#The hen who dreamed she could fly | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

auspicioustidings · 1 year ago

Text

The Gentle Duchess

Blue Blood Part 4

Summary: Continuation of the Blood Druid. Johnny finally teaches you about the things you want to know.

Word Count: 3.3k

CWs: Smut, just shameless smut (which I am still a beginner at so my sibling in Christ temper your expectations)

“Aye, I can teach ye. Good students dinnae yell at their teachers like that though, dae they? I ken ye’ll have been raised with all sorts of those nice gentle manners, so ask again nicely hen” Johnny said, looking down at you sat on the bed with no end of heated mischief in his eyes.

You had been raised with those nice, gentle manners. You had a reputation as such, the Gentle Duchess who was rarely ever seen at social events but always mild tempered when she did appear. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Powerful father so a decent prospect for marriage, no brothers. You had been ok with that, it wasn’t a bad thing to be known for being gentle. But right in this moment you understood the call to bloodlust that men at war held. You wanted to strangle this strange creature.

“Good teachers do not tease their students sir” you replied, curt and proper.

Something of an animal came across him when you had called him sir. You had meant it to be mocking, anyone of good breeding would know it was an insult being said in such a tone. But it affected him in some way that was frighteningly exciting.

“Ye want tae know whit it’d really be like if I wis teasing ye my lady?” he replied, voice seeming deeper now, the last two words coated in syrup.

He had leaned forward, putting his hands to either side of you and caging you in. Your heartbeat quickened and you felt a confusion in your blood, fighting to rush to either your cheeks or between your legs. Johnny watched in delight as you naturally leaned back, not even realising you were doing so until you were braced on your forearms, him continuing to follow to stay right in your space.

It was delicious watching you rebel for what was probably the first time in your life. He had met many women from the nobilities of these silly little Kingdoms, none quite as sheltered as you. And yet there was such a fight in you wrestling to get out. He knew it had always been there, knew that this was destiny for you to fall into their laps. He would bring out that fight, let you sharpen your nails on his skin and whet your teeth on his blood.

“Perhaps you should reevaluate your surety that you could truly tease me” you said, trying your best to emulate the way you heard the vipers of different social events speak. Polite in the most cutting of ways.

“Such a sharp tongue on ye” he grinned, putting a firm hand to the centre of your chest and giving one strong push.

With a soft oof you found your back on the bed, arms no longer holding you up. He readjusted, bringing one knee to rest on the small space at the edge of the bed between your legs and bracing one hand beside your head. The other he brought to your lips, two fingers bullying their way past to massage at your tongue.

“Cannae believe such a pretty wee mouth would gie me such an attitude” he cooed.

Your head may have been getting a little hazey, the sink into that floating space you had discovered this past couple of days feeling imminent, but you steeled yourself. You bit down, feeling a little satisfaction when he hissed and pulled his fingers away, shaking them out. Johnny was indulging you a little, he knew your bite had been controlled, gentle. You didn’t have it in you just yet to try to hurt him. He wondered if you ever would, but he thought it might be a good thing that your nature was more to be docile and gentle. He was more than sure he could push you to be mean, but for Simon a gentle love would be perfect.

“If you are not going to teach me, then I would prefer you go and play with someone else.”

“You bit me, feral wee thing.”

You tried to stop from going bright red, not able to stop it. Feral wee thing. You had never dreamed anyone would even have a passing thought to think of you in such a way. It made you feel a rush of heady satisfaction. Is this how a pampered cat must feel when it finds cause to sink its claws into something? The reminder that under all those frills and laces and poise there was still a predator?

There was a desperate want in you. Oh how you wanted and wanted and wanted. You wanted to bite him again to see him hiss, you wanted him to bite you so you could feel the sting. You wanted him to touch you. Oh Gods you wanted to touch him. You wanted to stop fighting and beg to touch him, show him how gentle and compliant you could be and have him coo sweet praises at you for it. You wanted to fight and fight and fight until he forced compliance out of you.

Johnny could see you at odds with yourself. He was pushing you he knew, probably too far too fast. How irresistible a temptation it was when it flushed you so, had you erratically grinding down on his knee without even realising it. Had your hands fisting the sheets, white knuckled in an attempt to keep from losing control and touching him. Touching yourself. Fuck, the little whine that had left you unbidden at his words had him painfully hard.

But there was another feeling aching away in his chest. His brothers in arms were 3 men he loved fiercely, he would call down the Gods to burn the world for them. Simon Riley especially. The man who had understood what it was like to be looked down on. When Johnny had first let Gaz talk him into joining the Duke’s little team, he had only done it because he thought the Prince was a bonnie thing he wouldn’t mind corrupting and because he wanted to see more of the world. It was Simon who noticed the way people would treat him. Like some untamed savage.

He enjoyed it for the most part, but it got lonely after a while to have everyone be scared of you. And then the big eejit in a mask had started dragging him to spar with the other soldiers, had goaded him into bantering little arguments at dinner where the servants in earshot could hardly hide their laughter, had told fantastical stories to wide eyed children about how Johnny’s homeland had cù-sìths and kelpies and unicorns and all sorts of magic bubbling away that had them constantly bothering Johnny to tell them all about it. He admitted he enjoyed telling them all about his home, treating them with ghost stories and tales of grand adventure.

It was only when he realised all at once that the people around here smiled at him in greeting that he had been fully aware of Simon’s cleverness and quiet care. The man was a monster on the battlefield, but so few saw that he was also fiercely loyal and he protected those he considered his. Looking at you, knowing that soon he would be giving you to the man who so fully deserved you, had his heart singing.

You would so perfectly compliment him, be the gentle place his heart could rest. Johnny felt such a rush of love for you then, the same warm light he got when communing with his Gods. He sent up a quick prayer, a thank you for sending you.

“Your aroused wee yin, that’s what this is.”

“What?”

“Ye wanted teaching naw?” he said, steady and encouraging as the bitten hand was placed on your waist, giving a warm squeeze. “This feeling, it’s arousal. This divine wee body wants touching, needs something inside.”

You heard your little noise this time, a startled note. You had tried to put your finger inside, it had felt foreign and uncomfortable. The Prince and the Duke hadn’t… well there was the Duke’s clever tongue. It made you see stars. Did it need to be a tongue?

“I tried that” you mumbled, avoiding his eyes out of shame.

You jolted when he pressed his lips against your jaw, kisses peppering over you and down to the neckline of your dress. The hand at your waist dragged leisurely down, rucking your dress up to your thigh before pausing there. He pulled his lips away.

“Look at me please.”

