and the others lie about, unable to sleep as they excitedly re-live the match. 

"Such a big fuss over a sport. All he did was catch a ball." you grumble as you flip to another page of you book from where you lie on your bed, shoes tossed lazily about on the floor next to you as you rhythmically tap your sock-clad feet. 

"An incredibly fast ball that's near impossible to spot!" Harry drapes an Irish flag over your lounging figure and you growl, tearing the flag off in the split second after it made contact with your body. 

"You're infuriating." you wad up the flag best you can and chuck it towards Harry violently, who catches it with ease. 

"Thank you." Harry smiles cheekily. 

"Brilliant Krum, wasn't he? Did you see him put Lynch into the ground with the Wronski Feint? It was positively brutal." Ron rambles on.

"I think you're in love, Ron." you giggle from where you sits, eyes never leaving the spot on your page. 

"Quiet, you." Ron bites back. 

Just then, a chant of voices rise like a lion's roar beyond the tent. Fred grins. 

"Sounds like the Irish have got their pride on." Fred ambles confidently towards the flap of the tent before Arthur bursts in urgently and looks around frantically. 

"It's not the Irish."

The others turn to see Arthur standing by the flap peering out. Something in his voice causes their smiles to wither. 

"Get yourselves dressed." Arthur orderes hurriedly. Once he notices the hesitation in everyone else, he barks another other. "Now!"

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and you scramble out of the tent and stare with disbelief at the hellish tableaux before you. All around you, people run in terror, trampling fires and kicking up sparks. Then you see why:

A teeming clot of black-robed wizards, faces concealed behind hideous masks, are marching across the campsite, laughing drunkenly. Some clutch torches while others point their wands skyward, where four people tumble eerily high above.

"Who are those people? In the air?" your hand shakes as you gesture to the bodies above. 

"Muggles." Arthur answers solemnly. You gulps hard and divert your attention. 

"And the ones on the ground?" 

"Death Eaters." Hermione answers in the same fashion. 

Harry looks puzzled by this, but as Arthur draws his wand, Harry does the same without question. 

"No." you grab his wrist and push his arm back to his side. 

"Get back to the Portkey, all of you. And stick together. Fred, George, you're responsible for Y/N. Y/N, you listen to your brothers." Arthur insists firmly as his eyes scan over the group. You shift uncomfortably and open your mouth to reply when a scream cuts you off from a passing civilian. The scream set everyone on edge and Arthur takes his tone up a notch. 

"Y/N! Did you hear me?!" he scolds intensely. You blink, startled by your father's fierce expression, then nod slowly and surely. Arthur dashes off. 

Fred and George glance at each other and nod. They gently shove you towards Harry and you grunt, spinning around to face them. "Dad said to-"

"We know what Dad said. You're better off looking after Harry and him after you." Fred smiles slightly. 

"Yeah, and with your clumsy ass and your looking-for-trouble attitude, you balance each other out." George finishes curtly. 

"Stay safe!" They disappear into the frantic crowd. 

Harry is the first to move, reaching back and swiping your hand from your side and holds it close to him. "Come on." he beckons, pulling you along through the chaos. 

They streak past blazing tents. You feel your hand become less and less tightly gripped in Harry's fingers before you find it slipping away. Lost in the mob, you falls back. Fred and George flash briefly in the crowd, then vanish. Hermione turns, frantic eyes finding Harry. 

"Y-Y/N was with you- where is she?" Hermione's frantic eyes search the panicking crowd. She sees no glimpse of you. 

"Where is my sister?" Ron steps towards Harry and gazes at him accusingly. Harry looks back and realizes that his hand is in fact empty. He takes immediate action.

Harry dashes on, buffeted back and forth by the raging crowd. He stumbles, falls, struggles to rise, and is trampled again. Bootheels punish the earth all around him. One strikes his temple hard and he collapses. He sees you, frantic, before his vision escapes him.

[ivyveil]

Mary Me

the one where he proposes aka the 1940s installment of The Soulmates Verse, Sign of the Times

A/N: Bringing this back from AO3, hope you guys enjoy! I wanted to create a series of ‘soulmate’ Harry/Y/N where they try to make it work each decade, and fate hasn’t seemed to get the memo. Here’s my Tumblr masterlist, and my AO3 hub! Thank you for reading, hope everyone is staying safe.

The room was swathed in a deep maroon. Curtains draped against the windows, curves forming around the sills and down the gold columns on either side.

It was a nice restaurant, with expensive-looking candles and fresh-cut flowers on each table. The bar wasn’t fully stocked enough for the crowds milling about, having yet to find its balance of supply since Prohibition ended a few months ago. It was a rough adjustment for everyone, with the prices taking a jolt and the people having to remember what a drink tasted like without poison.

While the idea of a fancy restaurant would allude towards privacy, this dinner was anything but. Granted, it was a personal room but the numerous crowds of friends and family around the table led the mood towards something more lively than dim lights and slow jazz. Tables were pushed against the walls, only a handful actually sitting down, and the band had taken its land near one of the corners, setting up an orchestra to dance for.

It was a gathering, a party.

Nerves were knotted against the floor of your stomach, and despite having a glass of champagne in one hand and hooch in the other, nothing was easing the clench. Perhaps it was residue from hardships that had only ended a few years ago, or it could be the more instinctive nerves - holding alcohol without needing to look over one’s shoulder was still new for everyone. Even now, you saw Nick stealing a glance at the waitstaff, as if sussing out which was the cop.

“‘lright, love?” Harry spoke low, his hand briefly resting against your back as he came around from behind. It wasn’t far into the party, enough time having passed for his entrance to be marked by everyone already feeling tipsy, but not raising an eyebrow at his late arrival.

His suit was understated, a black with minimal design. His mother would tailor all of his suits, resulting in most of them being the absolute extravagant pieces for all the parties he threw - the magnificent ones where the moon grew twice to try and be an inch closer, where the ocean glittered around his villa and you could strain to taste the rose-colored smoke in the air. They were alive with people and spirits and spirited people, and the types who would disappear in the morning and you’d question their existence, but never their stories.

His suit was fine, but his hair was a proper mess. Harry had insisted to you a few days ago, a dopey smile on his face as he leaned against your shoulder, that it was a rebel of the highest degree.  You knew the words were bullshit, but the way he spoke sounded like a home you’d never known, so you listened.

“You need a haircut.” The words came out before you could properly hold them back, the liquor having moistened your throat and disconnected your mind from your choices.

Harry broke into a smile, this time shaking his head slightly so the curls danced, delighted, in the dim glow.

“You like it?” he asked, and you made a sour face in response. He took one of the drinks from your hands, making the low noise in the back of his throat to signal disapproval. Where Harry managed to gather his rebellious streak of societal indignity, but still manage to believe that women should be held up on pedestals and protected, eluded you.

But you were still dizzy with him. Drunk in the way he said your name, caught up in his eyelashes, a fatal swoop in your chest that felt like laying in bed after a long day’s work. You were simply infatuated, but insistent on the fact that the feelings drifted no farther. Infatuation could be controlled, but love.

Love would be an entire beast that you couldn’t battle. It would include leaving him, leaving him because Mary was cemented down in his roots. Not that you’d agree with it, but she was, and it was a reality you lived with.

They’d been sweet on each other for the first couple months. You hadn’t kept up on the details too much. But time had worn their feelings thin, wafering holes poking through in the way they loved. Which was a wrong, horrendous source of comfort to you - but it terrified you, as well. Harry was the embodiment of love, with how he danced and moved and swayed into the moonlight, and yet there was something off in the way he loved Mary. It felt like a commitment for the sake of, rather than motivated each day, and the failures of love haunted you.

“Where’s Mary?”

Harry shrugged, taking a swig of the drink and looking against the crowd. The two of you were propped against the wall, as if only existing in the plane of the party by the physical constraints. If you had your way, your souls would fall through the wallpaper and into something more exquisite.

Harry had a way of making the dullest parties exciting, and you wondered what he had up his sleeve. But his face showed no signs of telling, a crease along his forehead denting in his sudden gloom and moodiness.

“Dunno. Was gonna find her, thought she’d be with yeh.”

That was his mistake, his constant mistake, of seeking his love around you. It was there but not where he expected - it was manifestation he sought, the woman he called ‘darling’ on late nights out, not the friend he called ‘love’ because it meant nothing.

Words didn’t quite fit your mood, so you merely shrugged and shifted your weight between legs. The music had picked up but your feet had been worn to the bone by running all over town the previous night, so you prayed Harry’s stance next to you would dissuade any men from approaching.

“Think I’ve got to end things with Mary, yeah?”

It was a loaded question, especially with Harry’s eyes staring into yours. It was a rush, how the lights cascaded down the side of his face and his hair was a horrible mess, an unsightly vision for anyone in town, but he was utterly angelic nonetheless. It was a weird sensation against your throat, seeing him tragic and sad, and not knowing how to respond that wouldn’t be an attempt to benefit your own tragic and sad.

“Why’d you say that?” you asked.

“It was never right, was it?” He spoke thoughtfully, scanning your face for agreement, and apparently finding some, for he continued. “It’s reached an end.”

Silence befell the two of you, yet it was heavy with the implication of further words against his tongue. They weren’t spoken yet, but you felt with one more moment-

“I’ve got somethin’ I need to say to yeh. After it’s done.” His eyes had swept to his feet, the dirty tips of his shoes from the soil around the town.

You both were misplaced, you felt it in your soul and the way you two would wrap in each other’s auras, clasped at the hands and promising you’d escape this hellhole of a town one day. And it only was proven in how Harry’s eyebrows sloped together, a defiance in the order of things prominent in his pursed lips.

“Okay,” you drawled it out, but Harry didn’t seem to find anything humorous. With a tilted neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing and drawing your eyes in like flies to honey, he downed the rest of your champagne.

“See her over there,” he mumbled, slipping back into the throngs of the party. He was still incredibly visible, a mess of hair and clunky shoes passing through the sea towards his girl. She was sat, pretty and prim, but you could tell she felt only half. Mary had an odd sense about her, a jealousy towards you for sure, but a feeling around her sphere of influence that she wasn’t full unless Harry was there. Half-dazed without, only focused on him with, there was seemingly no win.

The pair of them slipped out into the night together, with your eyes trailing behind. Mary was oblivious as to how the conversation would go, and for that, you were conflicted.

It must have made you an awful person, how the nerves crashed against giddiness. The drinks may have kicked into effect, because before you knew it - you were swaying and dancing against the moonlight, around the tables with the rest of the folk, pained heels clipping against the floor as they did every night, dancing out the mundanity of a town life crippled with the distrust of life. It would be a conversation for the rest of the night, how Harry would retell the dramatic discussion with fire in his eyes and a sadness plunging into his heart, because he always felt guilty and you’d never understand why.

You glided out of the mass, panting with how the dance took your breath away, feeling the redness built up in your cheeks and the sweat on your brow. You passed Nick with his wide eyes and bursts of laughter, and noticed how he winked at you when you left the room. The restroom was calling.

The main hall of the restaurant was bustling with normal activity, waiters dashing around with massively weighed trays balanced against their shoulders. There was a coat rack near the entrance, huddled with pounds of jackets, hats, and scarves, and a lone Harry Styles squatted next to it.

He looked up when you passed by, the hollows of his cheeks straining purple in the grotesque lights.

You paused next to him, almost dashing around to head and pee, but his expression caught you off guard..

He looked in another world. His eyes, blue with morose, opened to look at nothing. Eyelids heavy with almost boredom, but his posture offered enough to let you know his demons were free once more.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, and once he shifted to the side, you took the cue to sit beside him, crossing your legs and ignoring your body’s protests.

His mouth open and closed, his fingers spread wide in front of him to grasp onto his senses, but they were nowhere to be found. His lips were glistening, perhaps from him licking them continuously, but a small streak against his cheek made you think otherwise.

“Was she upset?” It was all you had to offer, but it seemed like you hadn’t struck gold. He continued to mime whatever words that were escaping him, but your attention had been caught elsewhere.

In one of his hands, you had thought he was holding onto his pack of cigarettes. At second glance, however, it wasn’t. It was terrible.

The fact it wasn’t, and the fact his mouth was gaping, and the fact his eyes were glassed and that his shoulders were quivering – it all accumulated into a story you never expected.

A blue velvet box, iconic in its time, holding only one thing inside.

“Harry, is that-”

“She’s pregnant,” he managed to choke out, not glancing at the box, his voice cracking in its sudden revival, “Mary’s pregnant.”

“She’s what.”

“Couldn’t break it off, would she gonna do? Can’t go back to live with her parents, the town’s too far off-” he continued to speak, words that made sense when combined but gibberish with how he stringed them. It was a rant that had been built into his lungs and found a small stream to blow off, with only your collection of stammers breaking through the dam.

“Did you–’re you–is that–”

“Proposed. Bit rushed, didn’t get on a knee, but it did its duty. I did mine, anyhow,” he said, a desperate gloominess clutched your dress as he presented the box. His fingers fumbled against the velvet, nubbed fingertips and signs of bitten skin surrounding the nails.

Opened, the box was empty. The contents were stuck on Mary’s finger, presumably back at the party showing off the latest development in her life.

“Congratulations.” It didn’t feel as if it were you who said anything, the voice too breathless and at ease to have come out of your body, with its thundering heartbeat and screaming mind.

“Gotta get a job, gotta call up Howard ‘n see what’s not ‘n the papers. There’s gotta be something, yeah? Need a crib, now, too.” It was clear his mind was far off, into what he needed to do, in the adult-life that neither of you had never quite fit into, but was now thrust upon him.

All your mind was on, was the trip you two had been planning for the past year. Harry had promised train tickets across the country, down towards where the sun always shone and the waters were constantly warm around your ankles, even in the dead of night. Maps and notebooks had cluttered your office for months, with strings attaching your future endeavors in a maze of findings. It had started out as an escape from the Depression, the one that had seemingly ended but never quite had, the one where your throats were aching for more than speakeasies could offer.

It wasn’t going to happen. It simply couldn’t. You’d never see how he would look, dozed off across from you on your hundredth train, his backpack used as a makeshift pillow. You’d never feel the brutal mountain winds with him. You’d never be able to wander around the greatest cities of America, you’d never explore all the lives you could’ve lived, in towns you never knew existed.

The realization brought you to another moment, another question, one out of place with Harry’s rant but in tune with how your blood ran cold.

“Where’d you get the ring?”

That snapped Harry’s attention, and his bloodshot eyes managed to find you in their blur. Perhaps it was an expectation, for you to ask, but the surprise against his lips, how they parted with a slacked jaw and a sharp inhale, said otherwise.

“Wha’?”

You repeated yourself, and he staggered into a motionless statue of himself, a final shake of his shoulders until he ceased to move. Just stared at you, haunted.

I’ve got somethin’ I need to say to yeh.

“Harry.” To your surprise, it almost sounded admonished.

His eyes were pleading for you not to speak. For speaking would bring it into existence, and he could never juggle it all. Neither of you could, it was a mortal flaw that ran deep into your flesh, and now against your heart, where it felt it would stay forever.

You felt compelled to speak anyway, motivated slightly by the intoxication and the exhaustion and the bitterness in which life was taking from you continuously, without ceasing, and this was the one chance to take something back for yourself. To give a bit of yourself back towards him, to offer a glimpse of the life that could’ve been.

“I would’ve said yes.”

It was quiet.

You thought Harry was being quiet, as well, but his hands reached up to wrack against his scalp, collecting at his hair and his head went between his knees.

He gave a nod, a gentle movement from your perspective, and a choked cry. It was stifled by the sudden uproar within the restaurant – perhaps another fight, perhaps another birthday, you didn’t care – and your arm went around his shoulder, bringing him into your chest.

You cried. Tucked away, hidden behind swaths of clothing that had belonged to the rich and now hung off the poor, surrounded by lights and glamour that suddenly became cheap and instrumental, compared to what you two had deserved. He felt warm against your skin, his forehead now pressed against your shoulder as his body pushed forward in distress. Time stretched to allow for you both to have one moment, a solace against the blazing sun of normalcy. It was one minute until Anne would burst through the party doors, searching for her son, perhaps having caught a glimpse of the truth and knowing where his heart truly was.

But for that minute, his heart was in your chest, the beats matching up, the pair united for a last breath.

The box slipped from his fingers and landed on the floor, half-open and completely empty.

It was a reality you’d have to live with.

[kienava]

~~i stayed up til 4 am and wrote beauyasha and i regret nothing~~

When the Nein return to the tower, Beau finally has a chance to read Yasha's poem.

Awkward conversation ensues in a room full of flowers.

_______

how do i wake my spirit cold? [AO3 link]

It had taken Beau a solid three reads to convince herself that this poem was actually real, not just something that her cold-snapped brain had imagined for a fleeting sense of warmth. She’d gone from staring at the words blankly to reading slowly, scrutinizing the angles of each letter, and on her seventh read she’d discovered that it was impossible to tear her eyes off the piece of parchment in her hands. This was now the eighteenth time in a row she’d scanned over these four lines, though she’d long since memorized their contents. At this point, she was less reading a poem and more gazing at a painting. Its beautiful simplicity hit all at once, like a thin blade between the ribs.

Many months ago, Beau might have guessed that Yasha’s handwriting would resemble her intimidating appearance, or maybe even her fighting style: sharp and strong, rough strokes and firm lines. Now, the slight, slanted script on the page came as no surprise, not when Beau had all but reached out and touched the soft edges hidden under layers of rage and anguish - and shawls. Yasha was big on shawls.

Eventually, Beau knew, she would have to put this piece of paper down and stop reading, but her hands and eyes had yet to consider that idea for themselves.

Her breath stayed steady despite her sparking nerves, years of practice kicking in to steady her. After she folded that piece of parchment up, what could she possibly do? Sleep? Not a gods-damned chance. The tower was safe and still, much unlike the thumping in her chest. As skilled as she’d become at controlling her lungs and diaphragm, the ability to keep her heart calm eluded her.

She knew it was a symptom of something that she’d avoided addressing for as long as possible, a creature that would longer allow itself to be pushed off and locked up. Beau had done her best to drown it alive when she’d learned why Yasha pressed her own heart between the pages of a book to desiccate along with torn petals and broken thorns. Loving dead flowers left little room to tend a new garden.

For all Beau’s attempts to do otherwise, she kept coming back to this, perennially doomed to weather the most apocalyptic storms.

In an effort to inspire some new consideration besides poetry, Beau let the paper flutter onto her desk and took to the fighting post. She’d been curious to see how adaptable the tower’s contents really were, and she’d asked Caleb for a variety of weighted staves to train with in this rendition. She grabbed the heaviest one from its mount on the wall. Maybe if she exhausted herself by whaling on the fighting post, she’d be able to fall asleep sometime in the next several hours.

As soon as she started swinging, it was clear that her plan would be fruitless. Her muscles could go on autopilot and run through routines she knew deep in her bones, and she’d built up too much stamina fighting gnolls and ghosts and undead sea monsters to tire herself to the point of genuine exhaustion.

Despite all of her mediation training, she couldn’t shut her brain off. She’d been in research mode for weeks now, mind racing constantly to piece together theories that somehow sounded less and less wild the more their group trekked on. Even while sparring with this helpless post, she exerted more effort willing herself not to sit back down at her desk and scour between the grains of the paper Yasha had given her for clarity and truth.

She made a last-ditch effort at meditating, sitting in the middle of the room with her legs crossed, counting her inhales and exhales. It was the first technique Dairon had taught her, the simplest form of breathwork. The goal was not to control or influence the breath, but to build awareness of one’s natural pace without judgment. At the time, Beau laughed at the possibility that she could go a second without judging (herself or others). But she'd changed so much since then.

She felt herself smile, recalling a conversation from what felt like ages ago.

Thank you for not judging me, Beau.

Have you seen me? Who am I to fucking judge?

I’ve seen you. I’ve seen you a lot.

Was that it? Was that the moment that the harmless flirting had developed its own sense of gravity? That Beau had suddenly found herself tongue-tied during their most superficial conversations, yet secretly hoping for even the briefest moment alone together?

Without intention, her breath had started to line up with the endearingly crooked meter of the poem repeating infinitely in her mind. She inhaled through one line, then emptied her lungs by the end of the next.

Each time she ran through that short stanza again, more questions frayed out like a string splitting endlessly. None of the answers she sought could be found in the library. She’d only need to go one floor down, not two.

All distractions exhausted, Beau considered knocking on someone else’s door instead of seeking the one stamped with lilacs, but she couldn’t come up with a good reason to do so. Veth and Caleb would be together, huddled in front of a cozy fire and having one of those intense conversations meant only for them. Caduceus usually went to sleep early anyway, and he’d eaten a whopping dinner. No way he’d still be up. Fjord had taken up his own meditation practice, and far be it from Beau to interrupt that. Jester - well, that was just a bad idea. If Beau mentioned the poem (and there was very little chance she’d be able to talk about anything else), Jester might just drag her down to Yasha’s room and throw her through right the door.