He had asked so achingly sweetly that you had little choice in the matter, meeting his eyes. He was different somehow, no less intense but the intensity was different. Softer in a way that was terrifying for a reason you couldn’t name.

“Fuck. Tha thu bòidheach” he said, almost breathless.

“I don’t…”

“Let me touch ye. Let me show ye how to feel good.”

Gone was the teasing, he seemed so sincere now. And he wasn’t pushing you either, the hand on your dress paused. With the others there hadn’t been anytime to really think about it. You had been overwhelmed with sensation. But now he gave you time, gave you a quiet moment to decide if this was something you wanted of him. And still, still you wanted.

“...please” you whispered, not even sure if the word was audible.

“Ok mo leannan, I’ve got ye. Going tae undress you.”

And undress you he did, achingly softly, until you were bare on the bed. He moved you with gentle touches to be fully laid out so he could straddle you and press his forehead to yours with an affectionate headbutt that made you scowl and butt him right back, causing him to chuckle lightly and nuzzle on you.

“Still my feral wee thing.”

He started trailing kisses from your jaw again, this time not meeting any fabric to stop him from continuing down to the swell of your breasts. His hand was firm on your stomach keeping you pressed down into the plush bed as he swirled his tongue around one of your nipples. Your body tried to arch without your permission and you nearly choked on your own saliva at the sharp gasp of pleasure escaping your lips.

“I… I can feel it between my legs. Ah! I-it’s like there is a path between them” you rambled, trying to fight against the urge to just lose yourself in the sensation so you could understand.

The wet pop of his mouth leaving you was obscene.

“Aye, to here” he said, hand coming to cup you. “Lots of names people call this.”

“His highness he- oh Gods I don’t- c-cunt! That’s what he called it.”

“Fuuuck. Never sounded so pretty a word before now. Whit did his royal pain in the arse call this then?” he asked, finger delving in to press at your clit.

“He called it my clit. Please!”

“Come on wee yin, use your words.”

“I - I don’t know!”

It was driving you wild, his fingers just sitting there pressing. Not moving. You were trying to wriggle as best you could with his other hand still holding you down, trying to get anything. You thought you might cry.

“Aye ye dae. Dinnae be a brat, tell me whit it is ye want.”

You lashed out, small hand grabbing at his hair and sharply pulling as you bared your teeth at him. You hated being called a brat and he had done it twice now. You were a Duchess, demure and proper. If anyone was being a brat it was him. He brought this out in you, this beast. If he was so determined to act like it was somehow you being the problem here then he could do something about it. Oh, wasn’t that a thought that got your blood hot.

“Move your fingers. Use your tongue. Do something!”

His pupils were blown out and he was panting like a dog at the little attack, baring his teeth right back with a feral grin.

“I’ll allow it my lady, jist this once. After ye get married, ye try that again and I’ll bend ye over and fuck your arse silly while the Prince eats out your cunt. Ye’ll be begging for us tae let your husband come take whit’s his by the time we’re through with ye.”

You didn’t fully understand, but it made you want to fight even more nonetheless. He still wasn’t moving his damn fingers. Deliberate of course on Johnny’s part. He had really thought he could be slow and loving with you, but he adored you spitting mad like this. You were so haughty, refusing to beg him pretty. He knew that Simon and Price would probably spoil you completely, it would be him and Gaz who would work you up like this, get you fighting.

“You insufferable man! I will not beg anything of you” you snapped, yanking him down so you could kiss him.

It was a battle more than anything, all tongues and teeth. The sounds were lewd and you did not care, only relishing in a small victory when he had to move his hands from between you to balance himself and you could wrap your legs around him, rolling your hips to get that friction he should have just given you in the first place. He moaned loudly into your mouth and you felt a hard length pressing into you beneath the heavy fabric of his kilt. It startled you enough to loosen your grip on him, allowing him to pull his mouth from yours, both of you panting and staring at one another.

“Did Gaz teach you the name for it?”

“He… I think he touched it, but he wouldn’t let me see.”

“Selfish Prince hm?”

Your legs tightened around him when he went to move off of you, not understanding. He gave your neck a small nip with his teeth which made you yelp and he used the distraction to pull away and stand. You turned to your side to look up at him in what you had wanted to be anger, but was more akin to looking like a kicked puppy. When he started to unwind the fabric covering him, you watched with fascination.

You could not look away from the heavy weight between his legs, hard. He wrapped his hand around it and you saw that it was leaking, his thumb catching on that liquid to slick himself up.

“Cock gets hard like this the same way that pretty cunt gets all wet,” he said, fist continuing to pump slowly.

“May I…?”

You weren’t sure how to ask exactly, but your curiosity had cooled some of your fight. You wanted to touch him the way he was touching himself, see what it felt like. You swallowed thickly, salivating with the image of putting your tongue on him. Would it feel for him the way the Duke had made you feel? He held his hand out to yours and when you took it guided you to hold him.

It was velvety, hotter than you thought. Sticky. His low moan made your bones rattle. You could die to hear him do it again. You shifted forward to taste it and the noise you were rewarded with made you believe in his old Northern Gods.

“Fuck, pretty little tongue feels perfect. You’re perfect” he groaned.

For some reason those two words made you squirm far more than any filth that he could have come out with. He carded a hand through your hair and moved your head back from him, groaning.

“Turn around mo leannan.”

You didn’t follow the instruction immediately, confused and stubborn. But you didn’t resist when he just took your body and turned it as if you weighed nothing to him. You were laid on your side facing away from him and his body joined you, chest against your back. His arm landed heavy on your hip, hand coming around to finally touch you like you had wanted.

“Touch yourself the way I’m doing, I’m going tae move my fingers to put them inside. Need ye tae relax.”

You wanted, you wanted, you wanted. If he was going to give you what you wanted then you could do what he said without complaint, fingers bumping against his sweetly as you took over. He readjusted your legs, pushing his cock between your thighs making you moan at the heat of it. When he was able to rut slowly he finally dropped his fingers to your opening, pushing one inside.

It felt different to when you had done it. It felt so hot and tight and wet and you could feel your walls trying to milk his finger.

“So tight. So hot and tight and perfect. Fuck taking it so pretty aren’t ye mo leannan? This was made for a cock, that’s whit I meant by saying I wisnae going tae take your maidenhood. The first cock in ye should be yer husbands in this Kingdom. Fuuuck, bunch of bastards. If ye were from the Northern Isles wouldnae be a problem for me to be inside ye before ye married.”

Everything felt blindingly intense, but it felt like you were on a thin line between that and a fuzzy softness. Like if you just gave in to it, you could leave your thoughts to the wayside and just feel. You resisted, too busy buzzing with the singular thought that one finger was already making you feel desperately stretched and full. A cock inside you?

“I’d die if you put it inside me, s’too big. Feel so full already” you whined, grabbing one of the pillows to press your face into.

He was picking up the pace, the sound of his hard cock sliding between your thighs combined with the sound of his finger pumping in and out of you wet and only interrupted by both of your desperate noises.

“I know, so tight. We’ll help ye, me and the Prince and the Duke. Get ye ready and excited,” he said, his words spoken right into the flesh of your shoulder where he had buried his head.

He added another finger and you swore, not something very lady like but fuck you wanted, you wanted, you wanted. Your own fingers bumped against his again, dipping down to get more of that slick to make everything feel better. He kissed at your shoulder and you thought you could die from such a sweet little gesture.

“So good, taking it so good. Feels better already hm? Ye know that ye were made to take our cocks, can feel ye clenching thinking about it. Would ye like that? After Simon gets ye nice and full with a child let the rest of us have ye. Never going tae want for anything wee yin, we’ll take such good care of ye.”

He reminded you of Gaz, the words seemingly being spoken for himself more than you. The idea that he would find it pleased him thinking of you being taken care of was going to give you heart problems.

It was only after you came with a scream that he really showed you how much this was affecting him. He fucked your thighs with a fury, leaving your breathless. You had taken your fingers away, choking a sob when he pulled his out and then just crying out incoherently when instead of removing them entirely he went back to your clit, the overstimulation dragging pleasure out of pain.

“J-Johnny I can’t!”

“Ye fucking can! Cum for me again my lady” he growled.

Turned out you could and the way you howled had him cumming as well. You felt ropes of sticky fluid make a mess of your thighs and you were too boneless and dazed to question it. That was a lesson for another time, on the balance of things you reckoned school was out for the day.

#cod #cod au #fanfic #mhairiwrites #tf 141 x reader #soap x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #so the West coast of Scotland is fully flooded today I will therefore just have to sit inside all day and read fanfiction oh no #going to call that divine intervention

191 notes · View notes

lynnbeth5172 · 1 year ago

Text

Stitched Up Love iii

Another nightmare, it was always the same. When Aemond lost his eye, that time it was Jacaerys; he was the one who stabbed his eye out, most times in his dreams. His cousins and nephews took turns stabbing him, in one dream it was Rhaena, the next it was Baela…but it always ended with Lucerys.

His mother knew of the night terrors, when they started. She’d calm him when she heard his screams from his bedchamber, but as he got older and was able to stifle his cries. She hadn’t noticed that he still has the nightmares, he didn’t want to make her more tired than she already was, not when he could see the bags underneath her eyes or the skin around her fingers getting worse and bloodied.

He rubbed his eye and felt an ache coming, clenching his jaw and the blanket as the ache of his eye continued, breathing in deeply and breathing out as the pain slowly began to fade.

He got out of his bed and began putting on his riding leathers, then braiding his hair and pulling his eyepatch on. Planning to ride Vhagar to take out the bit of tension that the nightmare had on him. It made him feel free of the nightmares, free of his fathers neglect.

In a few days it’ll be his father’s name day he mused on that thought, he knew that the king would have a feast to celebrate. As if he deserved any celebration for being a complete arse of a father. Aemond knew that his half sister will be there, his nephews and cousins will be there. That mere thought made his knuckles clench, Vhagar probably felt his tension so he yelled ‘Dohaeris’ as they were in the sky, eventually flying back to the dragon pit.

“Ziry’ll sagon okay…”

He patted the elder dragon’s back and Vhagar snorted when he did that, Aemond smiled when she did that. After he claimed Vhagar and had healed properly enough from his eye injury; he visited the elderly dragon. He had felt slightly alone due to the preparations for Helaena and Aegon’s wedding, so he went to visit Vhagar in her cave. A book in hand as he read to the dragon in Valyrian, it was about the Doom of Valyria and talked about House Celtigar. Another family of Valyrian blood but rode no dragon or married a relative. The visits to Vhagar became more frequent as his siblings' wedding neared, with needing to sooth his sister’s panic attacks and having to hide the wine from Aegon, the dragon pit became a small sanctuary for him. A place to just take a rest from all the chaos of the wedding day, now it’ll be the name day of his father. Or rather the king.

“Rhaena won’t gūrogon ao…hen mēre hen rhaenyra’s letters, ziry emagon zȳhon own zaldrīzes bona hatched.”

He removed his glove with his teeth and folded them together, holding them together as he left the dragon pit. Eventually making it back to the Red Keep where the small preparations were being made ready, he looked at the tapestry on the walls, instead of the debaucheries of man and woman fucking. Before his niece and nephew were born, his mother changed the tapestries to show The Faith, Seven pointed stars sewn, though some of the imagery was disturbing; he supposed it was better than the original tapestries that were put on the wall.

Making it to his mother’s chamber, he opened the door. Being met with his mother giving his decaying father a bath, scrubbing the moldy skin with a gentle hand; through the trials and tribulations, Queen Alicent still had remained a beautiful woman, even with the light purple hue of bags under her eyes. As well as her tired look as she nodded along to her husband’s ramblings, as Aemond’s presence was announced, his mother’s gaze had gone to him and a small smile came to her face as he came closer to kiss his mother’s cheek. Not doing the same for his father.

“Good morning, mother…hope you had a restful sleep.” He gave a small nod and smile at his mother, not focusing on his father.

“Indeed I did, I hope you did too,” Queen Alicent looked back to Aemond’s father, he remembered when the mold and rot hadn’t been that bad. Now it had claimed half of his father’s ear, Aemond would’ve been lying if he hadn’t admitted that he found a small semblance of humor in his father’s ear decaying.

Soon he’ll be bone and no more.

“I saw the servants scurrying to get things ready…” Aemond hesitated but went on;

“When will Rhaenyra and her family be coming?” His mother probably saw him tense up again, she took his wrist and gently squeezed it for comfort.

“They’ll arrive in a few days, I’ve sent a raven to Rhaenyra but I haven’t gotten a reply,” she pressed her lips together and took in a breath, as if the princess not reading her letter made her slightly disappointed.

Aemond took his mother’s shoulder and squeezed it gently, any mention of the princess had the Queen slightly upset. When he asked his grandfather about why she gets upset by the mention of the princess, The hand would simply say that they were close.

The King's wheezing broke him out of his thoughts, repeatedly saying “Aemma”. When Aemond was younger he used to think that Aemma was his father’s sibling or a friend, that was until he asked the maester who Aemma was; the maester explained that she was the last wife of his father, his half sister’s mother.