If Yasha could be brave, so could Beau. In fights, that was the very thing that pushed her to go as hard as she did. She knew that Yasha would be there to pull her out of a giant lobster claw if her risks didn’t pay off. They had each other's backs, always.

Would that still be the case when neither of them held a weapon in their hands?

Only one way to find out.

Beau opened and closed her own door as quietly as possible. Jester had some kind of sixth sense when it came to Beau’s interactions with Yasha, and Beau really didn’t want to explain anything when she wasn’t even entirely sure what was going on herself. She whispered the command word to the lift and sank slowly to the next floor down. She was careful to keep her knock quiet, though it probably wouldn’t wake Caduceus. No promises that Jester wouldn’t somehow hear it, no matter how thick Caleb claimed the walls were.

There was a long beat before Beau heard footsteps. Her stomach flipped - had she woken Yasha up? Normally she relied on some burst of brash confidence to start a conversation, and it had already taken her nearly an hour to build up the courage to step into the hallway and onto the lift. This was too different from the casual check-ins and mid-battle flirting that had happened more often in recent weeks, and Beau forgot every normal greeting she knew when the lilac-emblazoned door swung open.

She only had one thought: “Yasha.”

“Goodnight, Beau,” Yasha said. Quickly, she added, “Not goodnight like ‘goodbye, you should leave.’ Goodnight as in good morning. Like a greeting, I mean.”

“Ha, yeah. Goodnight, I guess,” Beau replied with a little wave. This was going about as badly as possible. “Sorry, did I wake you up?”

“No, no, no. I was just - well, I cannot read Zemnian, but those books Caleb gave us have very nice covers.”

“Yeah, they’re cool,” Beau said. She had an opening here. Might as well take it. “Speaking of reading...”

Yasha raised her eyebrows.

Beau tried to swallow the dryness in her mouth. It didn’t work. “I checked out your poem.”

“Oh, you did?” Yasha asked.

“You sound surprised.”

“Maybe a little.”

Beau wasn’t sure where to go with that, and all she could come up with was a stilted laugh.

Yasha joined in with her own quiet chuckle. The way she bit her lip, lost in thought, made it clear that she was just as much at a loss for words.

This was a bad idea. Beau hadn’t been thinking straight, obviously, when she’d come down here with a million questions and no plan for how to ask them.

“Okay,” Beau said, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. “I guess I’m gonna--”

“Do you want to come in?”

Beau blinked. “What? I mean, sure. Yeah.”

Yasha stepped back from the door to open it wider, and Beau stepped inside the flower-laden room for the first time since Caleb’s magical mansion tour.

The door settled shut behind them, and they were left standing in the middle of the bright, colorful blossoms.

“So,” Yasha started. She didn’t go on.

“Nice plants,” Beau commented, nearly smacking herself across the face for it.

Fortunately, Yasha smiled at that. “Caleb really thought of everything for this place.”

Beau’s mind flashed to the mirror mounted above her bed, and for the first time in many years she had to remind herself to breathe. She was more than getting ahead of herself.

“Anyway,” Yasha said, drawing out the end of the word a little more than normal, “what brings you down to the fifth floor?”

“Ah, just got lost on my way to the kitchen, thought I’d swing by,” Beau tried.

Every time Yasha let out even a small laugh, Beau counted it as a win.

The most concrete question burning in Beau’s skull was rooted in something ugly and frightened. She asked it anyway. “So did Jester put you up to that?”

“It was her idea, yes,” Yasha admitted.

“Oh,” Beau said, not quite catching her voice from cracking.

“I shouldn’t have said that. She only helped because I asked.”

“So it was your idea?”

“Not quite. I don’t think. Not the poem thing, specifically. I told her I wanted to...do something, for you, and that is what she suggested.”

Beau fought against the urge to convince herself that those words could mean anything other than what she wanted to hear. She’d been jumping through flaming mental hoops for weeks, maybe months, trying to talk herself out of this. And then Yasha had the pleasant audacity to write her a poem.

“No one’s ever done that before. For me,” Beau reiterated. She held her hands up. “Hey, I’m no expert, but I thought it was dope.”

“No, you didn’t,” Yasha dismissed.

“No, I did.”

“You did?”

“Yeah.”

Yasha busied herself by stroking the petal of a nearby flower with her thumb, a small smile creeping in.

“Why’d you write it?” Beau asked. 

Yasha’s fingers stilled. Her gaze stayed fixed on the flower in her hand, and her slight smile grew.

“Do you have a favorite flower, Beau?”

There was the answer Beau wanted to give, and then there was the truth. In the dense quiet, the latter won out. “Not really. Kinda wish I did. Do you?”

“I think...” Yasha gently plucked the flower from its stem. “I think they are all my favorite.”

“Really?”

Yasha nodded, cradling the flower in her palm.

It was, quite possibly, the happiest Beau had ever seen her. She suddenly wished that she knew the name of this plant, of every plant in the room. If something could bring Yasha such tranquil joy, it was worth knowing. 

“The ones in this room are from all over. I’ve never even heard of some of them,” Yasha said.

“Caleb probably read about a thousand botany books just for this.”

“Probably,” Yasha laughed.

“Come on. You’ve gotta have a favorite,” Beau pushed, in the back of her mind hoping that she could use the information for future reference.

Yasha shook her head. “My book...I was keeping it for Zuala at first, but I think I am also keeping it for myself now. I want to remember the places that I’ve been and the things that happened there. Because those things have brought me here, and I am very happy about that, even if some of what happened was...not so happy. I would not be here, with all of you, without every single one of those flowers.” 

She held her hand out, presenting the plucked flower. Beau stared at the five long, carefree, white petals, tinged with a sunshiny yellow at the tips. Slowly, she reached out and was surprised to find the petals were rich and soft like velvet. She couldn’t recall ever seeing it before - maybe it was from Xhorhas.

“And,” Yasha met Beau’s eyes, “finding new favorite flowers to add to my book does not mean I forget the old ones.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Beau agreed.

“This one reminds me a lot of you, actually,” Yasha said, almost whispering to herself. 

Beau felt her heart skip. She’d never been given a poem before, and she’d certainly been compared to something so delicate and precious. She wracked her brain for something witty to say, but she’d never been very good at that around Yasha. “It does?” she choked out.

“It grows in the desert,” Yasha explained. “It's very stubborn and strong. We called it Sunsbane. Even with very little water, it survives the hottest days. The buds stay closed for many years, but the plant stays strong. The roots grow deeper than you’d ever guess just from looking at it above the surface. It can take a long time, but when the nights get cool enough, the flowers finally bloom.” She paused, sweeping her hair behind her ear. “You probably didn’t come here to hear so much about plants, though.”

Beau could very well have been in the desert herself at the moment - her mouth went dry again, and she felt like it was about a thousand degrees in that room.

Untrusting of her own ability to form words after that, she lifted the flower from Yasha’s hand, then reached up and tucked its short stem back where Yasha had fixed her hair.

“Hey,” Beau managed.

“Mhm?”

“You can tell me about plants anytime, alright?”

“Alright,” Yasha returned. “Okay.”

Beau retreated a step, realizing how close they’d been standing. “White’s kinda more your color, though. Plus, the yellow really...your eyes, it - works. Looks nice. Um, goodnight.”

There was a strange look on Yasha’s face, like she was thinking too hard.

“What?” Beau risked asking.

“Just that...I didn’t answer your question yet. About the poem.”

“Oh. Yeah. It’s cool, honestly--”

“Beau.” Yasha said her name so softly that Beau had no choice but to stop protesting.

Yasha took the flower from behind her ear and clutched it to her chest. “You should know that I like this flower very much.”

So much of Beau’s old self - the person who’d just tried to leave again - wanted to bolt for the door, but her new self locked down and stood her ground. Inhale, exhale. “I think it likes you, too,” she said weakly.

Yasha waved her hand, still holding onto the flower. “Jester said some things, and I - well, I don’t know. I didn’t think I should hear them from someone else in case they weren’t true or--”

“They are,” Beau jumped in. “I don’t know what she said, exactly, but I can guess.”

“How do you mean?”

“Like I tried not to for a while. And then that became more impossible than it already was. Just like Sunsbane, I guess. Deep roots, you know?”

“I’m sorry,” Yasha said suddenly. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting. Not that I - I wasn’t expecting anything. You’ve surprised me in a lot of ways, is all.”

Beau couldn’t handle the guilt on Yasha’s face. It wasn’t her fault, everything that had happened to her, to them. Beau would’ve waited a thousand days in the desert if it meant letting Yasha heal and find herself.

The gap between them had shrunk again, somehow, but it was more unbearable than ever. It felt like every time they got closer by half, always lessening the space but never quite meeting. But Beau was very good at breaking things, and, for once, she could break something for good. Her palm met Yasha’s cheek, fingertips curling around a small braid hanging loosely.

“You said those flowers are pretty damn patient, right?” Beau said.

Yasha nodded almost imperceptibly, like she was afraid Beau’s hand would pull back.

“Then I think you have nothing to apologize for.”

“Still.”

“Well,” with much less confidence than she’d hoped for, Beau asked, “you gonna kiss me or what?”

Yasha’s eyes closed for a moment, her expression neutral save for the slight crease between her brows and the subtle part of her lips. When her eyes opened again, her gaze was angled down slightly, plotting a trajectory that Beau had hardly dared to dream of.

“You’re sure?” Yasha said softly.

Beau’s answer was no more than a breath of a laugh.

Yasha went on. “I just want to make sure that you are sure. I’m very sure, at this point, but that doesn’t mean that you have to be--”

Beau cut her off as gently as possible.

For a moment, Beau’s mind went blissfully blank.

Then it hit her. She was kissing Yasha.

It started soft - not tentative, but quiet.

And then, miracle of miracles, Yasha was kissing her back, and she was much less patient. She was lightning and thunder striking at once, a storm raw and deafening in its power. Beau wondered when her knees would give out under the sheer weight of it - until solid arms circled around her waist and pulled her in.

Desperate to hold onto something, Beau’s fingers wound into Yasha’s hair. Her other hand was trapped just below Yasha’s collarbone, grasping tighter until blunt nails scraped past a cloth edge and found skin.

Maybe Beau did have a favorite flower, after all.

***

[payherprice]

10.

The mountains give way to craggy foothills, through which the road wends its restless way, discontented with straight lines. Eventually it brings us around a bend to get our first look at the Rehm ocean, glittering in the afternoon sun. Impossibly blue and so very welcoming, though the road seems in no hurry to get there. It does not love the waters as I do.

After the foothills we join the coast road, which we follow north towards Caer Vyr. The going is considerably flatter here, making for a more comfortable ride, and I let myself daydream the afternoon away. As we draw closer to the ocean my senses are filled with it. The sounds and smells fly to us on the wind and my spirit seems to follow them back along that same path, drawing me into the water to play there in my mind. 

It’s overcast and chilly when we stop to rest by a little inlet, even so Ketil and Sif agree to join me for a swim without too much convincing. I strip to my underthings, cross the pebbly shore, and wade into the dark waters. They trail after with somewhat less enthusiasm. 

The water is very cold, but I don’t care. I walk till it's too deep to walk and swim just a bit further. There I float, only my face above water, and close my eyes, feeling my body buoyed by the waves, their gentle insistence. I imagine floating like this forever, just drifting and dreaming. That would be the perfect life, wouldn't it? Weightless and free, desires ebbing and flowing with the tides.

My reveries are interrupted by the sound of Ketil and Sif. They are both swearing loudly as the frigid water grasps at their bellies. Seeing them brave the cold to join me, I feel like some beautiful thing, alluring and mysterious. They want to be warm and dry, but more than they want that, they want to be here with me. They swim out and we come together in the gentle waves and play like children, until our bodies are numb and the lethargy of a day spent in the wagon wears away.

Later, we sit by the fire, blankets draped over our shoulders. We giggle to ourselves through chattering teeth and the other caravanners look at us like we are mad. In truth I am barely aware of them. My attention, no matter which way I might try to shift it, seems to fall inexorably back to Sif. To the bare skin of her collar, the depression above the bone where rainwater would collect in a statue. I feel an intense longing to kiss that spot, but her hand is on Ketil’s upper arm and I do my best to banish the thought.

Sleep eludes me that night. I listen to the soft breathing of the others, arrayed around the embers of the fire, surrounding me, and I feel an odd loneliness. My fingers find the cool metal of the sword beside me and I draw it closer, entangling myself around it like a lover.  

“Are you there?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper. There is no reply, but just holding it makes me feel a bit better. Better enough to sleep a little before morning comes, bringing with it the last leg of our journey.

The road follows the contours of the coastline only approximately, sometimes meandering farther inland and out of sight of the ocean, into the seemingly boundless moorland. Enormous cloud shadows drift lazily over the stark landscape, and in the distance we catch the occasional glimpse of a shepherd grazing his flock on the moors. Over time the terrain morphs into low, gradually rolling hills that slope downward to the ocean or leave short vertical cliffs, eroded by waves into curious contours. 

At long last we crest the brow of a hill, and there, arrayed before us, is the city. Myriad colorful buildings on a gentle slope, surrounded by a wall like a necklace, punctuated with guard towers like beads spaced along its length. With our destination finally in sight the sense of stalled time engendered by the day’s ride finally relents. 

I lean my head out the window, taking in the sight as more and more detail becomes apparent. To the west, the edge of the city is given over to the harbour, its many fingers splayed out, stretching into the bay, where ships of all sizes crowd around them. On the east side the city is dwarfed by the great aqueducts, there to sate its enormous thirst for freshwater. Each one is many times taller than the rest of the cityscape, and little clusters of buildings cling to their sides like mushrooms to the trunk of a tree.  

Caer Vyr is a convergence of power and influence. All trade routes touch it eventually. Like ley lines, they feed it. Like a heart it pumps the blood of empire. 

It is no stretch of the imagination to see it as she does. Even now I can spy the merchant ships in it's harbour. The line of wagons awaiting entry at its gates, and this caravan too, soon to join them.

The city walls loom over us as we near the main gate. The gatehouse is a massive edifice. Thirty feet wide, and at least twice as tall. As we pass beneath I can see two lines of spikes protruding from the stone high above, the bottom of a pair of iron gates. Relics of an era when wealthy cities would be besieged by empires that no longer exist, all but vestigial now.  

Emerging into the city we are confronted with a cacophony of sights and sounds and smells. Throngs of people move about their business, coming or going or giving their custom to the many shop fronts and open air stalls that line the road. It seems as if every sort of person imaginable is within immediate sight, from the humblest laborer, who may well have lived here their entire life, to wealthy merchants and traveling nobles in extravagant outfits from far away places.

The smells of fresh bread and roast meats drift over to us on the breeze from the varied food stalls. They mix with a sharp undertone, almost imperceptible. Dyeing vats I think, a neighborhood away or more, doing their part to supply the extravagant colors that fill my view.

The caravan sticks to the wider streets, full to bursting with people and carts, as it makes its way harbourside. The going is very slow, and there are long periods where the wagons don't move at all. Sif fidgets in her seat, growing increasingly impatient, until she seems to settle on a decision. 

“Come on, let's walk. I’ll show you to my favorite inn.” 

When we don't immediately object, she sticks her head out the window to inform the driver. We grab our things and hop down. I notice Ketil adjusting the strap at his shoulder and looking around anxiously at the crowds, perhaps wary of finding himself adrift in this confusion. Sif tips the driver and asks him to pass along our thanks to Ramzi. She leads us away from the crowds into the narrow side streets where we are quickly swallowed up by the city. 

Like shifting through time, the architecture around us varies widely by era, and in the deep corners of the city centuries old buildings sit, their columns cracked or toppled, but their windows alight with life.

Though they lack the chaos overflowing from the markets, the side streets are not truly quiet either. It's all still dense with the motions of people's lives. Washing gets hung on lines, forming makeshift banners across the residences. Dust is swept into the street to scatter. Snippets of conversation drift to us from open windows, laughter and shouting and tender words. 

We follow Sif through what feels like a maze of small streets and lanes. Her every step is sure, and we eventually come to a place where the street widens and splits to encircle a tiny city green, constituting a patch of grass and a single gnarled old tree, its trunk covered in moss. Opposite the green, on one side, is an inn, three storeys tall and more than a little eclectic. I’m immediately taken with it. The original building is old stonework, well maintained, but additional floors and wings have been added to it over the years, expanding it with brick and plaster and exposed beams into something strange and brimming with character.

Ivy creeps up the left side of the building to surround the windows, and spills onto the turquoise tiles of the roof. Tall trees crowd the building from behind, where there is evidently a large garden. High up, in an attic window, birds nest.

“It's a lovely old place, isn’t it? Like a secluded little oasis.” She does a twirl as she says it and makes her way to the entrance.

“It really is.” Ketil replies. There is a slight note of anxiety in his voice and then, speaking quietly so as not to have Sif hear. “This place is a bit nicer than I was expecting. I’m not sure we can afford it.”

I share the feeling, but try to allay his concerns. “Sif knows our circumstances. It will be ok.”

As it happens the price per night is quite modest, perhaps because the roads here are too narrow for the carriages of the wealthy, or perhaps because it is so far from the city center. Whichever it may be, I'm grateful at the prospect of a soft bed.

A porter leads us upstairs and down an irregularly winding corridor with odd alcoves and secluded window seats, organic and ungoverned like the building's exterior. 

The room itself is modest but very welcoming. A large picture window, framed by the ivy peaking around the edges, casts the golden evening light over everything. To one side is a fireplace flanked by overstuffed chairs, and across from it an enormous bed that could easily sleep four.

Ketil immediately goes for the bed, collapsing onto it with a sigh. I follow suit, clambering up to lie down beside him and letting myself relax into the mattress. After days of bedrolls and hard earth it's exquisite.

"This is nice, right?" I ask. 

"Yeah, it is." And then after a long pause. "Sif is nice."

"She likes you."

"Yeah?"

"I don’t think she brought us here just out of friendliness."

“What about you?”

“I’ll be ok.”

I realize I misunderstood his question, but the conversation is already moving on and I'm not sure I know the answer anyway. 

“Has the raven queen told you why we’re here yet?” He asks.

“No. She hasn't said much the last day or two.” I try not to let my unease show, but somehow it crawls its way up my throat anyway. "I try to talk to her, but she doesn't answer."

He takes my hand, his fingers slipping in-between mine. "I'm sure there is a good reason."

We meet up with Sif later that evening in the meal hall. A few other patrons dine nearby, conversing quietly amongst themselves. We find a table by the small windows that peer out from the ivy onto the road. A moment later a man brings us plates of food. Fresh bread, toasted and topped with crushed tomatoes and olive oil, and generous portions of roast fish. 

"Now you will learn why I really love this place." Sif says, before lifting one of the slices of bread, dripping with oil and tomato juice, to her mouth and taking a bite. She closes her eyes, and gives a pleased little shimmy, evidently satisfied.

The meal is wonderful and the company is better. We talk about the different places Sif wants to show us in the city, or the work we might find here, or nothing, which somehow is the richest topic. I watch as periodically Sif and Ketil will share a shy smile and a look. Sometimes Sif will catch my eye, noticing me watching, and hold my gaze for a moment, until I look away. 

Later, as we climb the stairs to the third floor and our waiting rooms, an awkward silence descends over us. The evening has slipped away and I feel a kind of heightening of the senses. Ketil and Sif walk side by side a few steps ahead of me, their flirting silenced, replaced by a palpable anticipation of the coming parting for the night. Sif’s door is first and we say our goodnights, and then we linger there at the threshold a moment or two longer than required. She stands just inside, a hand on the doorframe, posture relaxed. Ketil looks as if he wants to say something, but shyness or uncertainty stays his tongue. If I could give him the words I would, gladly, but I don’t have to.

“Would...you like to come in?” She asks. She tilts her head to the side, just slightly, as if to emphasize the invitation.

Ketil smiles shyly and takes a step forward, crossing that subtle distance separating ordinary with intimate. I am pleased for the two of them, and at the same time feel suddenly awkward, voyeuristic and superfluous. I make to leave, turning towards my own room down the hall but not a moment later I feel a gentle touch on my wrist. Looking back I find Sif’s eyes fixed on me, pinning me in place like a moth to a card. 

“Won’t you stay?” There is a pleading to her voice. The composure has fallen away to reveal the stormy surface to a deep sea of yearning. I know the feeling behind that look, the vulnerability of wanting something that is hard to ask for. She knew Ketil would be receptive, that was clear enough, but she wants us both. Somehow that clicks into place and I wonder at not knowing it sooner.

I let her draw me back in, and her face flushes with delight. She takes us each by the hand, her eagerness like a vibration in that touch, and leads us inside. 

The room is warmed and dimly lit by glowing embers in the fireplace. In that soft, orange light I watch as she kisses Ketil, tentative and probing, an explorer charting new territory. She breaks away from him and moves over to me, her hand finding my cheek. As she leans in her thumb gently brushes across my cheekbone. My lips meet hers, at once yielding and intent, and her fingers slide through my hair.

There is something almost ritualistic about how we proceed. He and I undress her together. From behind, his arms curl around her to undo the laces of her trousers, while I undo her shirt. She raises her arms and I lift it up and over. For a moment it covers her eyes like a veil, but her mouth is free, and I catch her in another kiss. When I pull away she moves with me, drawn like a lodestone, not wanting to disengage. 

He slips her trousers and underthings over her hips and lets them drop to the floor before caressing his way up her bare thighs. All that remains is her strophium, securely wound around her breasts. I untuck one end and she twirls obligingly, arms over her head, like a dancer. Each rotation her eyes return to mine, her fixed point. 

Sif and I are attentive and unhurried as we undress Ketil. With his shirt removed I admire his shoulders. I wrap an arm around him to caress his chest, while I kiss his neck. Sif, kneeling to free his feet from his crumpled clothes beneath, gives him a playful lick and I feel a shiver run through him, transmitted from her touch all the way to my lips on his skin. 

Then it's my turn. I see something mischievous in their eyes as their attention shifts my way. I think they like having me at their mercy and strangely that calms my trepidation. Ketil undoes my belt, letting the oversized tunic fall open, and Sif draws it back, off my shoulders and down. I feel her warm breath at my neck and the tips of her fingers skimming so lightly down my back. She turns me around and her hands find their way to my breasts making me quiver. I feel ketils mouth at my lower back, kissing lazily before stripping me of the last of my clothes.

Sensations blend and shift and chip away at my sense of time and place. We fall into the bed and languidly explore one another, finding many pleasures, familiar and not. Seeking our conclusions with no urgency, not at first. 

Even in the midst of our play there is a part of me that stays at a remove, studying Sif. The unburdened way she has about her in this space. The joy she takes in her body, and in ours, so unselfconscious. She is a seeker and sharer of pleasure. A hedonist. I admire her for it, and feel grateful that she should choose me to be one of her partners. 

Later, after the embers have ceased to glow and all is dark, I trace my fingertips along the crest of her pelvic bone, just above her thigh. What kind of marks do fingertips leave on skin? A hundred years of gentle touches would leave no scars, no roads on the body, but memories are a kind of mark too and they will suffice.

[redmaneroster]

Our Home Away From Home, Away From Home

[1] [2] [x] [4-5] [6] [7] [8-9] [10]

PART 3 – Inhibitions

The Kirin Festival is older than Vale itself. No one knows why they wear fish-scale costumes or set fire to carefully carved wooden statues as they drift into the sea. Why they sing songs of a dead tongue, or why they make the drunk climb a soaked pyramid for honor and – with a touch of modernity – some prizes.

Its mysterious allure is what draws most people. It's the reason why Jaune decides to climb the pyramid himself. He fails miserably. Yang has to carry him off.

Jaune didn't get the memo that participants have to have spare clothes because of course they do, so he's sat drenched in the changing room by the beach, Yang outside with his drying clothes by a heater lamp set up for just this kind of occasion.

They're alone again and it's quiet outside of the distant hum of the festival.

"I called Dad this morning," she says suddenly, leaned beside the tent. "I could hear her in the background." And she goes on, laying out her fears, but during a long pause to process her thoughts a little more, she briefly worries if he's listening.

"Yang. I'm here. I'm listening," he says, clear in that way like a droplet in a cave. Echoing in her mind. Present in all the ways that do not judge.

Then she talks. Talks about her mother coming home. Dancing around her while she reconnects with her dad. Or maybe she's just sleeping with him, and her family isn't going to be whole again. At least, these are her more negative thoughts. She's only willing to forgive her mother from running away if her dad gives her a chance.

She might have earned it then. Might, she emphasizes for Jaune. Raven might well and truly never fit back into her life. Summer – bless her soul – reshaped the gap she left behind. So Yang doesn't know if Tai forgiving Raven might even be enough, but she's willing to hope.

-0-

Everyone gets into a few rides and eats their weight in sugar until they all end up at Junior's club again. Most of them are dancing, except for Ruby and Ren.

When Jaune and Yang dance a little too close to each other, they take a step away. When Sun and Pyrrha dance a little too close beside them, Yang decides to save them both the embarrassment by taking a break.

She doesn't see Jaune taking a swig of his flask. And he doesn't notice that the blush of his cheeks wasn't from the alcohol.

Yang comes back to the table just as Ren – under the influence of alcohol – confesses that Joan has been trying to court him.

Ren and Nora's relationship isn't official. It's tumultuous since she came back to Kuroyuri alone over the Summer to mourn her long lost brother. Ren couldn't bear to go with her. When she came back, they've been… uncertain. Awkward, even.

Joan adds to his confusion because she doesn't criticize his choices or cowardice, she just listens. (It's so eerily familiar that Yang shuts her eyes tight just to give herself time to swallow it). So Joan, in a stroke of luck, is there for him precisely when he needs someone who isn't Nora.

Yang doesn't believe he'll choose her over Nora. It's just a rough patch. As long as neither of them do anything stupid in the meantime, she tells them, then it'll turn up alright once they get their rhythm again.

Ren says nothing.

Ruby's concern in that lack of confidence is burning.

Ren, placating her, says that he's certain things will work out between them again but knows he can't trust his own emotions just yet. Nora mentioned the nuckleavee limping around in the woods (JNPR went there towards the end of freshmen year to kill it but only managed to cripple it as it retreated). He was so blindingly furious at the idea that the beast was still alive that his nails started crackling against his aura.

Calm as he was, Ren wasn't completely put together just yet. "Maybe we're too young to be in love anyway," he says.

"I don't think it's love's fault that it happens too early or too late," Yang says, eyes away. "I think it's our fault for acting when we shouldn't or not acting at all. Or Going too far or…" – she glances at the dance floor – "…not far enough."

Ren is smug when she looks back at them. Nothing is left of Ruby but a cascade of rose petals. Then she zips back to her with the same smug look and a neck of her strawberry sunshine. Little umbrella and all.

Yang admits that she was looking at Jaune, but not for the reasons they think.

Jaune wishes he did more with Pyrrha. Even if he's not hurting over it anymore, he's afraid of making any more mistakes like that.

"He was actually," Ren says. He explains that Jaune spent the Summer alone and he spent some time calling him at the bottom of a whiskey bottle. He confessed about his feelings going haywire and how he wishes he could be happy for the new couple but dangerous parts of his mind told him that he shouldn't have been so passive. Strangely, he was being cryptic and even mentioned a marriage, but that he mumbled that last bit and Ren just shrugged it off.

"That wasn't about Pyrrha, though," Yang says.

"…What?"

"Oh. Oh, shit. I shouldn't have said that." Despite hinting at Jaune's big secret, Yang is a little happy that there was something he was only willing to tell her and not anyone else.

Then the rest of them come back to the booth and Yang pulls Jaune aside before Ren and Ruby can say anything.

She asks him about Joan going after Ren.

He tells her that he knows, but that all his efforts to curb her have failed. She's adamant about pursuing him.

Yang decides to try it herself.

-0-

Everyone's on their way back to the festival when Yang realizes that it's going to be too loud to call. She tells them she'll catch up and sits by a bench in the park. The musty smell of the pond battles against the fresh scent of her still lingering strawberry sunrise.

Joan picks up rather quickly, the sound of her team's movie vanishing in the background. She mouths out apologies to them first before she shuts a window behind her (her dorm is on the ground floor and she slips out through the window as frequently as the door) then sound of crickets chirps through the speaker.

Yang cuts to the chase and mentions Ren.

Joan asks her if she was talking to Jaune. Joan sighs, but she's not dejected, just… amused.

"Jaune likes to forget that we're the same age. That I had a boyfriend before, too. He likes to protect me cause I'm his sister. But I'm as wise as he is… and just as naïve."

Joan lists off Jaune's advice to her.

It's just a phase.

It wouldn't work out.

You're aren't thinking this through.

He's already practically married.

Joan rejects them all.

"I can't help what I feel. I can't dance around love like I'm waiting for an opportunity to strike. We aren't struck by falling stars when the perfect partner comes along. We just find the best we can and make it work out. Maybe Ren isn't for me. Maybe what I have is fleeting and foolish and naïve and stupid. I don't care. I am done waiting for the world to give me the good news. This time around, I'm taking initiative."

They end the call soon after. Yang can't argue with her earnest pursuit if she isn't muscling into it and pushing Nora out of the picture. There was also that chip in her tone that sounded like she knew she was fighting a losing battle.

When Yang exits the park, she finds Jaune waiting by the gate. He stayed back for her.

Fireworks flash over the sky, color splashing over a dark canvas.

Yang only looks at Jaune. Maybe it's Joan being proactive that might have pushed her to stand a little closer. Her fingers twitch. She doesn't know what she wants, but thinks that maybe a little indulgence isn't so bad.

Then he looks at her. But not at her eyes. They're locked at her lips. Without thinking, he pulls out his flask. He takes a swig and tries to go ahead but she grabs him by the wrist.

Perhaps remembering what she did last time she grabbed his arm as he walked away, he covers his mouth with his arm.

She laughs at him. "I'm tired. The party's over. Let's just drop them a line and go home."

"Home…" he whispers before nodding.

-0-

They're sat at the couch because they're waiting on their scrolls. Ruby went missing but they were tasked with staying behind just in case Ruby stumbles into their apartment. Yang isn't too worried. Ruby probably saw Penny and was dragged off during the fireworks.

In the silence, Yang tells Jaune that they spent a lot of time today listening to her problems. Maybe they should talk about his again.

The offer is tempting but he isn't quite ready. He wants to take his mind off it but lately his usual substitutes have been less effective. (Spending time with Yang has been dangerously enticing, and he's starting to wonder if he watered down his whiskey a little too much tonight).

"How about a different substitute?"

She pushes off the couch and tells him to wait right there. He does get up to change his shirt but it's taking so long for Yang to come out that he's starting to worry.

He approaches her door.

She bursts out of it. "Sorry," she says. "It's the only white dress I have." She's wearing the same dress she had at the dance. "It's no wedding gown, but with this on, maybe you'll stop thinking about her."

The idea that he'll think about her instead eludes her for a second before they're both thinking about it and her smiles gets awkward. Worse when he won't say a thing and his eyes have been wide this entire time.

She powers through and plays a song on her scroll. "You said they played something by Ivy Garden at the reception. I'm guessing this is it?"

He nods along as guitar strings rattle off into the room, filling the gaps till the wallpaper turns marble, a band plays on the stage, lavender drapes fall over the frosted glass where moonlight shimmers faintly in the gaps. And she is there, skin a rich chocolate brown, eyes like polished hickory.

Then she takes a step in his direction and her hair is a rich blonde, and her skin is pale and… "Yang? You… You don't have to do this…"

"Hush. You won't talk, so let's not talk. Let's try something else here and see if this works for you."

It works. It works too well.

So they join hands and dance. It's slow and circular, around the center of the living room. She can't bring herself to look him in the eyes. Her head rests against his chest and that somehow makes it worse for him. Especially when she loops her hands around his neck.

He wants so much to ask for more, but can't. His hands are shaking when they're squeezing her hips gently. She notices and pulls her head against his Adam's apple. Her warmth pools over him like a scarf, curling him inwards till his eyes go hazy and his lips hover dangerously over her scalp.

The music stops. The world comes back together, to the present, to their apartment.

Yang hesitates to ask if it worked. When she pulls her head out of his chest, she's surprised to find him breathless. He slowly comes back to his senses.

He takes a step back and immediately reaches for his flask. He downs it but the buzz is missing still, even when he empties it down his throat.

His cheeks don't flare. His thoughts don't cloud. All he has is clarity and it gnaws at the desires within reach. At her.

He almost kisses her, lips quivering, fists balled as his flask clatters to the floor. He clearly isn't sure where to put himself, even if a deep part of him already knows.

Yang decides that she isn't the kind of girl that lets something like this slip by.

She is so warm that her lips feel like she's branding him when they kiss; clamping on the delicate flesh of his lower lip with a desperation he should have seen coming. She'd been holding back, and when he bit back, he knew he was too.

White noise filtered into her ears as she became painfully aware of her own heartbeat. It was erratic, beating off-rhythm and she knows she's afraid. He said he was against this before, and the fear that she might be making a mistake again makes her shudder.

But then she moans when he pulls her in and dips a few degrees till she's curling against him. And she realizes that he isn't pulling away. It beckons him like a siren song, plunging him through the haze of his mind – not knowing that he's already found her – to be captivated, taken completely as if drowning in her.

When he leaves her lips, he presses his forehead to hers. His breath tickles her nose. She edges into him again.

Her kiss, then, is featherlight. Brief and affectionate. She wills herself to pull away; lets him breathe and take it in.

"I don't think this is love," he says.

"I don't think either of us are wise enough to tell the difference," she replies.

The idea that she might be right, that maybe this is okay, snaps something inside of him. She's willing to let him indulge just as long she's doing the same. Maybe he won't hurt her by not falling in love. Maybe this is okay. Maybe… Maybe…

He lets go, leaning back against the couch. He's thinking to himself. Wrestling with rationale.

She wants to comfort him, to tell him it's alright. That won't have to change if they don't need to. So she places a hand on his chest to get his attention, but he's so shocked by the sudden contact that he falls back and grabs onto her dress strap as they collapse onto the couch.

He's lying on the couch now with her bodily over his stomach.

She laughs and so does he, both falling away again into natural diffusion.

He thinks himself safe. The burning tension has withered, but just like before, Yang is unwilling to let things end so anticlimactically.

She gets up and sits on his waist. For a moment he's confused until she falls on him like timberwood. His body – the massive traitor that it is – welcomes her embrace with familiarity.

She laughs between breaths.

There's less heat and more comfort. Less passion and more affection. Indulgence in a way that is almost innocent. For a moment he needs to breathe but she clamps over his mouth. His annoyance spurs her on like it's a game. She's still laughing.

Then he opens his mouth. She slips in a tongue by accident.

They shudder.

They're boiling again, eyes shut to whatever is rumbling between them. His hands travel up her legs. A heat crawls over her skin. Then his fingers tease at the edge of her skirt.

She yelps, pulling away.

Yang realizes, rather succinctly, that she wasn't completely ready.

"Yang?"

"I… Okay, I'm not… I don't know about that yet."

His fingers are still on her legs. They're not even very far up but the places he touches tickle in a way that is electrifying.

He slips out from under her as she sits back against the arm rest of the couch. Her body curled up. Guarded.

An ache settles in his chest. "Yang, I'm so – "

She unfurls. "Don't!" She reaches over and grabs his hands. "Don't… Don't apologize. We wanted this, didn't we? I'm just not mentally prepared to do anything but make out right now."

"You make it sound like there's going to be a second time."

"You forget," she says with a grin, "this is the second time."

"Oh."

"Look, Jaune. I think we've got a good thing going on right now. We're not taking anything from each other, we have fun, and we both know that we needed this."

"You're a little more optimistic about this than I am."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"I just hope it means things won't end poorly."

She squeezes his hand. "I don't know what it is that we've got going on right now, so I can't tell you that things won't end well or… not." She scooches closer. "But I'll try my best. Trust me?"

She's so earnest that he banishes doubts long enough to answer. He kisses her instead with the same featherlight comfort she'd given him earlier.

She hums appreciatively. "I think I like it when you say 'yes' this way."

"That a rule now?"

"Maybe. Prepare lip balm. You'll have room now that you won't need that flask anymore."

"I'm not attaching myself to you 24/7. I'm keeping the whiskey."

"I mean, you could attach yourself to me 24/7."

"You can't be serious…"

She slaps his arm, laughing. "I'm not! I'm joking! Lighten up a little."

"Sorry. This is… new to me. It feels like I've skipped a few steps and broken a ton of rules somehow."

"No, I get you, but try not to dissolve into a wet blanket." He pouts. She beams and powers on. "We're two consenting almost-adults here. There's nothing wrong with what we're doing."

"Some people would disagree."

"And some people are wrong and can stuff it." Now that she's calm, she finds that she can still smell the saltwater in his socks. He's probably uncomfortable right now. She stands up. "Now we should both take a bath. This makeup is starting to feel like I'm wearing a mask pressed around my eyes."

"Shouldn't we talk this out a bit more? Lay down some ground rules?"

"In the morning. I'd like to enjoy the prospect of what I can do without having to think about what I can't."

He sighs but warmth bubbles into his chest. "Fine. In the morning."

"Good." She walks up to her door. She stops before she opens it. "Oh, and… don't lock your door."

-0-

It's past midnight when Jaune hears his door open. He tries to squeeze his eyes shut to try to ignore what's coming, but once Yang slips into his sheets and hums happily against his chest, he finds himself painfully aware of the body pressed to his.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"Being too close but not close enough."

He chooses not to question it.

She slips up further, breath on his neck. She bites. His aura flares up on instinct and she barely gets to his skin, tasting air instead.

"Uh…" he drones awkwardly.

She buries her face into his chest. "Shut up. I was trying to be hot."

"I think we've had enough excitement for one night."

"Lower your aura."

"Yang, c'mon…"

"Jaune…"

He sighs. "Fine…"

-0-

"So this morning, she sneaks up to me while I'm coming into the hallway and she bites me," Jaune says, pointing at his neck. "Then she hands me this bandage before she runs off."

"That sounds dangerously risqué," Joan comments.

Ruby is burying herself in her hood meanwhile, trying to contain her embarrassment.

"That's cause I bit her lip last night for revenge from last time."

Ruby crawls out of her hood and slaps her cheeks. They're still red but she doesn't care at this point. "Okay, so you aren't together?"

"Nora described it as together but not together-together."

"You and I both know that makes zero sense."

"Exactly. That's what makes it perfect. It makes about as much sense as our relationship."

Joan groans. "I can tell Yang came up with that one. It's one of those rules you two talked about, isn't it?"

He nods. "Hundred-percent."

Yang enters the cafeteria and spots them immediately. "Hey, you," she says with a purr. When she sits down, he kisses her cheek.

Ruby retreats back into her hood, gets up, and walks away. Joan rolls her eyes and follows after her.

"You were right," Jaune says, "this is fun."

"Glad you think so. Cause I'm about to sprinkle a bit of madness your way."

Dread hitches itself like prickled grass on his skin. "Okay… Hit me."

"My uncle's coming to Beacon."

"Uh… That's not so bad. Qrow and I are friends."

"No, you don't understand. He saw us at the park and followed us to the apartment to make sure we got home safe."

"Oh… oh, fuck. How much… how much did he hear?"

"Enough to want to meet with your privately. He told me not to tell you. He'll message you later tonight."

"He's going to kill me, isn't he?"

She winces. "Worse."

"What?"

"Qrow wasn't mad on the phone. He was… embarrassed."

Simultaneously he felt relief and yet more dread. "Oh… oh no…"

[fourletterworld]

Getting Lost - Was a Big Brother

Cody, Myself, and four of our best friends hiked the fantasy trail of Big Sur, some 7 miles up into the sky. As night approached, we tucked down off the trail into a small camping area and safely lit a fire near a stream. Here we pumped drinking water into our bottles through a filter. I remember feeling so physically tired, it was the only feeling in me. We made dinner in flame light then made our tents in spotty shadows. It was cold, and we'd fallen asleep quickly.

  The next day was crisp and beautiful. We'd made breakfast, coffee and tea and talked a while before heading out to walk off the path into the wilderness. We jumped across the creek where boulders stood out of the shallow depth. After the six of us got across my friend Bob passed out micro doses of mushrooms from a cloudy plastic bag. We chewed them up and continued walking into the trees along the creek. Nothing of note crept into my head, but I have a snapshot of looking back at my friends through the trees and seeing sunlight spill through the canopy onto the green forest floor. There was an Irish glow among the rich tree bark and moss.

  Someone mentioned that it looked like we were in an old Skittles commercial. Slow unconscious laughs built as we smiled half-lucidly at one another.   The effect began to slow some of us down until we stopped at a clearing and briefly sat. Cody and two others decided to keep hiking while I stayed with the other half.

We talked for a while and observed everything within eyeshot. I felt the stillness of a tree growing through my head. The misty sounds of nature began to strike out with colors of awareness. Suddenly I was conscious of the bird calls, and not in the ordinary way when their beauty serves as the backdrop to one of my moods. Instead, I heard their sounds as though they were strangers with first names I didn't know. They were communicating primal information with the worry of survival in their tone. They weren't having a pleasant day in the wild, they were locked in the grind of their reality. I felt sad for their consistent stress. The concern to live up to nature's expectations is so much to put on a creature. It wasn't their fault.

The plants around me gently moved in a soft breeze. Their limbs reached up to the skylight like a baby wanting its mother. They were as alive as starfish, having fixed themselves to the trunks of larger somber giants. The distant sun sat and burned like a far away look. A look that only time will snap someone out of. This sad poem is why we fall in love, I thought. It all hurts with the innocent anticipation of a loose tooth not ready to come out.

After a time of being unusually quiet in the presence of others, I crept away by myself down to the trickling stream we'd been following. In some sort of dreamy trance, I gently touched my face as I looked down into the water. There was a troubled curiosity in my tremendously large pupils. It was the little kid unwound inside of me; the one I'd twisted hard into a man.  Currents pulled at my reflection like smeared paint clinging to an image. Shards of light formed on the folds of water like cuts.  