Now his father had taken to calling Aemond ‘Daemon’, which he remembered. Even if it was the rarest time of him being drunk, he vaguely remembered striking his father when he said that, making his father’s tooth fall.

Aemond stood but his hand remained on his mothers shoulder, wanting her to have a semblance of comfort. Leaning down to press a kiss on her forehead, that was when his father started coughing; his mother sighed like this was a common occurrence, it was.

“Aemond, fetch the maester…and maybe your grandfather.” He nodded and started walking towards the chamber door, only for it to open and be faced to faced with Isla, a basket in her hand and her chestnut hair in a braid that went down her shoulder. It suited her.

She seem to have peeked at what was happening since her smile faltered and she took a few steps back.

“I…Should I get the maesters?” Aemond fixed a reassuring smile onto his face.

“I’ll do it.” Then a thought occurred and he didn’t know why but he added: “Unless you’d like to join me to fetch the maester and my grandsire?” It seemed that the question was also unexpected by Isla as she raised her brow but nodded as he then offered her his arm to take. She hesitated but took his arm, her hand felt warm as they started walking together.

“Does this happen often?” He turned to her when she said that, her blue eyes were filled with curiosity, made him feel oddly warm inside. Though the question made him slightly uncomfortable, he hasn’t spoke to a lowborn like this, mostly polite curtesies. Most servants wouldn’t dare to ask these questions.

“Yes, mostly the coughing. The maesters make their daily round often…it feels like they sleep there.” He let a small smile come onto his face, Isla too had smiled a bit but her face went back to slightly serious.

“I’m sorry you have to deal with this, my mother suffers from some sort of sickness so I understand.” Her gaze went back down as they made it to where the maester Mello was, her face becoming slightly more somber. As if the thought was painful. He didn’t mention that he didn’t care for his father, his father never cared when his eye was stolen. Why should Aemond care when his father may lose another limb?

He did feel bad for the girl, offering a smile to her. Deciding to change the subject.

“How long have you been a seamstress?” Her gaze went back up to him and she simply shrugged and looked forward as she spoke:

“My mother stitched clothes and other things to make ends meet, she tried teaching my sisters how to sew but only few of us understood how to.” She smiled a bit at the memory, it was a pleasant sight.

———————————————————————————————

After the two of them retrieved the maester, Isla brought the elder man back to his father’s chamber. He went to retrieve his grandfather, who was in his study, he brought him back to the king’s chamber. When he got there, the seamstress was gone and there was only a green dress on his mothers bed.

Aemond made it back to his own chamber to bathe and change into a tunic and jerkin, as well as britches. Eventually going to the playroom of his niece and nephew, where he was met with a grip around his leg, he looked down to see his nephew Jaehaerys , looking up at him like a happy puppy. It made him smile as he scooped Jaehaerys up and walked inside the nursery.

“Rytsas, byka Jae.” He crouched down to join his nephew on the floor as he looked up to see his sister with Maelor in her arms, that was when he noticed Aegon was also there.

“I heard father nearly died again, shame he didn’t.” His elder brother smiled gave a crooked smile and let Jaehaera do a braid in his hair.

“He didn’t.” Aemond was slightly stoic when he said that, contrast to his brothers amused look.

“And a damn shame he didn’t.” His crooked smile faltered slightly, they all wished their father was dead. He caused their mother pain and ignored them all in favor for their worthless bastard nephews.

“Blood will be in the water and there will be no undoing.” Helaena whispered that to babe Maelor as she bounced him up and down, Aegon ignored it but Aemond raised a curious brow to her, she gave him a small smile and he returned it.

He closed his eyes for a moment and took in a breath, it was a peaceful moment and he didn’t want to ruin it. His fathers cough attack was just a normal moment for him, it became normal. He wondered if Isla the seamstress would get used to it, if her mother had the same condition as his father then maybe she’d be used to it.

Though his father will still be alive…his only hope that his death will come soon. Even if chaos comes.

———————————————————————————————

Okay so…this took some time to write but I don’t mind this chapter tbh, some may not like it but I do so…<3

#aemond one eye #aemond targaryen x oc #anti viserys i targaryen

17 notes · View notes

amenders93 · 1 year ago

Text

5 Weeks till Chicken Run 2!!

When two people are in a relationship (platonic or romantic), sometimes one of them never really knows how much the other truly cares about them unless they do something that shows it. Sometimes they can do an act that touches their heart and tugs at their strings. Other times, they can do a daring deed that may put their life in danger but in the end all is well. That's why for this week's post, we are going to review one of the most action-packed scenes from the movie - the pie machine rescue. When Ginger is taken for a test run for the Tweedys' new pie machine, Rocky is given the task to rescue her. Will he succeed or will he and Ginger be turned into chicken pies?

Let's pick up from when Mr. Tweedy snatches Ginger to test run the new machine he just put together for his wife. The other chickens see that their trusted leader is being taken to the barn and while the hens all start to panic, Fowler tries to take charge of this situation. Unfortunately, his commands are fallen onto deaf ears. That's when Rocky comes out of the hut and asks about the situation. Babs tells him that the farmers got Ginger and they're taking her to the chop. If only she knew where Ginger is really being taken to - and that it's much worse than the chop. Rocky is standing there all frozen, horrified to learn that the hen he's starting to care about is now meeting her doom.

Fowler insists that Rocky flies over to the barn and save Ginger. The younger rooster thinks fast and says that him flying into the barn is just what the Tweedys would expect and instead they give the enemy the old element of surprise, and the older rooster buys into it, still talking about the Germans as if WW2 had never ended. Fowler asks what his plan is and Rocky simply improvises by using a small coat hanger from Babs's knitting bag and having Bunty lift him up a telephone pole with an electrical cable that runs into the upper loft window of the barn. He hooks the coat hanger onto the wire and slides down toward the open barn window, screaming all the way down. He might have been hoping he looked heroic, but actually he looked completely terrified.

Landing in the hay loft, Rocky gets a closer look at what is making the engine sounds. At first he is surprised by the size of the pie machine in the barn but then his amazed surprise turns to shocked surprise to see Mr. Tweedy clamp Ginger's feet into ankle holders on an overhead conveyor belt. The farmer pushes a couple of levers and the belt starts moving Ginger toward the big opening in the machine. The Tweedys now move around to the side of the machine where the pies would come out so they're completely unaware of what happens now.

Ginger struggles ineffectually against her ankle clamps. Up ahead, she could see that the clamps released over a large chute that led to who-knows-where. This was a situation she couldn't think her way out of, or even will her way out of. For the first time, maybe in her whole life, she was totally helpless. But never fear because Rocky pops up behind her. Ginger had never dreamed she would be so happy to see him in her life. The rooster at first tries to run on the slick surface of the conveyor belt but his feet are churning madly. More than anything he'd ever done, he wanted to get to Ginger and save her. Beneath her tough exterior, Rocky had a feeling she liked him. He fights the conveyor belt and gets his legs to work, running towards the hen. He makes a leap for her, but was about a few seconds late. The ankle clamps releases Ginger and she falls down the chute. She was gone from his grasp. Our dashing rooster makes an inadvertent pun as he looks down at her from the top of the chute.

As Rocky looked down to where Ginger had fallen and hears her helplessly screaming his name, he was unaware that he was standing on a lever. Since he didn't know he was standing on it, he also didn't know that it was moving downward under his weight. When it reached its lowest point, it turned on an indicator light that was labeled Veg Feed. A trough of mixed vegetables poured down on Rocky's head, sending him hurtling down the chute too. As he slides down the chute, ahead he sees a sign that said Veg where the mixed vegetables go but just before he arrived, it flipped over and now it says Meat. Still zooming downward, Rocky was diverted down another chute that sent him toward a set of rotating saw blades. At the last second he notices a pole he could reach and grabs onto it. He dangles over the blades for a few seconds, then the pole dips down a tad and he slides down, plummeting down a dark shaft. Down below, he could see that in the depths of the machine was a labyrinth of conveyor belts going in all directions with huge, noisy stampers, rollers and pushers going the whole time.

Rocky lands in a big clump of dough that was chugging along on a conveyor belt. And to his surprise and relief, there was Ginger chugging along as well with her feet stuck in dough too. Rocky and Ginger may be together again but right now having their feet stuck in dough is the least of their worries. They hear another menacing roar and look behind them to see a giant roller, rounding around the corner and coming down the conveyor belt toward them. It was clear to see that as it rumbles toward them, it flattens all the clumps of dough. In a second, it would flatten them too! They struggle mightily to get out of their dough balls but are far too mucked up in it so Rocky hops over to Ginger with the dough attached to his feet. He sees a chain swinging over the conveyor belt; he grabs Ginger's hand and grabs hold of the chain, pulling them both out of their dough balls and out of the way of the dough-roller.

When they reach an opening above the roller, a large pole knocks them off the chain and they plop down face-first onto a flattened blob of dough. They quickly recover from their fall when Ginger notices a giant pie crust cutter coming toward them. Rocky and Ginger quickly get out of the way in time as the cutter comes down around them, holding onto each other in the process. They notice this little detail as they look at each other when the cutter goes back up. But then they are then swept up in a pie tin that is then moved onto yet another conveyor belt. Both are scared but at least they're going through it together. Rocky places his arm on Ginger's arm to comfort her through their scary ordeal.

Up head they see a giant gravy dispenser, squirting scolding hot gravy into the tins in front of them. Then diced mixed vegetables come raining down on them. Rocky and Ginger are now stuck in a chicken pie tin being covered in diced up carrots, potatoes, peas and celery and about to be smothered in gravy. Rocky digs through the vegetables to find something to help them as Ginger keeps looking at the dispenser in fear. Soon the clever rooster grabs a whole carrot and, wielding it like an orange lance, shoves it right smack into the hot snout of the gravy blaster. The carrot plug holds; Rocky and Ginger high-five each other on their narrow escape from this ordeal. But just then, a presser comes down on them, covering them up with a layer of pastry.

A pusher then slides the Rocky-and-Ginger pie into a large room filled with other pies. This particular pie has two bulges moving around in it until the rooster and hen pop out of it, breathing some fresh air and a sigh of relief, but also feeling a little bit of heat. Rocky comments that it feels like an oven in the room they were in, but Ginger notices something he doesn't at the time. She taps his arm to alert him and that's when he finally takes notice. The room feels like an oven because it IS an oven. Rocky and Ginger watch terrified as blue lights begin to light all around them, shooting out of the floor. Then they see a large, heavy door at the front of the room start to close. With no time to lose, Ginger races toward the door with Rocky right behind her.

Rocky is following Ginger towards the door until he falls into a pie. He tries to keep up with her, he really was, but just keeps on falling into more pies and getting covered with more gravy. All the while, Ginger is still running towards the door not realizing that Rocky's ordeal. She slides through the space beneath the lowering door and looks back to see her friend falling into nearly every pie in the oven. First Rocky has rescued Ginger a few times in the machine. Now she has to rescue him. Talk about teamwork. Ginger grabs a wrench and sticks it in the door to hold it open, then races back inside, pulls Rocky out of the pie he was mucked up in and rushes him toward the door. And she knows she has to do it quickly too because the door was now bending the wrench. Soon the wrench shoots out and lands into nearby gear works, and the door starts to close again. Rocky and Ginger then slide through just in the nick of time; Ginger did have to save her beloved beanie hat before the door closed though.

Ginger places her hat back on her head and Rocky uses a rag to wipe the gravy off his face so he could see again. At least they're finally out of danger. However, Ginger then feels a drop of gravy fall on her head and one on her hand. She and Rocky look up to see the gravy dispenser still with the carrot stuck in the spout, shaking vigorously and dripping gravy. The chickens looked around the machine as it started to ground and groan. Rocky yells to Ginger that the machine is going to blow and that it's time to run. As they start to make their getaway, one of the gear works shoots out a screw and falls down on the gravy dispenser. The dispenser spits out the carrot which shoots past the fleeing Rocky and Ginger and knocks out six enormous cogs from their spot.

The terrified chickens make it to another chute just before the cogs could either come crashing down on them or block their escape. The cogs begin the clatter down the chute after Rocky and Ginger who were now running for their lives as fast as their feet could carry them. Kind of reminds you of the boulder scene from Indiana Jones: Raiders of the Lost Ark, doesn't it? All around them sharp gears are shooting out and getting stuck into the walls. Up ahead they see an opening that leads to a chasm of bigger gears. Rocky uses one of his hands to grab Ginger's hand and they make a leap the rooster grabs hold with his other hand. Screaming their heads off, the chickens swing over the chasm and towards a vent where they are then flown up and out of the machine. They then land on top of a pie box rolling down a line which comes to an abrupt halt.

Rocky and Ginger can finally relax now that their scary ordeal is finally over; they were finally out of the horrible machinery. They breath a sigh of relief with Ginger lying on top of Rocky. At once, Ginger looks up and screams again, moving out of the way just as a giant press comes down from overhead and stamps a label onto Rocky's chest. The hen's face of terror gets even worse when she reads the label on the rooster's chest; she peels it off and he yells out in pain. Ouch, that's got to hurt! Ginger tells Rocky they've got to warn the other chickens of this horrible realization and they run out of the barn, completely unnoticed by the Tweedys who are far too preoccupied with their pie machine going on their fritz.