The tired old question walked through my thoughts: "who am I?" This time, it didn't feel like the ethereal philosophical question. It was more like I was trying to make sense of the thing I saw reflecting in the water: The dark pool-eyed organic machine, the adult and the teen, the arrested development, the ill-defined aged of an angst ridden masculine spirit.

I've applied stereotypes to myself my whole life: being a punk rocker, a musician, an artist, a romantic, a good person, a drinker, and all sorts of things that maybe I'm not. They're all just lines of rope I've thrown out which I follow after to see where they might lead me. Being a big brother was something more than that. It was beyond me and rooted in the physical world. It was an anchor that'd dropped down as soon as Cody was born.

  These thoughts swam through that river until concern began to gather and pulled me back into the moment. I'd begun to feel some kind of tension pulling at the line between Cody and I. He had hiked away and was possibly too far from me, and I started to wonder if he was okay.

  "Hey guys! How long have they been gone?!" I shouted up the small ravine. "They're fine D." my friend Dave called, probably anticipating some psilocybin anxiousness. His assumption that I was paranoid was warranted, but I felt rational in my fear and knew it couldn't be articulated under scrutiny. I walked a short way in the direction the others continued hiking and looked. I didn't see anyone so I began calling Cody's name with my loud voice into the wilderness. I heard the emptiness of the hills as my voice faded through them, and a terrorizing feeling of finality landed. The fear was rooted in the possibility of never getting him back.

  What if they'd eaten more mushrooms than I had and got confused and lost? I was worried for all of them, but I was responsible for my brother. The anchor was somewhere beneath dark water and I didn't know if the rope had been torn. I began making all sorts of promises to some God that I never kept. I started to feel the knot in my throat.

  There was darkness growing in the mountains. Tall pine shadows loomed and collected over the retreating fragments of sunlight. The pleated hills began to look treacherously prosaic, as if no new word would ever come out of its ravine. It would never unearth my little brother or anything else ever again.   I called again, deep and loud, and like a miracle transmission I heard Cody faintly calling back just as loudly from somewhere off in the trees. His voice, when he yelled, sounded just like mine.

"Oh, fucking Christ, thank god", I sighed.

Moments later he'd walked through the trees. Bleach blonde hair and emerald rimmed owl eyes, smiling at the corners. Cody came to me for an instinctive hug. "I'm sorry Dust" he'd said.  He could hear the fear in my voice even at its highest threshold of volume.  

"Don't be sorry, don't be sorry," I replied as I hugged him tightly. Later, shrouded in twilight, I sat next to him at the fire. I tried to express how tangibly worried I was for him. I’d felt him extracted from my life in that moment, and how terrified that made me.

  I'd gone on longer, exhausting my point.  The mushrooms hadn't completely waned and the panic continued to play, but the cause for fear was so present it was like I had suddenly felt through the material of time. I’d somehow grasped the shape of that fucked up day that waited for me years ahead. I had no way of aligning that sort of rationale at the time, but in hindsight it’s the best way to explain the reality of that scare. It never felt like it was in my head.

  Cody listened, patient and contemplative with a lit cigarette. At some point he interjected, "Yeah, but Dust, I'm fine. Everything's okay. Everything was always okay the whole time. You were just worried over nothing".

He said this smiling, as though to model what emotion we should had both been feeling in that moment. He then leaned in and wrapped his arms around my shoulders and I took his two clasping hands with mine and closed my eyes. He saw the concern but not my fear, but I knew I had to concede in expressing my worry for him. I'd always have to learn when it was okay to get my point across and when to let life be life. I had to let go of control.

  I've always had problems with control because it eludes me. My life has always been out of my control. Not really caring to embrace my strengths and desiring my weaknesses has put huge cracks throughout my being. My self-hood is like broken up continents, and my goal is to form it all back into Pangea. I move something to the center and something else floats away. It's like I don't have room for the whole being I want to be. I fall in love, I become dependent. I find peace, I become boring. I get inspired, I become manic. I have fun, I lose my way.

  And I don't want balance. I see balance like a constant sacrifice. I want the choice to be all in, on one side or another, the good and the bad all at one time. I want the full glass now and no glass later.

  That is, I had my mind made up in this way until Cody passed. Once I lost him, these fragmented continents weren't just staid floating islands. Gravity suddenly shut off, and they lifted from their watery globe and suspended in disorientation. I'd seen all parts of myself lift from the anchor of my brother and carry out above me and into the atmosphere. Now there is no center to draw things back into, and there are some pieces leaving my weak gravitational field forever. I lay in bed afraid of this new upheaval, not knowing my feelings anymore, and watching them continue to go and go and go.

  They've been ripping away from me so consistently and slowly over this last 16 months that the pain has become ambience. My spirit has been tuned to the lowest universal frequency of heartbreak. The longest waves of sadness.

  But I keep it together. All of life is too short to let anyone else get tangled in this chaotic orbit of mine, and I think I've become just strong enough to keep it in during the day. Meanwhile this slow-moving shrapnel drifts along, finely opening new aspects of a heart I'd never known. There are things that feel possible in ways that surprise and sometimes shock me. There are days now where I get out of the shower and rub away the fog on the mirror and remember looking into the water. Now it isn't a question of who I am, but who am I becoming, and will any of this ever land again? Did the universe set my heart so it can heal in alignment or is my true nature lost in some ethereal flux?  

There's an animal body looking at me and the human has been knocked into a daze. The eyes in the coal mine sockets remind me of those prosaic hills, with the person behind the wheel having retreated inward to crippled shadowy memories. They don’t hold anything to the same beautiful standard any longer. It’s all become possible with nothing inside of myself to protect anymore. The gate has been left wide open and as I stare at my eyes I wonder if I'll ever really come back again.

[theyearoftheking]

Book Thirty-Eight: Rose Madder

The first time I picked this book up, I was fifteen, and on a family vacation in Mexico. I have no idea how I found this book; I don’t remember selecting it from a book store, and my moms is not a fan of Stephen King, or horror, so I doubt it was something she had purchased for herself. 

In all honesty, I remember bits and pieces of our trip to Mexico, but the most memorable part was reading Rose Madder. It imprinted on me in a way I can’t fully articulate. It remains my favorite Stephen King book because sometimes the scariest monsters are the ones we share a life with. 

The second reason Rose Madder is so memorable for me... when I was in third grade, I auditioned for Really Rosie, and tormented my sister by singing it constantly. To this day, I still remember ALL the words to Carole King’s lovely song. I can barely remember a grocery list, or my gas card pin... but I remember, “YOU’D BETTER BELIEVE ME, I’M A GREAT BIG DEAL!!!! BEEEEELIEEEEVE MEEEEE!” In one of life’s more disappointing moments, I was cast as Rosie’s pet cat and spent most of the play crawling around on my hands and knees. Humiliating. 

In addition to being a double shot of nostalgia, Rose Madder is also a finely crafted, suspenseful piece of writing. It’s also a book I thought I knew like the back of my hand. But upon re-reading, I picked up on the following King universe mentions:

The novel starts with Rosie reading Misery’s Journey, and a later reference to Misery’s Lover (Misery Chastain from, well, Misery).

Several Ka references!

“I’ve seen bodies on fire and heads by the hundreds poked onto poles along the streets of the City of Lud.” (Dark Tower)

“On the wall was a framed picture of two women Norman recognized. One was the late great Susan Day.” (Insomnia)

Some of these references would have been lost on me, had I not taken the Constant Reader pledge to read every single book in chronological order. It almost makes this entire project worth it, just to find those Easter eggs. 

Rose Madder is the story of abused wife Rose Daniels (nee McClendon) who finds a small spot of her blood on her bed sheets one morning, and decides she needs to leave her husband, Norman. She knows it’s now or never. If she stays, he will eventually kill her. As it is, he’s beaten her badly enough, and even caused a miscarriage in the past. 

So, Rosie steals Norman’s debit card, withdraws some cash, and hops on a Greyhound bus to Chicago, where she hopes to lose herself. But Rosie has no idea what to do when she gets off the bus in Chicago. Thankfully, a helpful Traveler’s Aid worker, Peter Slowik, steers her towards Daughters and Sisters, a home for battered women, run by his ex-wife, Anna Stevenson. 

At Daughters and Sisters, Rosie breaks down before building herself back up again. Her body starts to heal, she meets other women just like her, she gets a job working at a hotel, and she starts to shed some of the shame and guilt associated with being Norman’s punching bag. 

One day after work, Rosie wanders into a pawn shop to sell her wedding ring. After their engagement, Norman told her he could have either bought a new car, or her engagement ring... that’s how expensive it was. Spoiler: Rosie finds out it’s a cubic zirconia. She’s pissed. But on her way out of the shop, she finds an intriguing painting of a blonde-haired woman in a rose colored toga, looking out over a field and ruins. Rosie can’t explain it, but she needs the painting, named Rose Madder. She swaps out her worthless engagement ring for the painting, and makes the acquaintance of shop proprietor Bill Steiner. She also meets Rob Lefferts, who is fascinated by her throaty, Elizabeth Taylor-esque voice, and offers her a job reading audio books. 

Life is finding it’s rhythm for Rosie; she has her own apartment, she’s making more money than she could have ever expected, and she is casually dating Bill Steiner. But sometimes she looks at Rose Madder, and gets the feeling it’s alive. 

One night she has a vivid dream that involves her going into the painting, and helping the woman pictured by rescuing her baby from inside a labyrinth, and avoiding a bull stomping around. The woman is so thankful, she promises Rosie that she’ll return the favor some day. 

Spoiler: it wasn’t a dream. 

Meanwhile, Norman is stewing over the embarrassment of his wife leaving him and stealing his debit card. Honestly, he seems more embarrassed about the debit card than anything else. Because... toxic masculinity. Using some sneaky police tactics, he tracks her to Chicago, and tortures and kills Peter Slowik in an attempt to get information out of him. Slowik tells him about Daughters and Sisters, and Norman is on a mission to find Rose.

Daughters and Sisters just so happens to be having a fundraising picnic that weekend, and Norman thinks it’s the perfect time to get his Rambling Rose back. He goes deep under cover, shaving his head and outfitting a wheelchair with feminist propaganda. But despite his best attempts, he’s still recognized as, “Rose’s crazy biting husband who probably killed Peter Slowik.” And... the next scene is so epic... Norman gets the shit kicked out of him by Gert, one of the women from Daughters & Sisters who is compared to Refrigerator Perry. Oh, and as payback for the damage Norman did to Rosie’s kidneys with his repeated kicks and punches; Gert pees all over him. It’s glorious. 

Norman eludes capture, heads over to Daughter’s and Sisters main house, where he finds Rose’s new address, and kills Anna Stevenson. 

Now... this is where the Stephen King twist shows up. 

Rosie and Bill escape into Rose Madder, where they are pushed into the maze, and the woman turns into a spider (It?) and kills Norman... who had stolen a Ferdinand the Bull mask from some kid as he was fleeing the picnic, and inside Rose Madder, it turns him into an actual bull. But now he’s a dead bull, so that’s a plus.

Rosie and Bill step back out of the painting, and life continues on. Rosie slips a few drops of something into Bill’s drink, and he forgets the whole Rose Madder adventure. They get married, they have a baby, their careers flourish... but Rosie has fits of rage. She remembers the last thing the woman in the painting told her, “Remember the tree...” So, Rosie heads out to this park she and Bill went to once, and she buries some pomegranate-y fruit seeds and Norman’s ring under the tree. And she just kind of lets it all go. As you do. 

I can’t say enough about this book. If you have friends or family members who are like, “Meh, I don’t really LIKE Stephen King,” or “I don’t really LIKE horror,” THIS is the book you need to put in their hands. 

Oh, there was also one Wisconsin reference... it was thought Norman might have been spotted in Milwaukee. 

Total Wisconsin Mentions: 27

Total Dark Tower References: 38

Book Grade: A+

Rebecca’s Definitive Ranking of Stephen King Books

The Talisman: A+

Needful Things: A+

Rose Madder: A+

Misery: A+

Different Seasons: A+

It: A+

Four Past Midnight: A+

The Shining: A-

The Stand: A-

The Wastelands: A-

The Drawing of the Three: A-

Dolores Claiborne: A-

Nightmares in the Sky: B+

The Dark Half: B+

Skeleton Crew: B+

The Dead Zone: B+

Nightmares & Dreamscapes: B+

‘Salem’s Lot: B+

Carrie: B+

Creepshow: B+

Cycle of the Werewolf: B-

Danse Macabre: B-

The Running Man: C+

Thinner: C+

Dark Visions: C+

The Eyes of the Dragon: C+

The Long Walk: C+

The Gunslinger: C+

Pet Sematary: C+

Firestarter: C+

Rage: C

Insomnia: C-

Cujo: C-

Nightshift: C-

Gerald’s Game: D

Roadwork: D

Christine: D

The Tommyknockers: D-

Next up is The Green Mile, which I am reluctant to start. I read it when it first came out, and I remember barely being able to read the last chapter because I was crying so hard. And based on our current climate, I’m not sure this re-read is going to be any better. But, onward. 

Until next time, Long Days & Pleasant Nights,

Rebecca 

[the-ravens-requiem]

The Wolf

In the dark, the trees looked like fingers reaching upwards into an abyss glittering with countless unblinking eyes. The footsteps of a lone, weary traveler were swallowed by the snow -- all but silenced in the freezing air of deep winter.

Somewhere in the haze of consciousness between wolf and man, the traveler knew the sun would rise in a few hours time. The pain of his wounds propelled him ever forwards, limping through the chilly night. The trees loomed over him, shielding his furry body from the unforgiving wind. His large paws were matted with ice, and still he trudged ever onwards. Winding his form through the thicket of tall trees, feeling the eyes of the stars on him in the dark. The trees thin as time passes, and the moon remains high.

Soon, the wolf found himself upon a clearing -- a welcome sight after hours upon hours of seeing only the forest. He beholds a lake before him, stilled by winter's breath.

The wind howled over the glassy water, a silvery mirror which held the face of the full moon in all of her beautiful glory. He could see a light far off in the distance, through the trees.

The wolf picked his head up and sniffed the air, smelling the ash of a fireplace and burning oil on the wind. It's the warm, familiar scent of civilization to the man -- but the wolf paced anxiously by the waterside nevertheless.

It reminded him of the torch that he beheld this very night, and the slash of the dagger at his hide. The pain bubbles up again, spilling red onto the white powder beneath his form. The wolf’s black shadow stretched across the blank expanse of snow in front of him. It reaches for the new tree-line of the forest, but he does not move to meet it -- hesitating on the frozen water's edge.

The moon illuminated the night as the lone weary traveler fixed his wild gaze upon that warm glow in the distance. Something beckoned him towards it, despite his superstitions -- his pain-shaken legs urging him along. One great paw in front of the other, until he could make out the source of the light more clearly. The darkness of the quiet night seemed to lean over him, drawing closer. As if to clasp its claws around him and snuff the life out like the flame of a candle.

The wolf saw before him a strange little cottage made of stone and wood nestled between the trees. The terrifying fingers that reached and scratched towards the heavens are more akin to a loving cradle, here. A hand; A palm cupping the timber-framed home with such gentle care -- as if tamed and pacified by some unseen force of nature.

The traveler knew he should not get closer, but he found himself nearly half-way up the path before he was able to shake himself free of his reverie.

Could it be he had gone too far and arrived in the Feywilds of the far west already? Even so, he could not bring himself to care in the moment, his body feeling so heavy with sleepiness and pain. The throbbing in his side forced his normally graceful gait to turn into a shamble as the wolf made his way towards the front door of the cottage.

The traveler did not know what to think of his current situation -- only that the pain made it hard to stay conscious, and that he desperately needed to rest. The fire of his blood had been reduced to embers, and he had grown weary from his wounds. The biting chill of the air made his every movement feel like his very limbs were made of stone. He prayed to his god that whomever lived so deep in these cursed woods would not chase him off -- That perhaps they would simply leave him alone to rest and lick his wounds in the cold shadow of their home, and nothing more.

The traveler collapsed upon the covered stone steps, his lithe body slamming into the heavy wooden door. Whimpering, he curled up against himself and settled on the unforgiving stone. He resigned himself to a few hours of painful sleep shielded from the wind, and tried his best to relax.

Much to his surprise and dismay, there was a sudden clatter -- and the door opened! A blast of warm air with the ash and burning oil he had smelled on the wind assaulting his senses. The wolf yelped and scrambled away from the door in panic and fear as a dark entity loomed in the threshold, holding up an iron lantern from one of its gangling limbs.

It was a tall figure with a strange countenance -- its face like a bird but its body like that of a medium sized creature, shaped much like a human, orc, or elf -- perhaps even a tiefling, if one could see its legs beneath the heavy cloak it seemed to be wearing.

Looking at it through the wolf’s eyes, the traveler swore that the edges of its form were blurry. Perhaps it was only the delirium of pain — but still. The wolf stood in its shadow, which reached long past the stone stairs which lead into the cottage. Its presence felt off, somehow; As if looking into a dark void. Despite the contrary, the wolf felt the fear begin to melt away.

Its eyes glinted red in the low flame of its lantern, shining oddly as its head turned in what the man interpreted as curiosity.

"Are you hurt, friend?" It muttered, though the beak did not move. "Come inside. I can help you." It moved backwards into the doorway, the sound of the lantern's hinges creaking as the figure opened it to let more light shine out.

The lantern revealed the horrible bird-face of the creature to be, in fact, a mask of some kind -- though what purpose it served eluded the man. The wolf hesitantly entered the cottage at the behest of the beckoning hand of the masked figure. He shivered with pain and cold as he watched the figure light more candles around the home, revealing the place to be some sort of storage-house or shop. There were wooden crates and shelves filled with plant cuttings, as well as glass bottles and jars of various sizes and colors.

"If you will excuse me a moment, I must get my bag." The masked figure mumbled. "Wait there." It gestured to the western part of the house — which featured a blazing fireplace, as well as shelves and tables full of leather bound books. The wolf came upon a soft rug that spread from the middle of the room and stretched himself out on it, gently avoiding pressure on his left side.

The entity arrived soon after, bag in hand. It clucked its tongue in dismay as it looked upon his ragged form, no doubt able to see the terrible gash which caused the wolf such pain. "I see you're quite injured. Not to worry -- I will patch you up, good as new." The figure leans down, their impossibly tall frame looming over the form of the wolf. They seem to get down to their knees then, settling their large black bag beside them.

"You will have to forgive me, friend. I was not ready to receive company when I first heard you upon my steps. I apologize for leaving you in the cold as I...Gathered myself to be more...Presentable for company." The wolf feels a leather-clad hand caress down his side, narrowly avoiding the stain of red against his tawny fur. He flinches, but does not move to stand again. "What's more, I am sorry that this procedure to heal your wound will be slightly painful."

The wolf whimpers, but the man understands. If the cut is deep, it will need to be closed either through flame or thread. The bleeding has made him feel weak and emptier, as well as lighter in his head. The warmth of the room and the promise of safety in the kind entities' voice makes his body feel heavy, makes him feel like it's difficult to stay awake.

The traveler lifts his head to watch the figure with the mask dig around in their black bag, who then produces two small jars, a glass bottle, and a needle and thread. To show his compliance and resignation, the wolf lowers his head again, resting it upon the ever-so soft rug. A faint puff of air escapes between the sharp teeth.

The traveler fixes his eyes on the fireplace, lulled into calm by the flickering flames that lick up towards the stones above. He thinks of the reaching trees, and the silver mirror of the lake nearby. The quiet blanket of the snow as he trudged through the underbrush this very night.

The bird-masked caretaker begins their task, brushing away the wet and matted fur from the wound before pouring the contents of the glass bottle over it. The wolf yelps, but the caretaker runs a soothing hand over his haunch, waiting for him to relax before starting again.

The gloved hands are always kind, always soft -- always soothing. Gentle, slow. Practiced. There is never any hesitation or shaking of the fingers.

The traveler wasn't sure if it was some sort of magic or alchemy which numbed the pain, but the suturing process seemed over in no-time. He flopped over in relief as soon as the caretaker told him their work was finished.

"There we are, my friend. I hope that is better. You may rest here as long as you like. I will keep the fire going through the night." The caretaker gathers up their things and places them on a nearby table atop a stack of books. "Perhaps you are you hungry? I'm sure I have something suitable for you to eat somewhere around here..." The figure stands,, but stops in their tracks as soon as they see the wolf beginning to struggle to stand. "Oh --"

The beast struggles as he gathers himself up, stubbornly getting upright even as the caretaker holds their hands in a placating gesture and pleading quietly for them to stop. There is a brief moment of silence before a deafening crack fills the room. The wolf leans down on its front paws, bowing its head as his spine shutters -- the bones of his legs caving under the pressure.

The caretaker stills, hands falling to their sides. They watch wordlessly as the wolf shifts into a different form, struggling still even as their bones snap into different positions and their flesh stretches unnaturally.

A few moments later, a shivering man is where the wolf once lay -- groaning in effort and pain. The young man struggles to sit upright with the weight of the heavy fur cloak on his shoulders before he gently slides it off, letting it fall to the ground.

"...I-I'm sorry, witch. I have nothing to repay you for your kindness on this night." He wheezes, his young voice thick with an accent from the Eastern coast. He bats away a long strand of hair from his paint-stained face before briefly inspecting his side, running calloused fingers over the delicate stitching which closed his wound. There is a tear in the dark fabric of his tunic there, which makes the man sigh with a measure of disappointment.

The masked figure does not move, looking very much like a statue which has had the misfortune of being placed in the middle of a room. "Ahh, I see. You are a shifter. I thought I sensed Wild Magic, but I was not certain of its origin."

"I am." The man answers, struggling to his feet. "I could not risk changing with the wound open -- for fear of making it worse, you see. I also apologize for any trickery you may feel I have employed. I know I am not just a simple wolf that you have invited into your home. I will take my leave at once, should you so desire." His words are stilted, as if remembering the correct pronunciations and the order in which to form them. It is a recognizable mark of one unused to speaking Common.

"No, it's fine." The figure mumbles, "And I am no witch, traveler. I am an alchemist. You have no need to repay me for my services." They lean in, as if telling a secret. "I think it is a grievance to charge for one's natural talents, and especially as my treatment tonight was not entered into as a transaction."

"Forgive me, alchemist. I simply must do something to repay you -- You have been the first to treat me with such kindness in these strange lands. What can I offer you?"

The alchemists' head tilts to the side. "A gift? I would be careful of whom you offer gifts to, traveler. There are those who would consider it a debt, or worse -- a contract.” They pause for a moment. “I am familiar with such well-meant pleas however, but I would never offer a suggestion outright. That implies a transaction, as well. You are free to do as you like.. I have been given many things...Of all sorts -- from simple gold, objects with sentimental value -- to stories retold in excited whispers; All have been satisfactory."

"I -- " The man begins, his hands reaching for a pouch on his belt. "I don't have much, and I'm not sure if a mere story suits your kindness --"

"Why don't you tell me the reason you are so far from home, traveler? That is bound to be an interesting tale. I will bring tea and some food for you, and you may entertain me for a while before you rest for the night. I don't get many visitors here, you see.” The alchemist waits for a reply for a beat before adding: “I'll just be gone for a moment...?"

The man nods, pulling his hair away from his eyes once more, this time tying it into a thick braid. "Okay. ...A meal would most certainly be welcomed."

“Very good. I’ll be right back.” The masked figure exits the room quietly, leaving their visitor alone. The flame of the fireplace casts long, dark shadows on the walls -- strange shapes created from the stacks of books that fill the room.

The traveler wanders across the rug -- runs a curious finger over the spine of a few of the books set in a sturdy old-looking shelf nearby, peering closely at the ones which have titles etched into the leather. The books appear to be an eclectic mix of older tomes and newly-bound texts; Ranging in subject from scientific to magical -- spanning different languages, cultures, and studies from across The Known World.

"--Do you like to read, my friend?"

The traveler jumped in surprise at the sound of the muffled voice behind him, nearly knocking a large stack of books off of the table nearest to him. When he turned to meet the gaze of his host, he saw that they held a tray in their hands. Their odd silhouette looking a bit comical in such a natural, domestic posture.

Upon the tray was a glass cup made in a fancy style the traveler had never seen before, which held a steaming-hot serving of fragrant tea. Beside it, there was a simple wooden bowl full of some sort of stew. To accompany the simple meal was a piece of bread, torn straight from a loaf.

"That was very quick!" The traveler laughed in embarrassment, turning fully to greet his host. "...Sorry, I suppose I'm still on edge from my wounds. I was just admiring your collection of texts."

"Was it very quick?" The alchemist questioned, their head quirking to the side ever so slightly. There is a long pause before they mutter: "I confess, I… I had this still half-warm in a pot from my own dinner. Yes. The tea I've brewed doesn't take long to steep, either. I do apologize for frightening you -- I forget how soft my steps are, living alone as I do."

The traveler's mouth watered at the smell of the food, the anticipation of filling the yawning emptiness of his stomach was nearly too much to bear. "It's quite alright. I thank you for your kindness, stranger. And -- I confess that I don't read very much. Not for lack of skill, mind you -- But for lack of desire. Much of what I learn for my craft is either instinctual, or sacred; Stories and lessons which must only be passed from the mouth." He reached for the tray of food, which the alchemist gave to him freely.

"Is that so? Here, come sit with me, friend." The alchemist crosses the room and sits upon one of their reading chairs, and the traveler moves to sit beside him in the other.

Eagerly, the traveler dug into the stew, using the bread as a means to scoop it into his mouth. The taste was robust and savory, though he could not place the identity of any meat he consumed. There were a myriad of garden vegetables and mushrooms which comprised the bulk of the meal, and the thick gravy-like-broth was dark with flavor. The tea was equally palatable, a sort of sweet-spice blend that made his tongue tingle with warmth.

The traveler talked while he ate. "Yes, ser. I am an apprentice to the shaman of my village. It is also the reason why I've traveled out of my homeland." He pauses briefly to sip on the tea, then continues: "I'm looking for something, which has become increasingly difficult to obtain due to the war."

"The war...With the Southern Kingdom?" The masked figure asked, settling their hands upon their lap politely. "I confess I do not stay up to date with the politics of The Known World as much as I should. I do know their king is fond of making up stories so that they may greedily expand into your territory. His talk of your people as 'savage folk' certainly sits unwell with me, I can tell you that much."

"Yes, the very same. When they come to battle, they raze whole towns -- including our lands around them. They seek to destroy us completely, not just conquer us. As a result, there is a sacred plant that I'm searching for, but have been unable to find. The only lead I have is to find a botanist in the northwestern islands who may have the means to secure a few, so that I may bring them back to my people for safe keeping. It’s only a rumor, however. But I must return successful for the sake of my people."

"Oh, my friend." The alchemist lifts their hands briefly as if to touch the young man’s shoulder, but thinks better of the motion and placed them back in their own lap. "...I don't think you will be permitted to visit the island -- not even mainland elves are welcome there. Their cousins are a secretive folk, and for good reason." The red lenses of the mask glint in the firelight as their head shakes in a sorrowful gesture.

The traveler visibly deflates, his face the picture of defeat. "...Is that so?"

"At the turn of the age, there was much fear for magic and magic users. So much so that it was all but stamped out in most territories, save for a few customs and traditions -- and of course practitioners like me, who fear no law -- unspoken or otherwise. I hear the elves there still practice some form of it, though I can't be certain."

The traveler is quiet for a few moments, the only sound in the room is the flickering of the fireplace and his thoughtful chewing. "Well...The Folks of the East still practice magic, as it is part of many of our religions. We are not bound to your laws and rulers, being an independent collection of territories ourselves -- as I'm sure you know. Perhaps the elves of the north are the same?"

"Perhaps. But there are treaties, of course. Ratified under a sort of political union which keeps most of the people in power in check. I do respect the Eastern Folks for abstaining for all this time, though I confess I worry if it is foolish to remain independent of the union during this time in which the king of the South has decided he can push into your lands because you are not beholden to any treaty."

The traveler leans back in the chair. "The issue is that the Eastern Folk are a sum of a whole, alchemist. We respect each other's territory and cultures just fine, councils or no. But make no mistake -- no two Clans are the same, and that is fine by us. We would not agree to something that all of the people do not. There are those who resist joining the rest of The Known World in their politics for fear of what that may mean for our own individual peace."

"As I said, I greatly respect the abstinence." The bird-masked caretaker nodded. "For precisely those reasons."

The traveler sets his tray on a table between the chairs, stacking it gently on top of a pile of books. "I do thank you for the meal, alchemist. It was very delicious."

"I'm happy that you found it satisfactory.” A quick pause, barely enough space for a breath before they continue: “I'm terribly sorry for pressing, but what will you do if you cannot gain passage to the island in the north? I’d hate to think you would go all that way and return defeated."

"Oh, I simply must! Even if it takes a morally unsound decision or two. I cannot go home empty-handed."

The dark figure beside the traveler is quiet for a few moments upon hearing this. Though they sense no animosity, the traveler squirms a bit with nervousness.

"The folly of youth -- nay, of naivety or pride -- is to not make another plan when faced with even the notion of failure." The alchemist responded. "Traveler, tell me what it is exactly that you seek. Perhaps I know of a better way."

"Well..." The traveler reaches into his pouch and pulls out a piece of parchment paper. Upon it is scrawled a crude drawing of a flower made in charcoal, which has smudged some. "This is what it looks like. It is adorned with blue petals, and whose roots have properties that we use in our rituals. I can't really discuss those further, as they are sacred and secret -- but I will tell you their specific use if it helps."

"Please do."

The traveler nods. "The whole plant is extremely poisonous, but the roots can be prepared into something useful if measured properly and carefully. It is used by our shamans, witches, and other religious leaders to see holy visions and commune with our God.”

The traveler continues after a brief pause: “Furthermore, it slows the effects of what you called Wild Magic earlier -- blocking the negative effects permanently. It is used in the initiation process for our religious leaders, so they may control their magic more effectively in the service of our God. I need to complete this process, myself; As a shifter, it is very difficult to move back and forth between my chosen spirit and myself. Those with weak constitutions have suffered madness as a result of it, and the wildness of the blood -- but I fear no such thing. My chosen spirit and I are very close."

"Your chosen spirit?"

The young man moves to retrieve his fur cloak on the floor. "It is believed by my people that I don't have the power to turn into just any wolf, but I turn into this wolf, specifically." He runs a reverent hand over the cloak. "The shift is asking for permission to settle into its old body, and their spirit possesses mine, until we move as one. I am him, and he is me -- but we are also separate. As with all magic, one does not create from nothing -- but rather from something which has existed before. A flame which you have seen burning, a healing which your flesh remembers, a sound which you have already heard. Things that are unseen or different from here come instead from dreams, which we believe to be a separate realm of existence."

"I see. That is a wonderful way of looking at the nature of magic, my friend." The alchemist stands. "...Furthermore, I think I know what flower you speak of. If you'll excuse me, I must check my notes and stores. I'll just be a moment." The figure leaves once more, though is quick to return.

The traveler stands in the middle of the book-filled room, looking the very definition of excitement and nervous anticipation. He clutches his cloak to himself, awaiting the alchemist's word.

Soon, the silhouette of the alchemist looms in the archway, filling the space with their dark form. “Is this the plant you seek?” They hold out a clay pot with a large blue flower planted in the soil. “I had a specimen in my greenhouse. I use the properties you spoke of for medicine — specifically to stop immense pain or to put someone to sleep for a long while for surgeries. It is very difficult to purchase reliably, so I began growing it myself a long time ago.”

The traveler’s face lit up with happiness and recognition. “Yes! That’s it!”

“Wonderful. Then I am able to supply you with a few seeds to take back to your people, as well. There is no need for such an arduous journey to the northern islands, and you may return to your home victorious."

The young man's voice cracks with joy. "Truly, ser? Thank you!" He runs over to the alchemist and throws his arms around them. "I could never hope to repay you -- You have my eternal gratitude! What's more -- you have my people's eternal thanks as well." The alchemist is stone-still, their arms never leaving their sides. They politely accept the embrace in silence. The traveler steps back, a bit red-faced and embarrassed with his own display of emotion. "Ah, apologies, ser."

"Thank you. There is no need for such apologies or pledges of gratitude, however. I simply do what I can, if I have the means. How very fortunate that you stumbled upon my shop tonight, hmm?" The muffle of the mask does not hide the obvious happiness in the alchemist's voice.

"Yes, very fortunate! I'm indeed blessed, so much that...I can hardly believe it..."

"Fortune shines upon us when we least expect it, I think. Urging the weary ever forward. In any case: We'll get it all settled in the morning, traveler. For now -- you need to rest. The night grows old, I fear. I will fetch a comfortable quilt so you may sleep near the fireplace and warm your bones, and when you awaken I will have everything prepared for you. I'll even throw in some breakfast for the road."

"I truly cannot repay your kindness, alchemist. I'm at a loss for words."

"If there are no words," The figure mumbles, clasping a friendly hand upon the shoulder of their guest, "Then one must act. And for you, there is only your journey ahead. I only ask that you try to show others this same kindness wherever you go, whenever you have the means to do so. The world will become a much nicer place because of it."

"I will, ser. I promise."

“Then I bind you to your promise, traveler.”

In the morning, the Doctor packed some rations along with the pouch of seeds and a small covered clay pot with the blue flower planted inside. It was secured tightly with rope, and came with a small piece of paper which had instructions for the care of the plant written upon it.

The traveler bade them farewell with much happiness and excitement, and the Doctor watched them trek off into the snow until they were past the tree-line of the forests of Darkwood.

--------------- masterlist | ko-fi If you liked this, please consider reblogging it. It helps spread it around so that others may read it and enjoy, too!

[yoonseoksoftie]

bonnie and clyde(s) | pt. i

› pairing: min yoongi x original character x jung hoseok › 2.1k words. › criminal!sope › two petty thieves and a bartender in the search for revenge and money find something much more valuable with each other. › parts: i | ii

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You cry in desperation.

Your heart is pounding against your rib cage, threatening to leap out of your chest. The sound of blood rushing to your head thumps loudly in your ears, muffling the world around you. There’s an excruciating pain in your head, as if a thousand needles are prickling it at the same time. Perspiration sticks to the perimeter of your face, a small droplet of sweat hangs from the tip of your nose. You wipe at it and see red. Fuck. The back of your hand is smeared with blood, the sight of it is so nauseating it rips a sob from your throat.

There is blood everywhere and it is slowly becoming all you can see. Your white fitted dress pants are morphing into a dark crimson color as blood continues to leak out of your partners wound. Everything is coming back to you now, like a role of film flashing in the back of your mind; the money, the motel, the cops, the gunshots, the blood.

The three of you were supposed to have more time, more time to plan, more time to enjoy your victory, more time to…simply more time. You’d skipped three towns and there was no way the police could’ve known about your whereabouts unless…no, that couldn’t be. He was dead and didn’t matter anymore. The probability of you being completely safe was slim to none, but still, it was your only chance, it was do or die.

“H—how bad is it?” You hear your partner ask in a broken breath. He is sitting down on a wooden crate, back pressed against a wire fence. His perfectly tailored suit a wrinkled mess, his tie is undone and his shirt is untucked and soaked in blood. You gently push your hand against his temple, mindful of your bloody hands, forcing his head back to prevent him from looking at his wounded thigh.

“You’ll be fine, you’ve had worse, don’t worry,” You babble, tenderly cupping his cheek in your left hand while keeping the pressure on his injury. “He’ll be here soon and we’ll get you help and you’ll be fine,” You say, like a charlatan, spewing lies left and right for your own benefit.

Without the proper treatment, his wound can get infected or he can simply bleed out and die. There are too many scenarios that result in Yoongi’s death given your circumstances. At night, when sleep eludes you, you allow your mind to wonder. Who will be the first one to walk away, who will be the first one to talk, who will be the first one to bite the dust? When you visualize the way you’ll meet your maker you always imagine it will be through a selfless act or old age, you can never make up your mind.

But never like this.

You just needed more time.

Yoongi’s pale face is looking disturbingly sallow against your swarthy complexion, eyelids fluttering as they fight to stay open, and you feel the hot liquid slide down your thighs. You can make out the faint network of blue and red veins underneath his transparent dark circles. He isn’t looking too good. You lick your dry lips and search for something to say, something to keep him engaged.

“I hear Spain is really nice this time of year,” You murmur softly, hoping to draw his attention away from the small puddle of blood forming on his left side.

He needs help before he bleeds to death— no, he wasn’t going to die hiding away in some dirty fucking alleyway filled with trash and filth, not on your watch.

“Yeah?” he mumbles quietly, the single word is faint, less than a whisper. You keep applying pressure to his thigh, the amount of red liquid leaking from his wound is less and less with every passing second but you have no idea if that is a good or bad thing. Before parting ways, Hoseok told you that as long as he didn’t lose more than three pints of blood he would be fine. That would have been solid advice if you knew how much a fucking pint was, fuck.

“Oh yes,” You continue. “Perfect weather for swimsuits, mojitos, and poker matches. You’d like that wouldn’t you?” Yoongi’s lashes flutter slowly, he looks the way he usually did when he was trying to stay awake late at night to finish watching whatever late night rom-com you were into, except on this occasion his nodding off didn’t make you want to cuddle him. You take his face in both hands, giving his left cheek a couple of faint slaps.

“Hey! Hey!” You exclaim lightly. “Keep your eyes open and look at me Min. I’m gonna need you to put pressure on your wound for me.”

Despite his ill state, the bleeding man in front of you did as he was told, long thin fingers moving to his thigh, pressing down on the injury. You remove your white suit jacket and shiver as the wind brushes against your bare skin, the thin lingerie one-piece you are wearing does little to shield you from the unfriendly breeze.

You extend the material in front of you, “I’m going to wrap this around your wound—“

“I want you and Hoseok to take the money and leave,” The words leaving the dying man’s mouth making you halt your actions, hesitantly you turn to him, his tone unsettling you. “You leave and never come back here, do you understand me?”

Your distress morphs into anger, rage quickening your blood. Neck and face heating up at what he is trying to indirectly convey. Snapping out of it you shake your head, choosing to not respond in fear of divulging your true feelings. Your emotions aren’t appropriate given the situation and your line of work. There is no room for sentiment when his life is on the line and the police are looking for the three of you. You signal at him to remove his hands and furiously fasten the jacket around his wound in a tight knot, ignoring his pained wince.

Once your jacket is wrapped around his injury, you place your hands on your lap and eye your handy work. Anger is still boiling hot within you at his audacity. What type of woman does he think you are? What type of man does he think Hoseok is? Granted, you hadn’t met in the nicest of places and you didn’t know about Hoseok’s feelings towards the two of you but you knew you all shared a rock-steady loyalty. Moreover, it is trust that allows the three of you to share a bed without harming each other, it is the type of fidelity that only people who have lived their entire life in the gutter can bother to have.

It has to count for something, right?

Although the sound of cars and pedestrians passing by can be heard, both of you sit in complete silence. Neither of you uttering a word. The prolonged silence eats at your brain, nick picking every part of it until you are aware of your every limb and breath you take. The silence is tiring and your mind races, thinking of ways to fill the void between the two of you. Too many unspoken words are housed inside the shared silence, begging for release but being held back in apprehension. Yoongi places his large hand on yours, unwrapping your fingers and interlacing them with his. A low gasp escapes your throat at his action, your hand tingles. You feel like a school girl holding hands with her crush for the first time, utterly pathetic. The rough callouses of his palm caress yours, subconsciously, you wonder if Hoseok’s hand will fit just as flawlessly, you really hope it does. Fuck it. Throwing your pride out the window, you open your mouth to speak but a ruckus of hurried steps interrupts you.

You quickly reach for the back of your pants to retrieve your gun. You adjust your position and crouch, angling backward in an attempt to catch a look at whatever idiot decided to cross your path. You curse at yourself internally, both of you are about to be found out and it is all going to be your fault. This was the exact reason why you never allow yourself the freedom of fantasizing about the three of you in a romantic sense. Besides, what kind of person fell in love with two people at the same time? You were being a brat. Giving into your selfish desires will only interfere with your survival and endanger not only your life but Yoongi’s and Hoseok’s even more, you couldn’t do that them, they needed you sharp and ready.

You needed to get it together.

The piece of metal felt heavy in your hand, your grip was tight and steady. You’d fired a gun before but its weight always unnerved you. The device in your hand could malfunction at any moment, it was a man-made machine after all. A damaged cartridge, a dud round, a corroded chamber could all come in between you living another day. Furthermore, such machines invoked sheltered violence inside men’s hearts; instigating them to push their earthly power. You’ve seen men play God thanks to the piece of metal you now possess between your fingers and it pains you to know that you are playing a hand in the same game.

Your internal turmoil must be apparent in your face because Yoongi gives your hand a gentle squeeze. You turn to face him and your eyes meet. He doesn’t speak but you understand the look in his eyes. Both of you’ve had a good run and if this is your last shared moment, you’d go together. You offer him a nod, projecting all your emotions into your eyes, hoping he can see.

You just needed more time.

A contorted shadow came into view, becoming more prominent as it nears the corner. Releasing a heavy sigh, you cock your gun, a few more steps and it will reach you. The steps become louder, you see the outline of a man as he steps out of the darkness, you aim, one, two—

“Whoah there, princess!” in front of you stands all five foot ten of a clearly suicidal man, arms stretched out in front of him in an inoffensive motion.

“For fuck’s sake, Hoseok!” You swear. Is he out of his mind? “I could’ve shot—” your words die in your throat when you see his features dull with something you’ve never seen in his face before.

Fear.