We're going to stop right there because what comes after this daring rescue is important for next week's post. Anyway last week's post has shown that Rocky and Ginger are starting to like each other. Some might even say there's a hint of attraction between them. However you never really know how much someone cares about you unless they do something to show it like doing a kind and heartfelt act or even a brave and daring deed. In this case, Rocky went in to rescue Ginger from the pie machine even though he was in danger himself. He may have been scared but he swallowed his fear to rescue his damsel in distress. After their dance and her apology, Rocky was starting to truly care about Ginger. The rooster even had a feeling that the hen was starting to care about him after seeing him cheer up her friends and their dance together as well. In this case, it's true; Ginger does care about Rocky because when he needed rescuing himself, she came to his aid. This whole action-packed scene showed just how much they do care about each other. When one needed saving, the other is there to lend a helping hand even if it meant putting themselves in danger in the process.

Anyway this is my eighth weekly Rocky/Ginger moment post commemorating the upcoming sequel to Chicken Run. I hope you enjoyed this post. There will be 4 other posts about the first film coming up in the future as well as one monthly post about the sequel. Waiting for this long-awaited sequel may not be easy but these posts are making it easier as the release date draws nearer.

#chicken run #chicken run 2 #chicken run dawn of the nugget #dawn of the nugget #ginger and rocky #rocky and ginger #rocky #ginger #countdown

14 notes · View notes

birdofdawning · 1 year ago

Text

The Bookseller’s Eldest Daughter and the Witch’s Girl

The first chapter is here; the previous chapter is here.

Chapter Three

Afterwards the Bookseller’s eldest daughter was never able to tell how long she was at the fairy revel, or even that much of what she saw and did there.

It was like a hideous fever dream that you can never quite forget nor entirely recall, the sort where small inconsequential things — a fly crawling on a hand, the ornate floral frame around a portrait, the pattern on the carpet under your feet — take on enormous significance, while the actual events fade into a hazy malaise. She knew that she was in a great ballroom, and that it was dark and crowded and uncomfortably warm. The air was close and heady and smelt of earth and spices. Candles were everywhere, dripping fatty tallow on the floor and burning with steady red flames that made the laughing faces in the crowd around her loom large and grotesque as they jostled past, appearing and disappearing into the throng.

The music pervaded everything, though she never saw the performers. She could feel it in her veins, urging her to join the revelry, and she would suddenly discover herself performing a wild galliard with other laughing dancers — some of whom she felt she ought to know, in that odd half-maddening way we all feel sometimes (if only she could think) — or taking part in a riotous cotillion with a man who seemed to be hollow from behind. A poorly-dressed girl who seemed about her own age danced past her looking exhausted, and the Bookseller’s eldest daughter saw that wherever this girl stepped brambles grew, so that she must keep moving least the thorns catch at her and coil up around her.

She thought that she may have stared for some time at her own distorted reflection in an old mirror... and then someone laughed and offered her wine; but when she reached for a cup from their tray she saw that a large toad was sitting solemnly among the vessels and she recoiled, startled. And then everyone laughed again and she laughed too, and they all moved on into the dance.

She explained the intricacies of a Spanish novel she had once enjoyed to tall grey woman who had water dripping down her skin and a sodden gown. While the girl talked the woman silently caressed her face with both hands, which was both a little disconcerting and unpleasantly wet. When the girl got to the really interesting part of story the lady smiled, showing far too many sharp teeth.

She remembered the music slowing at one point, becoming more sombre, and the crowd parting for a languid pavane to pass. All the dancers wore crowns of burning candles, hot wax dripping down their faces, and among them she thought that she recognised a woman from the next street over who she knew had died two years earlier, and another woman who she was sure was married to the baker on Clock Street. Then the procession was lost to the sight of the girl, who forgot all about them almost immediately.

In fact, the Bookseller’s eldest daughter had become so lost in the fairy revel that she may have stayed with them forever if it hadn’t been for a very fortunate thing that happened. She was deep in conversation with a smiling man in a velvet tail-coat; he was speaking of Roman law and she was staring in fascination at the snail that was slowly crawling up his cheek. She was only distracted from this when a child offered her a tray of golden apples. She took one without thinking, bringing it up to her nose to smell. And at once she was beset with the most delicious scent. The apple smelt of sweetness and long summer nights and dark eyes and secret kisses exchanged in an orchard, kisses exchanged with— who? She couldn’t think. The smiling gentleman asked her Why do you not eat? And she was just opening her mouth to take a bite when— oh! She felt a sharp pain in her foot, and looking down she saw— what do you think? An ordinary little black hen, just like the ones everyone kept in their yards in her neighbourhood. And this hen had cocked its head and was giving her a short, cross look, like hens do. Then all at once the girl remembered going out to the coop on frosty winter mornings to let out the hens, and throwing out grain for them, and gathering eggs for her sister to cook. And abruptly the reality of her sister’s awful plight came back to her, making her gasp.

When she looked back down the little black hen had already scuttled away among the throng of the ball, leaving the Bookseller’s eldest daughter feeling like she had just woken up from a heavy sleep. She glanced about her but everything was a nightmare of moving bodies and murmuring voices and that incessant unsettling music that seemed to make her bones vibrate like they were made of glass. The smiling gentleman again urged her to take a bite of the apple, but now she remembered exactly why she shouldn’t eat anything offered to her in this place and she said “Do you know, I think I shall leave it for later,” and dropped it into her satchel. The gentleman immediately lost interest in her and moved on to join another cotillion that had formed nearby and the Bookseller’s eldest daughter tried to think about what she ought to do next. She needed to find her sister’s head, but where to start?

She had just decided that she would climb up onto a table or chair so she could get a better look at the ballroom when a great cheer went up from the dancers. Looking around she saw that at the end of the ballroom a very Wonderful Person — why, the very same Wonderful Person that she had seen in Mr Prosper’s house only last night! — had stepped up onto a podium and, lit by a soft white light from above, was smiling down at the company. They wore a brocade dressing gown over a wine-dark suit, and an elegant pair of ram’s horns grew from Their forehead. Hands in Their pockets They waited for silence, smilingly.

“My dear friends,” the Person finally began in a melodious voice that rang out like a pistol shot, “It is that time of the evening when we must needs acknowledge the fortunate guests — O, how so very fortunate! — who have been received into our gracious company, and to take a moment to drink a toast to them. But more importantly we give them this opportunity to drink a toast to us, their kind hosts, to whom they are — of course! — so very obliged. (Or are they obliged? Who can say; Mortals are remarkably ungrateful creatures, and, to tell the truth, I have not paid much attention.) But still, a toast!” And at a gesture from the Wonderful Person a thin, pale young man stepped out of the crowd and handed Them a goblet of spun glass that contained some heavy golden liqueur. The Bookseller’s eldest daughter eyes lingered on this young man… there was something slightly familiar about him, as if she had seen him before but did not number him among her acquaintances. But then the thought was broken as all about her revellers lifted up old drinking horns, wooden cups, chalices of crystal or bone. A cup was thrust into her hand by an unseen person and she imitated the others.

Then, with an ironic twist of their mouth, the Very Wonderful Person cried “My friends — to our guests!”

To our guests! The company all repeated, laughing, and drank deeply.

Fortunately, when she was twelve the Bookseller’s eldest daughter had read a slim volume entitled The Parlour Mountebank: Twenty-Six Simple Stratagems to Amuse and Bewilder, and she had been inspired to practice the trick of appearing to drink while actually emptying the liquid down your sleeve, causing her sister (who even then did most of the laundry) to become very annoyed with her. So she downed her cup too and tried to ignore the unpleasant feeling of liquid soaking through her dress.

After drinking the Very Wonderful Person leaned down slightly to regard a befuddled beggar that the Bookseller’s eldest daughter vaguely recognised from about the city. Cupping the beggar’s chin in Their hand and turning his head first one way and then another, the Person regarded him thoughtfully.

“How small they are, and how fleeting. And ugly. Like mayflies. Mayflies darting about, always in a hurry, always trying to outrun each day of the short time they have in this world.”

“Wha—?” said the beggar, swaying.

“Quite so, quite so,” said the Very Wonderful Person kindly, and patted the beggar’s shoulder as They stood straight again. “Such is mortality.” They suddenly gave the poor man a sharp kick that sent him sprawling backwards into the laughing crowd. The Very Wonderful Person smiled down beneficently for a while as the beggar was roughly buffeted about by those he had fallen against, and then They raised Their hands, drawing back the attention of all.

“But these mortals who have found their way among us tonight! O, these lucky, lucky mortals…! Why, Dame Fortuna smiled on these few unhappy mayflies when we, their Very Good Friends, invited them into our sublime company. And for a time — only for a time! and this is their tragedy! — we have shown them such raptures and wonders that, upon their return to their grubby little abodes and unforgiving lives, they will soon likely wither away and perish for the want of our attentions. And how unhappy they shall be!” The Very Wonderful Person tilted Their head and took a moment to chuckle at this thought.

“BUT FOR TONIGHT!” They shouted abruptly, making everyone jump. “But for tonight…” They whispered, and a tear trickled down Their shining face while They stared beatificly into the middle distance, “O, how they shall live and delight and revel among us! How blessed a mortal who finds such kind friends as we!”

A chorus of agreement came from the crowd, but the Very Wonderful Person had suddenly become fascinated with Their goblet and had fallen silent. After a moment the viols and pipes again struck up and the dance began once more, but still the Person stood, turning the spun glass goblet this way and that, admiring how the soft white light shone through and formed colours that danced upon Their fingers. Asently, the Bookseller’s eldest daughter tilted her head back to follow the light back to its source.

And there, suspended in the darkness, floated her sister’s beautiful head, radiant in that unruly place.

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter stifled her cry of astonishment and turned to fight her way to the edge of the crowd, narrowly avoiding becoming caught up in another processional, as she tried to see how her sister’s head hung in that darkness like that. Was it dangling from the rafters on a rope? Or floating through some fairy magic? (And if the latter, how on earth was she to retrieve it?) Stepping outside of the ring of guttering candles and shading her eyes, she was finally able to see that an upper gallery ran around the ballroom, with several fine ladies promenading around it and watching the ball through opera glasses. And there, at the far end of the gallery, her dear sister’s head had been rather brutally hung from a railing by its own long, brown hair.

Looking quickly about the Bookseller’s eldest daughter saw the stairs leading up to the gallery tucked away in the shadows across the room, and made for them. Two dancers whirled around her, reaching out to pull her into their sport, but the girl ducked away. A tiny wall-eyed old man appeared in front of her proffering a tray of plum cakes that she knew, somehow, would grant her the ability to read people’s dreams if she but ate one, but she stepped around him. A lady in a moss-covered dress crossed her path leading a great wolf on a silver chain and the beast glanced over at her, curious, perhaps, at her determined gait; but then it lost interest and followed its mistress back into the throng. Now her path was clear, and in seconds she had started up the stairs.

It took a moment for her eyes to get used to the dim light away from the ball, but when she did she came to an abrupt halt. Half-way up the staircase was a long, crouching figure swathed in a black shroud, and it was slowly descending toward her, feeling along each step with its hands as if searching for something. After a moment she took a hesitant step and at once the thing turned toward the noise, reaching out as if to grasp her. But its sleeve-covered hands found only air for it was still a few steps above her; and, with a dreadful sense of relief, she saw that its face was entirely covered with wrinkled cloth. The Bookseller’s eldest daughter tried to think of a plan. If she moved, even backing down the stairs, she was afraid that it would be upon her in an instant. The unexpected had occurred, she realised, and so she must extemporise.

Slowly slowly she reached into her satchel and found the golden apple she had put there. Slowly slowly she pulled it out. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she flung the apple past the thing on the staircase — but on the opposite side to where she herself stood. The apple landed with a thud, and then bump! bump! bump! it began rolling down the steps. The creature had immediately twisted back toward the noise with a swiftness that made the girl’s heart skip a beat, but every time it tried to capture the object that was coming down the staircase, the apple was already upon the step below it. The Bookseller’s eldest daughter squeezed herself against the wall as the thing passed her, and she felt worn fabric and long damp hair brush past her and smelt dust and the scent of a woman’s old-fashioned perfume. And then the figure was gone, lost among the crowd of the ballroom.

Releasing a breath, the Bookseller’s eldest daughter turned and began ascending the stairs again.

The gallery was lit by fireflies that orbited like stars about the several finely costumed ladies as they walked and talked together, discussing the dances below. Behind them hovered pages holding ready the fans and refreshments of their mistresses. No-one even glanced toward the Bookseller’s eldest daughter as she slipped past them like a shadow, though one lady sniffed the air and said “Have you found a new page, my dear? How diverting!” But her interlocutrix denied this and said that on the contrary she had been meaning to obtain a new child for some time now, because her current page was beginning to complaining of stiff joints and grey hairs, and it was becoming rather a bore — she would probably change him into something diverting soon and release the thing he had become upon a village somewhere. The others nodded sympathetically and said Aren’t mortals such a bother?