Running towards the two of you, he kneels at Yoongi’s side, eyeing his wound.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, releasing a rough breath. You feel your guts twist as you witness Hoseok’s eyes darken with something between anger and remorse.

“Fuck,” he croaks. If you weren’t seeing him with your own eyes, you would think he was the one who’d gotten shot.

You’ve never heard him speak in that manner, the otherwise confident and arrogant man was no longer present. The vulnerability and tremor in his voice made you want to hit something, you retreat your gaze from the two men adjacent to you, unable to look at them any further.

“Enough,” Yoongi commands gruffly. Shot or not he was still the oldest and it was his job to make sure the both of you are thinking straight. You and Hoseok look at him, giving him your undivided attention, ready to move at his command. “Get me the fuck up from here, I ain’t dying yet, understood?”

As if drenched in cold water, you both spring into action. You hook Yoongi’s arm over your shoulder and wrap your other arm around his waist from one side as Hoseok does the same on the opposite side, hoisting him up.

“The car isn’t far from here,” Hoseok informs. “I managed to lose them right before entering the highway so we’ll have enough time to get you somewhere safe.”

The injured man simply nods, the last few sentences draining his remaining energy. You have so much to say to him, to them, so many things you want them to know. While you carry Yoongi to the car you come to the conclusion that whatever it is that the three of you share is too meaningful to lose, you’ve lost many things in your life but this isn’t going to be one of them.

The youngest of the bunch seems to be feeling the same way. His face is set with determination and you know that look. You’ve seen it in the faces of the men that play at your table, waiting for you to deliver the card that will complete their flush. His emotions are written all over his face. His squared jaw, drawn brows, and tight lips foreshadow danger. It is the look of an apex predator whose territory has been tampered with and is out for revenge.

“You’re going to be fine hyung,” he says firmly, “I swear it.”

next

[365daysofsasuhina]

[ 365 Days of SasuHina || Day One Hundred Forty-Two: Green ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata, Suigin Ryū ] [ SasuHina ] [ Verse: River Runs Deep ] [ AO3 Link ]

In all his years - though, admittedly, he knows many with more under their belt - he’s never seen a place of such green.

True, the season of Spring is a time of renewal, rebirth...the plains grow lush with grass, the trees with new leaves, the flowers with new buds. But there’s something about this mountain valley that exceeds anything he’s ever come across.

Of course...now he knows that this place is home to gods.

All of this in search of a white stag as ordained by his lord. What is a samurai to do but follow orders? For weeks he’s tracked the creature, all to be led to this strange, ethereal place. And now, he claims the company of a kodama: the spirit of a tree. A lone wisteria of unparalleled beauty. She told him to call her Hinata, and now tells him that - to claim his prize - he must speak to other gods to gain their favor before making a kill within their vale.

In all honesty...he’s not sure such a task is worth his lord’s approval.

They leave the head of the valley behind, descending into the deep green of the forest. At first, he believes they follow a game trail...but every so often, gravel crunches beneath his sandals.

...a road…?

As though sensing his confusion, Hinata - walking at his front, arms tucked into her kimono sleeves - offers an explanation. “Many years ago, humans lived in this valley. A small number - one hundred, at best. Here they built a small village, and a shrine to we kami. Isolated and peaceful, they quickly gained the valley’s favor. For many years, they lived in peace and health.

“...but such a peace could not last forever.”

Watching the rear of her head as she speaks, Sasuke glances aside as she pauses, an arm extending to point. For a moment, he sees nothing...but then, there, amongst the foliage…

Old foundations. Charred, broken, reclaimed by ivy and moss. Before he can stop it, a chill runs up his spine.

Hinata’s own gaze spares to the sight, a great sorrow in her gaze. “...a warring clan seeking a path through the mountains descended into the valley. They discovered the village, where no man nor woman could wield a blade. They had grown complacent in their peace...and it cost them.”

“...did you not protect them?”

“When a human fights a human, it is their conflict, and theirs alone. We gods and spirits cannot intervene on a whim. It is not our place...not unless a balance is threatened.

“...of course…”

Another pause, and Sasuke looks back to her. For a moment, they pause in their trek.

“Not all of the gods saw it this way. One rose to quell the fighting, but...she was ignored. The bloodlust of the invaders was too great. They sought only to take. They would not be refused...so the god of the river rose her waters, and flooded the vale.”

Again she points, this time the southern tip of the valley. “...there lies a gap in the peaks that tumbles to the plains and forests below. It was there she swept them, over her falls and out of the valley. She had loved the humans dearly - granted them bountiful fish, clear fresh water, good health...and all of them were taken by steel and by flame…

“Her currents put out the fires, and washed away the village ruins. None of our people remained. All were swept aside, clearing the slate. And never again has a human returned here. None...until you.”

The goddess turns her gaze to Sasuke, and he can’t help but feel small. “...and here I am, seeking again to spill blood…”

She considers him for a long moment. “...you have a purpose. And it is not your will, but the will of your ruler. This, I hope, the others will see.”

“What others?”

“There are many gods within this valley. It is…a respite. The plentiful plants and animals, the clean air, the unspoiled waters...these are places gods love best. And here, they are bountiful. Untouched. Which is why...I fear you will be rejected. Not because of your request...but because of the threat you bring.”

Dark brows furrow. “...threat…?”

“You have found this place. More may come. We cannot know if you will lead them here -”

“Of course not!”

Glancing to his swift rebuke, Hinata considers him. “...I know. I saw into your heart when you slept among my roots. You are a good man, Uchiha Sasuke. But of this you must convince the others.”

“...and if I don’t?”

She doesn’t answer.

Gods can’t lie.

But her silence is telling enough.

If he presents a threat to a place such a this - such a utopia - he’ll likely be killed to ensure its peace.

On they continue along the green-hued path, sunlight dyed emerald as it passes through the countless camphor leaves. For a time there’s no sounds but their footsteps. But then, as they approach a worn, weathered bridge...Sasuke hears the rumbling of a river.

The river that swept away the ruins of the humans that laid claim here before.

Stopping a ways from the bank, Hinata bows. “Suigin-sama...may I speak with you?”

For a time, there’s no reply but the gurgle of the water over stones.

But then, rising from the rapids, comes a woman.

Every hair is as colorless as the white foam where the water churns, eyes a stunning silver, split by slit pupils. From the wild waves of her locks emerge twin antler-like horns of moonstone. As she seems to emerge from the water itself, a flowing kimono of white, silver, and iridescent blue shimmers in the dappling light between the branches overhead.

So...this is the spirit of the river. A mizuchi: a dragon of water.

At first, she gazes upon Hinata with a soft expression, a gentle smile upon her face. “It has been long since we spoke,” she intones. “You rest far from my falls and streams.”

“I do.”

Quicksilvers then shift to Sasuke...and the gentle goddess gains an edge. Her gaze seems to sharpen, cutting through him like a blade. A grunt escapes him at the force as she peers right through him. Behind her, the river boils and lashes with her subtle temper.

“Suigin-sama...this man wishes to hunt in our vale. A white stag, for his master.”

“...how typical of a human to take,” is her hissed reply, hot like a geyser.

Stepping up beside the river spirit, Hinata gently lays a hand atop her arm. Eyes snap to the touch.

“...have you forgotten those who came first, Suigin-sama? Has your love for them been lost to the tides of time?”

Still staring at the wisteria’s hand, the river then slowly calms. Eyelids slide closed. “...I have not forgotten,” she whispers.

“This man slept beneath my boughs. I have seen his heart, and I know you see it too. There is no ill will within it. Simply one doing his duty. Please…”

Face lifting, the goddess opens her eyes, watching Sasuke flinch. But this time, there’s a somber reminiscence in her gaze. “...I cannot condone the slaying of the white stag. It is not mine to give.”

The samurai’s shoulders wilt.

“...however…” A hand lifts, gesturing. Not fifty paces from them is the herd. “...if you can fell another...I may have solution.”

Giving the goddesses a glance, Sasuke sinks with practiced ease to a knee. Nocking an arrow, he considers the deer. A doe stands broadside from him, sleek and fat. He can make use of all of her, not just her pelt.

Aware of their watching, he draws the bowstring taut, aims...and releases.

With a whistle, the bolt flies, and hits its mark. She gives a bleat, startling the herd before falling.

“...finish your task.”

Already drawing the knife at his side, Sasuke crosses the distance. With a precise slice, he ends her suffering before removing his arrow.

“...you are a marksman of great skill, Uchiha Sasuke.”

Realizing he has yet to give his name to her, he gives an unreadable glance to the river before taking up the carcass atop his shoulders.

“...give her to me.”

After a moment’s hesitation, aware of the blood, he does as asked.

Taking the doe in her arms, the river retreats back into her banks. In she sinks to her waist before letting the trophy rest in the water within her grip. It tinges red, carried downstream.

And yet, as Sasuke watches...other colors then follow. Alight with surprise, his gaze snaps back to the doe. Like a dyed swatch of cloth, the tones of her fur drain into the river, swept away until all that remains is a pure white pelt.

“...how…?”

“What kind of god would I be if such a task eluded me?” To his surprise, a hint of a wry grin draws the goddess’ lips. Along the bank she rests the doe. “Your master will be unable to find any trace of trickery. The white tone will remain no matter its use or age.”

“I…” Realizing the gift he’s been given, Sasuke awkwardly shifts to his knees, bowing fully. “...thank you, o-kami-sama.”

A small glitter of amusement lights the god’s eyes. “...this gift comes at a price.”

“Anything.”

“...you must vow never to return.”

His head raises.

“This place...it cannot accept a human’s touch. It was reclaimed for gods and spirits long ago. While I can see no deceit in your heart...the humans you know cannot be trusted on such a whim. When you go...the path will be sealed.”

“But -”

A hand raises, begging his silence. “...it is for our safety. And yours. This is no place for humans. No longer.”

“Must he be so barred…?” Hinata asks softly.

Suigin gives her a glance. “...I know you also miss the humans of the vale. Perhaps...you are soft for this one. But Hinata…”

A delicate shade of pink alights the goddess’ cheeks, head bowing.

“...it is for the best.”

A nod. “...come, Uchiha-san. I will guide you back to the path into the valley. You may clean your prize there. Then...you must go.”

Sitting on his haunches, he takes a moment to think before acquiescing. One last time, he thanks the river spirit...then follows the kodama back to the head of the vale.

He makes quick work of his kill, packing away all he can use. He’s used to carrying such burdens. Once it’s done, the day aging, he shoulders the pack and looks to the wisteria goddess.

Sorrow darkens her eyes.

“...I should go.”

“Wait.”

Stepping up before him, she holds out cupped hands. At her urging, he does the same. Into the bowl of his palms and fingers drops...a seed.

“...should you ever find a place to call your own - a place you will always return to, wanderer - plant this there. Let it...remind you of me.”

Staring at the disc-shaped vessel, Sasuke then looks up. “...I will.”

“...go, then, in good fortune. Do not look back.”

A nod, and then a slow turn to the pass. Heavy feet take him back up to the gap in the peaks before beginning to descend to the lower plains below.

Behind him, he hears a shift of rock and earth.

When he finally dares to turn around, the pass is no more: a wall of stone, no different than the rest of the range.

Dark eyes flicker across it before shifting to his closed fist, within which rests the seed.

...I will see you again...

     I've been wanting to add more to day one hundred thirteen for AGES, so...I finally took a chance to do so xD      Sasuke's been dealing with a lot of gods in this series lately, lol - tho Suigin has been in both kami-based verses. Maybe a little iffy having a non-canon charrie in here, but...the focus IS still Sasuke and Hinata. Sasuke needed his white pelt, so...here she is to help make that happen without getting him killed, lol      And there might be more to that seed than meets the eye :3c I'll just have to continue this for one more part whenever a prompt allows...teehee~      But this is all I've got for tonight! Thanks so much for reading~

[ivyveil]

Mary Me

the one where he proposes

OR:

The 1940s installment of a Soul-Mates verse.

The room was swathed in a deep maroon. Curtains draped against the windows, curves forming around the sills and down the gold columns on either side.

It was a nice restaurant, with expensive-looking candles and fresh-cut flowers on each table. The bar wasn’t fully stocked enough for the crowds milling about, having yet to find its balance of supply since Prohibition ended a few months ago. It was a rough adjustment for everyone, with the prices taking a jolt and the people having to remember what a drink tasted like without poison.

While the idea of a fancy restaurant would allude towards privacy, this dinner was anything but. Granted, it was a personal room but the numerous crowds of friends and family around the table led the mood towards something more lively than dim lights and slow jazz. Tables were pushed against the walls, only a handful actually sitting down, and the band had taken its land near one of the corners, setting up an orchestra to dance for.

It was a gathering, a party.

Nerves were knotted against the floor of your stomach, and despite having a glass of champagne in one hand and hooch in the other, nothing was easing the clench. Perhaps it was residue from hardships that had only ended a few years ago, or it could be the more instinctive nerves - holding alcohol without needing to look over one’s shoulder was still new for everyone. Even now, you saw Nick stealing a glance at the waitstaff, as if sussing out which was the cop.

“‘lright, love?” Harry spoke low, his hand briefly resting against your back as he came around from behind. It wasn’t far into the party, enough time having passed for his entrance to be marked by everyone already feeling tipsy, but not raising an eyebrow at his late arrival.

His suit was understated, a black with minimal design. His mother would tailor all of his suits, resulting in most of them being the absolute extravagant pieces for all the parties he threw - the magnificent ones where the moon grew twice to try and be an inch closer, where the ocean glittered around his villa and you could strain to taste the rose-colored smoke in the air. They were alive with people and spirits and spirited people, and the types who would disappear in the morning and you’d question their existence, but never their stories.

His suit was fine, but his hair was a proper mess. Harry had insisted to you a few days ago, a dopey smile on his face as he leaned against your shoulder, that it was a rebel of the highest degree.  You knew the words were bullshit, but the way he spoke sounded like a home you’d never known, so you listened.

“You need a haircut.” The words came out before you could properly hold them back, the liquor having moistened your throat and disconnected your mind from your choices.

Harry broke into a smile, this time shaking his head slightly so the curls danced, delighted, in the dim glow.

“You like it?” he asked, and you made a sour face in response. He took one of the drinks from your hands, making the low noise in the back of his throat to signal disapproval. Where Harry managed to gather his rebellious streak of societal indignity, but still manage to believe that women should be held up on pedestals and protected, eluded you.

But you were still dizzy with him. Drunk in the way he said your name, caught up in his eyelashes, a fatal swoop in your chest that felt like laying in bed after a long day’s work. You were simply infatuated, but insistent on the fact that the feelings drifted no farther. Infatuation could be controlled, but love.

Love would be an entire beast that you couldn’t battle. It would include leaving him, leaving him because Mary was cemented down in his roots. Not that you’d agree with it, but she was, and it was a reality you lived with.

They’d been sweet on each other for the first couple months. You hadn’t kept up on the details too much. But time had worn their feelings thin, wafering holes poking through in the way they loved. Which was a wrong, horrendous source of comfort to you - but it terrified you, as well. Harry was the embodiment of love, with how he danced and moved and swayed into the moonlight, and yet there was something off in the way he loved Mary. It felt like a commitment for the sake of, rather than motivated each day, and the failures of love haunted you.

“Where’s Mary?”

Harry shrugged, taking a swig of the drink and looking against the crowd. The two of you were propped against the wall, as if only existing in the plane of the party by the physical constraints. If you had your way, your souls would fall through the wallpaper and into something more exquisite.

Harry had a way of making the dullest parties exciting, and you wondered what he had up his sleeve. But his face showed no signs of telling, a crease along his forehead denting in his sudden gloom and moodiness.

“Dunno. Was gonna find her, thought she’d be with yeh.”

That was his mistake, his constant mistake, of seeking his love around you. It was there but not where he expected - it was manifestation he sought, the woman he called ‘darling’ on late nights out, not the friend he called ‘love’ because it meant nothing.

Words didn’t quite fit your mood, so you merely shrugged and shifted your weight between legs. The music had picked up but your feet had been worn to the bone by running all over town the previous night, so you prayed Harry’s stance next to you would dissuade any men from approaching.

“Think I’ve got to end things with Mary, yeah?”

It was a loaded question, especially with Harry’s eyes staring into yours. It was a rush, how the lights cascaded down the side of his face and his hair was a horrible mess, an unsightly vision for anyone in town, but he was utterly angelic nonetheless. It was a weird sensation against your throat, seeing him tragic and sad, and not knowing how to respond that wouldn’t be an attempt to benefit your own tragic and sad.

“Why’d you say that?” you asked.

“It was never right, was it?” He spoke thoughtfully, scanning your face for agreement, and apparently finding some, for he continued. “It’s reached an end.”

Silence befell the two of you, yet it was heavy with the implication of further words against his tongue. They weren’t spoken yet, but you felt with one more moment-

“I’ve got somethin’ I need to say to yeh. After it’s done.” His eyes had swept to his feet, the dirty tips of his shoes from the soil around the town.

You both were misplaced, you felt it in your soul and the way you two would wrap in each other’s auras, clasped at the hands and promising you’d escape this hellhole of a town one day. And it only was proven in how Harry’s eyebrows sloped together, a defiance in the order of things prominent in his pursed lips.

“Okay,” you drawled it out, but Harry didn’t seem to find anything humorous. With a tilted neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing and drawing your eyes in like flies to honey, he downed the rest of your champagne.

“See her over there,” he mumbled, slipping back into the throngs of the party. He was still incredibly visible, a mess of hair and clunky shoes passing through the sea towards his girl. She was sat, pretty and prim, but you could tell she felt only half. Mary had an odd sense about her, a jealousy towards you for sure, but a feeling around her sphere of influence that she wasn’t full unless Harry was there. Half-dazed without, only focused on him with, there was seemingly no win.

The pair of them slipped out into the night together, with your eyes trailing behind. Mary was oblivious as to how the conversation would go, and for that, you were conflicted.

It must have made you an awful person, how the nerves crashed against giddiness. The drinks may have kicked into effect, because before you knew it - you were swaying and dancing against the moonlight, around the tables with the rest of the folk, pained heels clipping against the floor as they did every night, dancing out the mundanity of a town life crippled with the distrust of life. It would be a conversation for the rest of the night, how Harry would retell the dramatic discussion with fire in his eyes and a sadness plunging into his heart, because he always felt guilty and you’d never understand why.

——–

You glided out of the mass, panting with how the dance took your breath away, feeling the redness built up in your cheeks and the sweat on your brow. You passed Nick with his wide eyes and bursts of laughter, and noticed how he winked at you when you left the room. The restroom was calling.

The main hall of the restaurant was bustling with normal activity, waiters dashing around with massively weighed trays balanced against their shoulders. There was a coat rack near the entrance, huddled with pounds of jackets, hats, and scarves, and a lone Harry Styles squatted next to it.

He looked up when you passed by, the hollows of his cheeks straining purple in the grotesque lights.

You paused next to him, almost dashing around to head and pee, but his expression caught you off guard.

He looked in another world. His eyes, blue with morose, opened to look at nothing. Eyelids heavy with almost boredom, but his posture offered enough to let you know his demons were free once more.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, and once he shifted to the side, you took the cue to sit beside him, crossing your legs and ignoring your body’s protests.

His mouth open and closed, his fingers spread wide in front of him to grasp onto his senses, but they were nowhere to be found. His lips were glistening, perhaps from him licking them continuously, but a small streak against his cheek made you think otherwise.

“Was she upset?” It was all you had to offer, but it seemed like you hadn’t struck gold. He continued to mime whatever words that were escaping him, but your attention had been caught elsewhere.

In one of his hands, you had thought he was holding onto his pack of cigarettes. At second glance, however, it wasn’t. It was terrible.

The fact it wasn’t, and the fact his mouth was gaping, and the fact his eyes were glassed and that his shoulders were quivering – it all accumulated into a story you never expected.

A blue velvet box, iconic in its time, holding only one thing inside.

“Harry, is that-”

“She’s pregnant,” he managed to choke out, not glancing at the box, his voice cracking in its sudden revival, “Mary’s pregnant.”

“She’s what.”

“Couldn’t break it off, would she gonna do? Can’t go back to live with her parents, the town’s too far off-” he continued to speak, words that made sense when combined but gibberish with how he stringed them. It was a rant that had been built into his lungs and found a small stream to blow off, with only your collection of stammers breaking through the dam.

“Did you–’re you–is that–”

“Proposed. Bit rushed, didn’t get on a knee, but it did its duty. I did mine, anyhow,” he said, a desperate gloominess clutched your dress as he presented the box. His fingers fumbled against the velvet, nubbed fingertips and signs of bitten skin surrounding the nails.

Opened, the box was empty. The contents were stuck on Mary’s finger, presumably back at the party showing off the latest development in her life.

“Congratulations.” It didn’t feel as if it were you who said anything, the voice too breathless and at ease to have come out of your body, with its thundering heartbeat and screaming mind.

“Gotta get a job, gotta call up Howard ‘n see what’s not ‘n the papers. There’s gotta be something, yeah? Need a crib, now, too.” It was clear his mind was far off, into what he needed to do, in the adult-life that neither of you had never quite fit into, but was now thrust upon him.

All your mind was on, was the trip you two had been planning for the past year. Harry had promised train tickets across the country, down towards where the sun always shone and the waters were constantly warm around your ankles, even in the dead of night. Maps and notebooks had cluttered your office for months, with strings attaching your future endeavors in a maze of findings. It had started out as an escape from the Depression, the one that had seemingly ended but never quite had, the one where your throats were aching for more than speakeasies could offer.

It wasn’t going to happen. It simply couldn’t. You’d never see how he would look, dozed off across from you on your hundredth train, his backpack used as a makeshift pillow. You’d never feel the brutal mountain winds with him. You’d never be able to wander around the greatest cities of America, you’d never explore all the lives you could’ve lived, in towns you never knew existed.

The realization brought you to another moment, another question, one out of place with Harry’s rant but in tune with how your blood ran cold.

“Where’d you get the ring?”

That snapped Harry’s attention, and his bloodshot eyes managed to find you in their blur. Perhaps it was an expectation, for you to ask, but the surprise against his lips, how they parted with a slacked jaw and a sharp inhale, said otherwise.

“Wha’?”

You repeated yourself, and he staggered into a motionless statue of himself, a final shake of his shoulders until he ceased to move. Just stared at you, haunted.

I’ve got somethin’ I need to say to yeh.

“Harry.” To your surprise, it almost sounded admonished.

His eyes were pleading for you not to speak. For speaking would bring it into existence, and he could never juggle it all. Neither of you could, it was a mortal flaw that ran deep into your flesh, and now against your heart, where it felt it would stay forever.

You felt compelled to speak anyway, motivated slightly by the intoxication and the exhaustion and the bitterness in which life was taking from you continuously, without ceasing, and this was the one chance to take something back for yourself. To give a bit of yourself back towards him, to offer a glimpse of the life that could’ve been.

“I would’ve said yes.”

It was quiet.

You thought Harry was being quiet, as well, but his hands reached up to wrack against his scalp, collecting at his hair and his head went between his knees.

He gave a nod, a gentle movement from your perspective, and a choked cry. It was stifled by the sudden uproar within the restaurant – perhaps another fight, perhaps another birthday, you didn’t care – and your arm went around his shoulder, bringing him into your chest.

You cried. Tucked away, hidden behind swaths of clothing that had belonged to the rich and now hung off the poor, surrounded by lights and glamour that suddenly became cheap and instrumental, compared to what you two had deserved. He felt warm against your skin, his forehead now pressed against your shoulder as his body pushed forward in distress. Time stretched to allow for you both to have one moment, a solace against the blazing sun of normalcy. It was one minute until Anne would burst through the party doors, searching for her son, perhaps having caught a glimpse of the truth and knowing where his heart truly was.

But for that minute, his heart was in your chest, the beats matching up, the pair united for a last breath.

The box slipped from his fingers and landed on the floor, half-open and completely empty.

It was a reality you’d have to live with.

[moczothe1st]

Let’s Play Fire Emblem IV: Genealogy of the Holy War, Part 30: Man, oh Man, oh Manfroy

Part 29

Welcome back to Fire Emblem IV: Genealogy of the Holy War.  Last week, we fought off like six armies all at once, and it was miserable, but on the plus side Hilda died. I think every game would be better if Hilda died.  This week, we finish taking her castle and… *sigh* And we regret it, probably.  This week, we start off mid-turn, so after moving most of my southern front up north toward the action, I end my turn and let the remainder of Hilda’s dorks take their shot.

… Why couldn’t they have gone down that easy last week, huh?!

Now, on our turn, the enemy is down to four dark mages with staves, and one dark bishop with a siege tome in the castle. I have Fee cut down one of the former…

And have Larcei and Seliph talk about love, because honestly I’m actually in no big hurry to finish this castle.

Larcei: I’m coming with you on this one!

Seliph: Of course you’re welcome to… but why?

Larcei: It’s odd… I’m actually a little scared…

Seliph: Odd indeed! If there’s one thing you’ve never been known for, it’s fear.

Larcei: It’s… I just…

Seliph: Shhh. I understand. Now come! After all, what could ever inspire courage quite like having you at my side.

(… Damn, Seliph, smooth like silk. You win a little more of my respect, bro.)

Larcei: Seliph…

This conversation gives Seliph +1 to his Strength; it was apparently supposed to be +3, but he was actually only one point away from his (oddly low) cap. Apparently Seliph only has a natural 25 strength cap! That seems weird considering his descent from Sigurd the Humungous.

And… sigh. Guess I should kill the stupid boss.

All right. Nothing left but sleep staves, and they can’t really hurt us. I have Fee and Altena purge them.

And now we have the problem dealt with. A little jumping around before I set off the next story segment; I have Finn zapped home, where he repairs and sells his Brave Lance. I’m going to have Fee buy it after we take Freege.  Sorry, Finn, but you’re kind of just not holding up; you lasted longer than I expected you too, but despite being decent on offense you’re just kind of fragile.  Oifey will also be benched here, I think, he can stay to defend Freege castle after we take it.  Thankfully…

… The game is polite enough to tell us where the next part of the chapter will be coming from. So I do spend a turn or two moving the kids up to this gate and ready to rock. Seliph?

Seliph: But I can’t help but wonder… are the children at Belhalla still unharmed? I pray they are…

Lewyn: Funny you should say that!

(That’s not really the appropriate response to dying children.)

Lewyn: We’ve got a visitor who’s got a bit of news on that front, Seliph.

(“I’ve seen… terrible things. Thank the gods I have no sister, for I fear I would never be able to look her in the eyes again.”)

Felipe: On secret orders from His Majesty, the abducted children were moved here to Freege for safe-keeping.

(Orders so secret that we never actually got to see Arvis give them in that whole scene where he was desperately trying to save all the children at Chalphy and failing, being immediately caught, and then getting cowed into submission by a man infinitely less powerful than himself. STOP TRYING TO MAKE ME FEEL BAD FOR ARVIS, GAME.)

Felipe: Rest easy, sire. They’re all hiding in the city’s abbey, and they’re all in good health.

Seliph: And all under Hilda’s nose, at that! That you’ve kept every last child safe in Hilda’s own city… color me impressed!

Felipe: Actually, sire… Princess Ishtar deserves your thanks. Without her generous aid given in secret, we could never have done this. No Imperial soldiers dared come even close to the abbey, on pain of the princess’s wrath.

Seliph: Princess Ishtar?! But why… why would she-

Felipe: Few people in this land are as kind and caring as Princess Ishtar.  

FEW PEOPLE IN THIS LAND ARE AS KIND AND CARING AS PRINCESS ISHTAR.

YEAH SHE’S A FUCKIN’ TREASURE.

Felipe: All along, the princess has toiled behind the scenes to aid our cause.  It was Princess Ishtar herself who ensured that every last child escaped from the bowels of Belhalla.

(“Then… how comes she’s… you know… literally banging the Devil?” “Technically he’s a ghost dragon.”)

Seliph: I see… at any rate, thank the gods for their safety. I’m certain everyone will be glad to know the children are in good hands. You have my deepest thanks, Lord Felipe.

Lewyn: Well, Seliph, that’s one job done. Good to see we’re finally getting results out of this mess.

(Hey, screw you man, I’ve conquered three quarters of the country.)

Seliph: And yet, Julia still eluds us… where could she possibly be?

Lewyn: The only options left now are Belhalla and Velthomer. It’s got to be one of those two.

Seliph: And Belhalla is where Julius awaits…

Lewyn: Yeah. We’ll need to find Julia first if we want to go anywhere near Belhalla. Without Julia’s power on our side, we won’t have a hope in hell against Julius.

(Again, not technically true, but you really should listen to him on this one.)

Seliph: But no matter what’s happened, Julius is still her brother. Will she even want to fight him…

Lewyn: … You’ll have to convince her.

(I mean, you’ve met Julius. It won’t be super hard.)

Ishtar: This will require that I leave your side, even for a while. I beg your forgiveness.

Julius: Feh.

Julius: Why the rush to get out there so suddenly, Ishtar? All the soldiers they could ever throw at us could never so much as scratch me. Why even bother with those maggots?

Ishtar: Yes, I know… but for me, there is no greater pride than being one of Freege’s great mages.

(“Saving all those children? Doesn’t even compare.”)

Ishtar: My parents and brother lie dead, and I cannot stand to leave their murderers to run amok… please. All I ask is a chance for vengeance.

Julius: It sounds as if what you really want is to following your family to death on a rebel’s blade! Are you so desperate to escape me, Ishtar?

Ishtar: No… nothing like that, Lord Julius. I love you. Nothing will ever change that.

Julius: Hmhmhmhmhm… I know.  

Julius: Very well! Fight if you must. I won’t stop you.

Ishtar: Thank you… now, I beg your pardon. Meng! Bleg! Mabel! We sortie at once.

(Oh god, we are really scraping the bottom of the name barrel this time. ‘Meng’?  ‘Bleg’?)

Julius: Now, then. I think it’s time we put an end to this sorry show. Deadlords, move out!  And order Arion’s unit to attack!

(… wait, what?)

So. You may recall I told you to remember this moment.

It was important for two reasons.

First: This is the moment the war becomes winnable. You see, Manfroy is not… really all that into Loptyr. Oh, he worships him, but it’s not really about loyalty so much as sadism. Manfroy hates the world, and every single human being in it. His overall goal in life is nothing more or less than to make humanity suffer as much as possible. But he’s generally pragmatic about it. He knew the best way to hurt humanity was to revive Loptyr, who possesses incredible powers and views humans as little better than food to eat and pets to abuse. This moment, right here, is the moment that Manfroy, flush with overconfidence in the presence of his god on earth and having enjoyed a long decade and a half tormenting the entire continent, finally makes a mistake. He lets his sadism overpower his common sense for the first time. And in so doing, he gives us a real shot.

Second: Because he’s still Manfroy, he’s a total fuckwad about it.  

Remember Ayra? Waaaaaaaaay back in Verdane, remember how we recruited Ayra. How we had to get to a castle to turn her non-hostile to us, only she was between the army and the castle and she was trying to kill us the whole time?

Yeah, that’s happening again. Only it’s Julia, our lil’ atomic vampire gatling gun trying to kill us. Of course she’s just as strong as she was when she was on our side, why would you even ask.  Oh, and just for fun…

Here’s the map of what we need to achieve.  The blue X is where we are. The red X is where we need to get to save Julia.  The ravenous piranha is Ishtar’s army, waiting to pounce upon us and tear us limb from bloody limb.  And to her right, marked by the douche, is Julius. You don’t have to fight him, and you in fact definitely should not because getting anywhere near him will also draw the Deadlords out to fight you, but of course has a siege tome now and will cheerfully wreck the shit of anyone who gets anywhere near him, therefore heavily limiting the space we have to move.

And of course, Julia will be trying to kill us the whole time, and we can’t fight back and risk killing her.

And hahaha, yeah, Arion will be showing up soon.  

This is not going to be any fun, is what I’m getting at here.

First thing’s first, let’s take a look at our piranha.  

Ishtar has taken yet another level in badass; her magic has gone up two points, skill by three, luck by 2, defense by eight, and resistance by one. And this time, she’s got an actual army with her instead of fighting us alone; three Snipers, three Heroes, three Sages, three High Priests with Fortify (of course) staves, and of course…. *snerk*…. Bleg, Meng, and Mabel.

They’re three identical Falcon Knights, both in picture and stats, so I’ll only be showing one of them. Despite the intensely crappy names, they honestly three ridiculously dangerous units. They all have Earth Swords, meaning any hit they land is going to heal them, and they’ll be hitting often what with that maxed-out Speed and solid 23 skill. And to make things worse, they all have the Nihil ability to prevent us from just shooting them down with arrows or relying on Astra to solve our problems.  

So! This is going to suck. A lot. But thanks to Ced being awesome, there’s an option I can take to make this a lot more manageable.  Lana sells her Silence staff, and he buys it…

And with his 35 fucking magic he can overpower Ishtar’s 32 Resistance to Silence her up to three times, basically removing Mjolnir from the equation for this battle. And Mjolnir is like… half of this battle’s equation.

I literally cannot believe I’ve never tried this before.  From here, the army moves forward, Seliph leading the way; he’ll be attacked by quite a lot of people here, but he’s a living iron wall of destruction, and the more of these people I can lure away from the main melee, the better.  So. End turn!

(*sigh* Must you, now?)

Arion: Chalphy’s fall to our blades shall be the first step to winning back our fatherland. Now, move in! Show these liberators one final defiance from the drackoknights of Thracia!

A solid enough start! We hurt one Falcon Knight, and didn’t take much damage in return.  And now that Ishtar is in range…  

Oh, that is delicious.  Now, my first goal here is to kill at least one of these three annoyingly fast pega-bitches, but I also have to get Altena (and yes it has to be her, of course it has to be her) down to the castle to intercept Arion.  I hate everything forever.

One down!  Let’s keep this train rolling and clear out some more jerks.

Two out of three ain’t bad!

Okay, I think that’s about all the damage I’m going to get done this turn.  And not bad at all, frankly, so I’m happy.  I have Lene dance Altena, and warp her home with Lana.

Ignore the pentagram. It’s a good pentagram. Down at the bottom, Altena equips Gae Bolg and flies to just outside Arion’s range. The rest of his buddies don’t matter at all, but I don’t want her to fight him. There’s a reason for this, of course. It’s unsatisfying, but it makes her happy.

The things I do for my kids, I swear.

End turn.  

… Huh. They don’t attack her? Or maybe they can’t damage her. I honestly am not sure.

*sniff*

I remember the last time I played this map.

I died five times on this battle alone.

And now it’s going better than the fight against the fucking Beige Knights.

I don’t understand what’s going on.

Altena: How could you be so craven?! How dare you place your vanity and pride over what truly matters!

(You tell him, honey!)

Arion: What do you want from me, then?

(God, don’t ask her that. This LP is not rated Adults Only.)

Altena: Take a good, hard look at Prince Seliph! Ask yourself, this: why is he still fighting? For whom is he out here day after day, setting his own suffering to the side?

Arion: So Seliph fights for justice, and I somehow do not? Is that what you’re trying to say?

(…. YES!)

Altena: Very well, Arion… if you won’t see reason, so be it. Come on. Kill me. End this. My… my life is in your hands. I die with no regrets.

Arion: A-Altena… very well. You can rest easy now. I get it. I was wrong… my mercenary days are at an end, and my final task is with Seliph. Wait… no. With you. I now fight for you, Altena.

Altena: Arion…

Yeah, it would have been neat if you’d done this a few maps ago, jackass, but Arion is on our side now. Or, well, sorta. He doesn’t join the army, but his unit becomes neutral and are programmed to stay close to Altena and be hostile to any Belhalla units that get near them. I know we all sort of wanted to kill him, but he still has Gungnir and I really just didn’t want to risk a screwup when things are going so well.  I mean, I’m not even gonna use him. At this point, letting him get near the enemy would likely result in him rushing Julius and dying, which sorta defeats the point. Let’s just end this; time to wipe out the remains of Ishtar’s unit.

And now, a special treat. Since Ishtar can’t fight, we get to see a conversation that even I have never actually seen.

(…. ‘Nothing but kind’.)

(Just sayin’.)

Ishtar: … I may be in the wrong. But I can’t turn back now. Forgive me, Tinni… please….

And thus passes Princess Ishtar of Freege. She died as she lived: getting nuked by her cousins. And without her leadership stars…

All right. Now, the rest of the army is going to stay right where they fucking are. Julia cannot be trusted to not kill herself, or more troublesome to not kill me.  The only people going forward are Seliph and Ares, who are going to go north across the forest, out of Julius’s range, and try to lure Julia into following them. Their resistance is tremendous, and they’re both on horses. Ideally she’ll try to kill them, fail, and be following them and unable to catch up until I can free her. This will take a few turns of nothing but movement because I will not be going anywhere near Julius.

Trust me.

She seeeeeeeeeees uuuuuuuuuuussssss…

Okay. There’s two things that could happen here. She’s either going to go east and cut us off, in which case we’ll be dodging vampire lasers the rest of the map, or she’s going to go north through the forest and we basically win the game.  Let’s see!

…. Bitch. Okay, straight west you guys! Hide on the healing church, you beautiful bastards. God, haven’t used one of those in awhile, with those fifty healers in the army lining up to zap everyone with staves.

Dammit, Loptyrians, I am trying to flee in terror from a small woman.

Okay. We can do this. Ares heals up, and all we have to do is clear out those priests and kill Manfroy. Go get ‘em, boys!

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Are you fucking kidding me.  

Of all the.

That.

I.

I.

You.

HOW.

What the!

NO.

………………

Well. You know all those times when I was questioning my good fortune? The moments where I was like ‘oh, man, I don’t trust how generous the game is being, bet it’s gonna screw me later!’ Well, that just happened.

*sigh*

End turn. If I survive this, I will be genuinely stunned.

Oh hey it’s as though the Hel tome is really easy to dodge and you should have dodged it all along. But here we go…

(How do you know that’s Manfroy? You’ve never met him…)

Manfroy: So I did. And so long as I live, my puppet she shall remain! Hehehehehe!  She’s every bit as helpless before my magic as her mother was…

Seliph: I should have known. If not for you, Mother… Gah! All of this misery… all these agonizing years… It was all your doing from the outset!

Manfroy: Heh… of course. Everything I’ve done has led to this moment: the revival of my lord Loptyr. And at last, it is so! Loptyr’s advent in the form of Prince Julius is complete, and darkness shall soon engulf the world. You cannot prevent it. Nobody can…

Seliph: Manfroy, you… Father’s grief… Mother’s despair… if not for you and your foul ambitions, none of this would have ever happened… Damn you, Manfroy! I cannot allow you to win! I will not! You’ll NEVER know mercy for your crimes!

Yeah, not the dramatic win I was hoping for after that great speech. But I guess I saw that coming.  Reset! I start off a little differently; Seliph and Ares park themselves on trees. With the 20% dodge bonus, they should have no chance of being hit by Hel, and very little of being hit by Julia. We need to clear out these Dark Mages before we go for Manfroy.

Better! This repeats for all of them; one actually dies because they’re forced to attack at close-range thanks to being blocked off by their own buddies, which is great.

Yeah, yeah.

He only does one damage. Seliph could have survived him with no problem in any other situation. I hate this game sometimes. On our turn, I have Ares and Seliph each clear out a mage…

Then immediately go hide in the woods again. I am playing this as cautious as humanly possible, honestly. Better to spend three turns killing mages than let the reset counter jump up above the number of updates.

The enemy misses again on their turn, because they literally can’t not miss. Two more deaths…

All right! That’s that for dark mages. On the next turn, Ares is going to park his butt on the healing church forever, and Seliph goes to fight Manfroy.

You stay out of this.

Now then. It’s time. It’s time to face Manfroy himself.  In direct combat. The enemy behind it all! The dark schemer who has given over our kingdom to the dark god.  And he…

Is a loser.  I mean, he’s not the worst enemy in the game. He’s okay. But he’s definitely no match for Arvis, or Ishtar, or… anyone with a holy weapon, really.  Which fits, really; his danger is his skill and intellect, not his power.  But considering he’s basically the final boss, it’s a little sad, still.

Seliph. Teach him some manners, bro.

And with two shots, he’s down to six HP.  End turn.

I miss the days when I was the one with the Julia Beams.

*sniff*

God. That is just cathartic to do. Now. With Manfroy off to Hell, where I’m assuming he will meet Hilda and strike up a whirlwind love affair, Seliph can take the castle.

Lewyn: That’s right, isn’t it Felipe?

Felipe: My liege concealed the key within his most treasured memento…. The circlet once worn by Empress Deirdre.

(HURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRK!)

Felipe: If we can find that circlet, sir, the Book of Naga is yours.

Lewyn: Deirdre’s circlet…

And that’s that! Ares runs toward the castle, with intent to lure Julia toward us. Of course she’s still hostile, why are you even asking? She has to talk to Seliph to get back to our side. Tee-hee, Fire Emblem hates you.

God, you are just like your mother. Seliph, go fix this please.

Seliph: It was Manfroy’s dark arts. He brainwashed you into his service.

Julia: Manfroy… that’s right, he caught me…

Seliph: Thank goodness you’re safe.  

Julia: Lord Seliph, I…

Seliph: It’s fine, Julia. I know. Lewyn told me everything. I’m sorry… I failed to protect you.

Julia: No… it’s fine. Don’t worry, Seliph. I finally know why I’ve survived for all these years. I know my fate… I’m fated to fight. I’ll never run away again!

Seliph: You’re right… This is the will of fate, tragic as it is. None can afford to cower or flee now. Until the bitter end, we must march on.

And with that, Julia rejoins the team. She’s just as strong as ever, barring one fact; she’s picked up Deirdre’s circlet, adding Renewal and Miracle to her list of abilities, which is a heck of an upgrade.

But not as good as the one she gets from reaching Velthomer.

Lewyn: It worked… it really worked! And there it is, the Book of Naga! It’s yours for the taking, Julia!

Julia: … Oh! How strange… it feels so warm. It’s almost as if I’ve known this book all my life…

And now, the game is over. See, here’s the thing… Julius is just as dangerous as before, if not slightly moreso. His stats are slightly lower than his first appearance where you are very clearly not meant to fight him, but he still has Loptyr’s game-breaking effect, and his ability list is now Wrath, Pursuit, Nihil, and Accost. So he can double most of our army, null critical hits and combat abilities, and gets a huge critical boost when his health drops below half. And of course, he’s on a castle and gets the defense bonus and health regeneration that gives. Basically, he’s borderline invincible. The only real option if you lose Julia is to have Seliph fight him, and poor Seliph can only do about 15 damage per turn (if he hits) some of which will then be healed.  While getting blasted in the face repeatedly, so you’ll need to get someone in to heal him between rounds, and they’ll very probably die to having Meteors dropped on their head unless you’re very lucky. And then there’s the Deadlords, who are just a pain.  

But if you do have Julia…

Yeah.

YEEEEEEEEEAH.  

Naga is the best weapon in the game. +20 each to Skill, Speed, Defense, and Resistance, instantly turns Julia into a hyper-fast, hyper-accurate, hyper-durable killing machine. And as a light magic tome, it has no disadvantage to any kind of weapon. And, of course, it negates Loptyr’s half-damage effect.  Your reward for the most annoying recruitment in the game is the weapon that ends the game. Big time.

So.  

It’s time to lay back and let Big J play us out, I think. I have her do the Arena, just for old times sake. Nothing even touches her.

Julia: Seven wins, gained two levels. +2 HP, +1 Speed.

About as good as can be expected at this point, honestly. And it…. Doesn’t really matter, you know? She heads to Belhalla, and Julius has no chance to hit her with Meteor, so he doesn’t even try.  The Twelve Deadlords rush up to meet her, of course…

They’re going to regret this. The Deadlords are named for the animals of the Chinese Zodiac, and each one has a different class and some very good weapons and abilities. They’re a dangerous group! Usually.  

One down, eleven to go. End turn.  

And then there were nine.

Sorry, seven.

Six of one, half-dozen of the other.

Fun fact, ‘Lepus’ means ‘Rabbit’. And ‘Dead’.

Well I’ll be! Someone landed a hit!  Too bad Julia did too. Four to go.  

I’m so bad at counting! It’s actually three. Congrats to Equus the Bishop on surviving a round with The Julinator.  But with that, none of the remaining Deadlords will actually take a shot at Julia anymore, so I’m just going to ignore them. It’s time for a family reunion.

(He isn’t wrong.)

Yes, that was a single round of combat. Julius procced his Accost skill and made the fight last an extra round. This… was not helpful to him.

Julius vanishes, the spirit of the dragon arising from the castle as the entire map shakes…

But it’s just bluster. Naga’s power has destroyed Loptyr’s vessel, and with its bloodline finally ended the dragon’s grip on this world is gone. Loptyr returns to whatever void it came from, and with the power that animated them gone, the few surviving Deadlords vanish.  

I’m going to cut out here, but no sense waiting a week, huh? So see you tomorrow for the epilogue, kids. I think we earned it.

Final Reset Total: 30.  Y... yay.

Epilogue

[invccateurmms]

❝ Sea water's flowing from the middle of my thighs ❞ ❝ The air is familiar, the sound is not still ❞ ❝ Take all the little things away ❞ ❝ Seek all the dimensions that stray ❞ ❝ Waking up is easy but you're breaking my whole thesis ❞ ❝ I'm in love with truth and sick and tired of this youth ❞ ❝ And thinking that you're falling, but you're stalling when you're holding me ❞ ❝ I'll grow bitters on the borders of your whistling skin ❞ ❝ I want it to be easy but I'm queasy at the thought of it ❞ ❝ I don't need no proof, no lucky charm ❞ ❝ To know it in the same way of that feeling when you're loving me... ❞ ❝ I'll not finish what I done started ❞ ❝ I'm sick of this, you're sick of that. I'm not as dumb as that ❞ ❝ We'll bathe often in light of the moon ❞ ❝ Touch not my bosom for I'll not get far ❞ ❝ Color your cartography in your dreams of me ❞ ❝ Bid you bring me some strong drink ❞ ❝ I came down over the sleepy mountains ❞ ❝ Don't just wander back and forth and leave it ❞ ❝ Oh my dreams come back to me ❞ ❝ I'll sing before you lie down ❞ ❝ Turn the lights down, I wanna be alone ❞ ❝ I needed to take a break ❞ ❝ I lied, now I'm lying awake ❞ ❝ I cried until my body ache ❞ ❝ I couldn't look cause your body, your body would shake ❞ ❝ You feared a lonely death ❞ ❝ I want to know what's your quietest feeling ❞ ❝ You were young and you'd stare with a reverence unimpaired ❞ ❝ You push and you pull ❞ ❝ There was no light and I swear I could see your raring fear ❞ ❝ You push and you pull and you tell yourself no ❞ ❝ Tell me that you want to move me 'round like that ❞ ❝ Tell me I'm the only one and I'll move back ❞ ❝ Watching me is like watching the fire ❞ ❝ That's the only thing that keeps and takes you ❞ ❝ I can feel your knees sinking into the bed ❞ ❝ I had a feeling you broke ❞ ❝ I wasn't thinking about you ❞ ❝ There is a color that shines through your skin like the moon on the wind ❞ ❝ We are stranger than earth with her seasons misled ❞ ❝ There is no lesson in magic ❞ ❝ There were untimely dreams where I knew ❞ ❝ Reckon none of it had come from you ❞ ❝ Pity seek what we might lose but in a week might our weakness elude ❞ ❝ But it wasn't your fault ❞ ❝ Pity seek what we might lose ❞ ❝ I've been watching your kindness keep a lonely company ❞ ❝ Look at the fire and think of me ❞ ❝ I've been watching you creep around my wandering feet, trying for years to flee ❞ ❝ I need not one thing more ❞ ❝ Give back an hungrier stare ❞ ❝ You be the moon, I'll be the earth ❞ ❝ And when we burst, start over, o darling. Begin again ❞ ❝ My moon, o my moon ❞ ❝ I had held it a world away ❞ ❝ Dear lie still along my old web, cursed by your dust filled head ❞ ❝ The clenching of your teeth might help you sleep ❞ ❝ I lost my voice down by the river screaming for courage to take oceans under ❞ ❝ I read your mind and called it a terror ❞ ❝ I'll miss keeping you ❞ ❝ I hope you're sleeping too ❞ ❝ Baby why don't you see ❞ ❝ The moon is dead but she still pulls on me ❞ ❝ Where have I been? Why can't you see me? ❞ ❝ I could give you petty rhymes of worlds that I contrive ❞ ❝ I could taste your vulnerable parts ❞ ❝ Meet me in the blue bed, I'll be drawing out your flaws ❞ ❝ Meet me in the back shed, I'll be hanging up the knives ❞ ❝ What's all the trouble? ❞ ❝ Don't be afraid if it's a little bit close ❞ ❝ I built a kingdom of your throes ❞ ❝ I'm seeing double ❞ ❝ I've been hiding out for days ❞ ❝ I would say wait for the storm ❞ ❝ Feel as lonely as I do ❞

[libralita]

Title: The Name of the Wind

Author: Patrick Rothfuss

Summary: Told in Kvothe's own voice, this is the tale of the magically gifted young man who grows to be the most notorious wizard his world has ever seen.

The intimate narrative of his childhood in a troupe of traveling players, his years spent as a near-feral orphan in a crime-ridden city, his daringly brazen yet successful bid to enter a legendary school of magic, and his life as a fugitive after the murder of a king form a gripping coming-of-age story unrivaled in recent literature.

Rating: ★★★★☆

Review:

Well after six months, give or take, I finally finished this book. I think the main reason I didn’t read this book that quickly was because it was so slow paced. Especially when Kvothe gets to boring, diet-Hogwarts. This book is a tad overhyped. It was pretty good but the greatest book ever, like people treat it. There are especially humorous or sad or great moments, but you slog through some boring stuff to get through it. I will probably still continue on with the series. It wasn’t a bad book, just overhyped.

“So Taborlin fell, but he did not despair. For he knew the name of the wind, and so the wind obeyed him.”—Page 4

Well, that was a fun book, a little shorter than I thought it would be.

“It was a spider as large as wagon wheel, black as slate.”—Page 7

Kill it!

“Reshi was another of the innkeeper’s names, a nickname almost.”—Page 11

Like Hoid in the Cosmere.

Oh, no. I love Bast and Kote, already.

“When Chronicler could no longer hear their hoofbeats in the distance, he repacked his travelsack, making sure everything was well stowed. Then he tugged off one of his boots, stripping out the lining, and removed a tightly wrapped bundle of coins stuffed deep into the toe. He moved some of these into his purse, then unfastened his pants, produce another bundle of coins from underneath several layers of clothes, and moved some of that money into his purse as well.”—Page 20

I like this guy.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m not use to it yet but I like the name Kote better than Kvothe, but that’s just me. Also, if red hair isn’t the norm, couldn’t Kvothe invest in some hair dye?

Chronicle and Kote have met, Chronicle nearly died.

“‘A note? You sneak out and leave me a note?’ He hissed angrily. ‘What am I, some dockside whore?’”—Page 39

I’m starting to ship Bast and Kvothe.

‘If you’re reading this I am probably dead.’ Kvothe, you drama queen.

“‘You went out hunting for them, didn’t you?” Bast hissed, then his eyes widened. ‘No. You kept a piece of the one Carter killed. I can’t believe you. You lied to me. To me!’”—Page 40

Oh, c’mon! Rothfuss knew what he was doing when he wrote this.

“They let their conversation lapse as they opened on of the many empty rooms on the second floor, undressed Chronicler, and tucked him snugly into bed.”—Page 40

Okay, that’s really adorable. I think it’s the use of the word ‘snugly’. Petition for Bast and Kvothe to just adopt Chronicler.

Chapter five should renamed “Bast and Kvothe act like a married couple”.

“Bast sniffed disdainfully. ‘I will use my own needles, thank you very much. Good honest bone. None of your nasty jagged iron things, stabbing you like little slivers of hate.’ He shivered. ‘Steam and stone, it’s frightening how primitive you people are.’”—Page 40

Okay, then.

“The middle of Newarre” Is Courage the cowardly dog there?

“It’s safe to say I’ll need more time than that. And you’ll get none of it tonight. A real story takes time to prepare.”—Page 47

*Coughs*

“Kvothe continued, smiling to himself. ‘I see you laugh. Very well, for simplicity’s sake, let us assume I am the center of creation. In doing this, let us pass over innumerable boring stories: the rise and fall of empires, sagas of heroism, ballads of tragic love. Let us hurry forward to the only tale of any real importance.’ His smile broadened. ‘Mine.’”—Page 53

This should be good.

“The day we fret about the future is the day we leave our childhood behind.”—Page 80

This is my favorite quote so far.

“‘And names are strange things. Dangerous things.’ He gave them a pointed look. ‘That I know for true because I am an educated man. If I’m a mite superstitious too…’”—Page 86

Names have power. I have no idea what the heck this Chandrian thing is.

“And he had changed. The eyes that watched Chronicler were still a striking ocean blue, but now they showed themselves to be all one color, like gems or deep forest pools, and his soft leather boots had been replaced with graceful cloven hooves.”—Pages 92-93

Um?

“Chronicler, I would like you to meet Bastas, son of Remmen, Prince of Twilight and the Telwyth Mael. The brightest, which is to say the only student I’ve had the misfortune to teach. Glamourer, bartender, and, not last, my friend.”—Kvothe, Page 93

Um. Well, then. I have many questions. I hope this doesn’t interfere with my Bathe ship.

“Then I felt something squeeze my chest, as if I was deep underwater. I tried to draw a breath but could. Mildly confused, I kept trying. It felt as if I’d just fallen flat on my back and had the air drive from me.”—Page 98

Ugh, that’s terrifying.

“Greystone leads to something something ‘ell’.”—Kvothe’s father, Page 102

Lol, I really like Kvothe’s parents…they’re going to die horribly at any moment.

“You’re clever. We both know that. But you can be thoughtless. A clever, thoughtless person is one of the most terrifying things there is. Worse, I’ve been teaching you some dangerous things.”—Ben, Page 104

True.

“While we were waiting, Ben got the offer he couldn’t refuse. She was a widow, fairly wealthy, fairly young, and to my inexperienced eyes, fairly attractive. The official story was that she needed someone to tutor her young son. However, anyone who saw the two of them walking together knew the truth behind that story.”—Page 105

Bow-chicka-wow-wow.

“I hope they spent those last few hours well. I hope they didn’t waste them on mindless tasks: kindling the evening fire and cutting vegetables for dinner. I hope they sang together, as they so often did. I hope they retired to our wagon and spent time in each other’s arms. I hope they lay near each other afterward and spoke of small things. I hope they were together, busy with loving each other, until the end came. It is a small hope, and pointless really. They are just as dead either way. Still I hope.”—Page 113

Are you the main character in a fantasy series and your parents are decent, loving people? Well, they are going to die.

Oh, god, seeing Kvothe’s troupe dead is a lot harder than I thought it would be.

Kvothe’s father’s song brought this upon, didn’t it?

“Only then did his composure break. And even with no one there to see, he hid his face in his hands and wept quietly, his body wracked with wave on wave of heavy, silent sobs.”—Page 122

Well, that was depressing.

“The old farmer continued to look at me with serious eyes. ‘This is Seaward Square.’ He said, pointing at his feet. ‘We’ll be here till dark, maybe a little after. You come back if’n you want a ride.’ His eyes turned worried. ‘You hear me? You can come back with us.’”—Page 132

I don’t know why, but I’m tearing up. Like this guy is so nice and I just want Kvothe to be happy. Kvothe, go with them, please.

Now, the lute is destroyed. Rothfuss, why are you so cruel?

I’m going to assume it’s normal and completely rational that I burst into tears of joy every time someone is kind to Kvothe.

“There was another lesson I had learned perhaps too well: people meant pain.”—Page 152

My heart, it hurts.

“But there was one demon who eluded Tehlu. Encanis, whose face was all in shadow. Encanis, whose voice was like a knife in the minds of men.”—Page 160

I guess that was the guy that helped kill Kvothe’s parents and troupe.

So there’s a story about Lya and Lanre. Lanre was a cool dude but he turned into Haliax because the world is cruel.

Wait, how does Skarpi know Kvothe’s name?

Kvothe don’t be mean.

“The boy grows upward, but the girl grows up.”—Page 209

Accurate saying.

“‘That’s kind of you. I’ll send one of the boys round,’ Trapis said. ‘Come here.’ He came forward and gathered me into a clumsy hug, his beard tickling the side of my face.”—Page 211

Hello tears. I’m going to just pretend that eventually Kvothe goes back to Trapis, gives him a bunch of money and shoes and everything is all good and happy. No one can tell me otherwise that’s not what happens.

Hey, is Kvothe ever getting Ben’s book back?

I think I remember hearing an interview with Patrick Rothfuss and that Denna was an awful person but I’m not sure.

Oh great we’ve got a love triangle between Kvothe, Denna, Josn and of course Josn has a lute.

“As I walked, I watched the horizon for the largest building in the University. From Ben’s descriptions I knew what it would look like: featureless, grey, and square as a block. Larger than four granaries stacked together. No windows, no decorations, only one set of great stone doors. Ten times ten thousand books. They Archives.”—Page 225

Huh, I imagined it would looked more…Hogwarts-y.

“Master Hemme was the king-high bastard of the lot.”—Page 233

Ha.

“He looked vaguely puzzled at first, then slightly taken aback, then, as I glared up at him, he gave a faint, thin smile and mutely handed me a piece of paper. I unfolded and read it. It read: ‘Kvothe. Spring term. Tuition: -3. Tln.’”—Page 237

Okay, clearly this is a fantasy series because there’s no way tuition would ever be in the negatives.

I like Lorren. He’s emotionless but tall and seems to be willing to give Kvothe a chance. Hope he’s not evil.

I can’t decide if I like Sovoy or not.

“Mouth full, Manet made gesture with both hands as if playing an imaginary violin. He rolled his eyes, his expression vastly unsympathetic.”—Page 244

I like Manet, though.

Why is everyone so pissy? Hemme, Sovoy, Manet, Ambrose.

“‘Rian, would you please cross your legs?’ The quest was made with such an earnest tone that not even a titter escaped from the class. Looking puzzled. Rian crossed her legs. ‘Now that the gates of hell are closed,’ Hemme said in his normal, rougher tones. ‘We can begin.’”—Page 250

What the fuck?

The University of Witchcraft and Wizardry needs to have a first year orientation that basically says “hey, little idiots, don’t use your fucking magic to hurt people or we’ll whip and expel your ass”. See, Kvothe, this is what being a dick gets you.

“‘This isn’t funny,’ I said, but found myself wearing a grin regardless. Simmon could always make me smile, no matter what was going on.”—Page 263

If Kvothe isn’t bi, I don’t know what is.

“‘Damn it, Hemme,’ Elxa Dal burst out. ‘You let the boy make a simulacra of you, then bring him here on malfeasance?’ He spluttered. ‘You deserve worse than you got.’”—Page 266

Well, Kvothe got out of that easily.

“‘It’s not malfeasance,’ Arwyl said doggedly, glaring at Hemme from behind his spectacles, the grandfatherly lines on his face forming a fierce scowl.”—Page 267

I like him.

“Look here, you little cocker!”—Hemme, Page 268

He has some of the funniest insults.

“Tehlu shelter us, fools and children all.”—Chancellor, Page 269

You’re gonna need it.

All the Masters want private time with Kvothe.

Huh, Ambrose isn’t that bad.

I was thinking “why would you allow a candle in a place full of books?”

Wait, was Ambrose being a dick?

Yeah Ambrose was being a dick.

“I care nothing for your intentions, E’lir Kvothe, deceived or otherwise. All that matters is the reality of your actions. Your hand held the fire. Yours is the blame. That is the lesson all adults must learn.”—Page 291

I like this quote. Damn, Kvothe already got kicked out of the Archives.

“As I lay there, counting my blessings and broken ribs, Elodin stepped into my field of vision. He looked down at me. ‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.’ His expression was a mix of awe and disbelief. ‘Ever.’”—Page 315

I like him.

HE’S NOT EVEN GOING TO STUDY UNDER HIM! Damn.

Kvothe, get the lute and play to make money.

OH THANK GOD! HE GOT HIS TALENT PIPES!

Simmon is so cute!

Threpe…is actually kind…oh thank god. Also, I’m back to crying every time someone does something kind to Kvothe.

Ambrose broke his lute string.

“Kvothe, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this very problem. If you honestly couldn’t tell that she was interested in you, you might want to admit the possibility that you are impossibly thick when it comes to women. You may want to consider the priesthood.”—Page 379

Simmon!

Oh, don’t tell me Sovoy and Denna are a thing….

Denna gave a fake name.

Ambrose totally got the Inns to turn Kvothe down.

Denna has multiple fake names. She’s kind of weird.

“When I awoke, the first thing that sprang to my mind was not what you might expect. Then again, it may not be that much of a surprise if you have ever been young yourself. ‘What time is it?’ I asked frantically.”—Page 450

Oh, I thought he was talking about school not his horn.

Does Kote mean disaster? Haha.

Wow, he’s taking this a lot better than I thought.

“Not using the name of fire,”—Page 458

Wrong title. It supposed to be name of wind.

Oh good, Auri is okay.

“‘Well, you know what they say: Finding the right analogy is as hard as…’ I put on a thoughtful expression. ‘As hard as…’ I made an inarticulate grasping gesture.”—Page 472

Hahaha.

“If you sell me a horse that throws a shoe, or starts to limp, or spooks at shadows, I will miss a valuable opportunity. A quite unrecoverable opportunity. If that happens, I will not come back and demand a refund. I will not petition the constable. I will walk back to Imre this very night and set fire to your house. Then, when you run out the front door in your nightshirt and stockle-cap, I will kill you, cook you, and eat you. Right there on your lawn while all your neighbors watch.”—Page 493

Damn.

Well shit, they ran into a dragon…okay not a dragon a vegetarian cow…not-dragon. Oh and it has a drug addiction. Wonderful.

Denna is drugged and the town is going be eaten by the high dragon-cow thing.

No wonder it took me so long to read, it took 82 out of 92 chapters to start.

AMBROSE STOLE HIS LUTE! And then he broke it which caused Kvothe to summon the wind.

KVOTHE WOULD JUST GET EXPELLED ALREADY??! Seriously this book would be so much more interesting if you weren’t at diet Hogwarts. There’s no high cow-dragons there!

He also moved up and has to study under crazy ass.

Rothfuss is leaving on a cliffhanger even though you know what he’s going to come across. Also haha they’re telling the story we just heard but wrong yet somehow right.

Bast is concerning.