By now the girl had made her way to the end of the gallery where her sister’s head hung, still radiating that lovely soft light.

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter crouched down low beside the railings. From her satchel she took the knife, some string, and the large parcel tightly wrapped in oilcloth. And had any of those fine ladies turned their head to look back down the gallery a moment later, they would have seen her gently cutting away the beautiful chestnut tresses that tied the Bookseller’s youngest daughter’s head to the railings. And then the head itself was lifted away and gently wrapped in a large white handkerchief. And in its place the thing from the oil-skin parcel was hung.

But all were far too absorbed in their amusements to pay attention to the doings of a cheaply-dressed shopgirl; and in fact the merrymaking continued for several long moments before anything amiss was noticed. Then the Very Wonderful Person, who was still standing in a reverie, felt a drop of liquid strike Their shoulder. Glancing at it, They saw that it was blood — and, why, here was another drop! And looking up They saw, not the beautiful face of the Bookseller’s youngest daughter but — what do think? Ah, but you have guessed already! — it was a fresh sheep’s head, still dripping from the butcher!

“DECEPTION!” screamed the Wonderful Person, Their beautiful face contorting in rage as They pointed an accusing finger. “That false magician has tried to cheat us out of our prize with duplicitous counterfeiting spells!” The music stopped abruptly, and from all around came low angry murmurings that rapidly grew into bellows and shriekings of fury that were truly dreadful to hear. “To me!” thundered the Wonderful Person, “and onward! O, my friends, how we will pay back this petty-conjuror for his unspeakable impertinence!” [1] There was a swirling of shapes and colours, like a kaleidoscope of butterflies enveloping one before flying away, and the sound of a multitude of footsteps trampling over a hard wooden floor. And then the candles all blew out at once and the hall was empty.

A moment later the Bookseller’s eldest daughter crept out from the shadows of the staircase and made her way outside, gently supporting her satchel.

The Bookseller’s oldest daughter emerged from the waters of the river, quite dry as before, and staggered up the white steps to find the little black horse waiting for her. She threw her arms around its neck, wordlessly burying her face in its warm shoulder. After a moment the horse began nuzzling her hair in a comforting sort of way.

But soon the Bookseller’s oldest daughter stepped back from the little black horse, took a breath, and said “I suppose we should go home now.” The horse stood still while she awkwardly climbed onto its back, one hand guarding her satchel from buffeting.

And of course, all she wanted to do was to go straight to her home above the bookshop and restore her sister at once, just as you would expect. But she knew that she needed to return the little black horse first, and thank the Witch’s girl for its loan, and also to… well, to thank her for help again and so-on.

So the horse trotted back into that strange blue-lighted mist and they made their way through the dream-city. And perhaps the Bookseller’s eldest daughter dozed a little in the saddle (and if she did, well, no wonder after all her night adventures!) because it seemed to be almost no time at all before they were stepping through the Witch’s back gate behind the Brazier’s Quarter.

The horse came to a stop as the girl rubbed her tired eyes. The sky had lightened enough that she could see the tiny yard with its hen coop and little else. No Witch’s girl emerged from the house to greet them. She slid down to the ground and embraced the horse again, giving it a kiss on the cheek. “ Thank you!" she whispered, "I don't know if you are really a horse, if a very clever one, or a spirit in the Witch's service, but I think you are quite wonderful!” The creature rolled its eyes and turned its back on her, and she laughed and left it there.

But when the Bookseller’s eldest daughter stepped into the Witch’s kitchen she found that it too was quite empty, and cold besides, for the stove hadn’t yet been lit for the day. And, why, here were their tea cups from the evening before, still sitting unwashed on the table! She looked about her wondering if she ought to do something, feeling that awkwardness visitors always have when faced with household tasks that obviously need to be done. Perhaps she should go back outside to unsaddle the horse and begin currying it?

It was at this moment the Witch’s girl appeared, coming in from the yard. She carefully carried several eggs wrapped in her apron and from a finger dangled the lantern that the Bookseller’s eldest daughter had left tied to the little black horse’s saddle.

“Hallo!” she said, “Here you are, alive and unensorcelled. It must have been a good four-step plan after all, which I find surprising. You will have to tell me all about it while I light the stove.”

So the Bookseller’s eldest daughter sat down at the kitchen table (perhaps a little gingerly, for she was already feeling sore from riding) and began telling the Witch’s girl of her night’s adventures. She talked about that strange ride through the city, and discovering the revel being held in the reflection of the old villa, and of her careful preparations. But when she tried to speak of the ball itself, and what she saw and did there, her tongue stumbled in her mouth and her words failed… and then she found she couldn’t go on.

“I… I can’t… Why can’t I…?” she puzzled, and then looked alarmed. “Have I been I enchanted into silence? Is this how the fairies protect themselves from trespassers?” She gripped the table and tried to keep the panic from her voice.

But the Witch’s girl left what she was doing and knelt down beside her. “I don’t think so, my dear,” she said calmly, taking the Bookseller’s eldest daughter’s hand and holding it between her own. “I think that you have just been through a very frightening experience, and you were able to carry on because you are a brave and clever woman. And now that it’s over, and you don’t have to be brave anymore, you can finally feel scared in safety. It’s all quite natural.”

Now I’m sure you yourself have noticed how we can all stay strong and stoic through the direst troubles but as soon as ever someone is kind to us about it we immediately fall apart. And to her great horror, as soon the Witch’s girl said all this of course the Bookseller’s eldest daughter burst into tears.

“Oh my dear!” said the Witch’s girl, embracing her, “Oh my brave girl.” And the Bookseller’s eldest daughter hid her face in her shoulder and wept.

“You poor thing,” said the Witch’s girl as she patted her back kindly, “You have been very courageous indeed. I fancy you only have an inkling of the danger you were in—” At this the Bookseller’s eldest daughter sobbed louder and the Witch’s girl went on quickly: “But you have come through it like a hero! Why, someone could write a poem about you.”

“In iambic pentameter?” sniffed the Bookseller’s eldest daughter.

“Oh, dactylic hexameter or nothing!” proclaimed the Witch’s girl. “There, there. You’re quite safe now.” And she began absently untangling the verbena from the girl’s hair with her free hand.

“You smell of horse,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter into her shoulder.

“So do you,” said the Witch’s girl.

Finally the Bookseller’s eldest daughter sat back up. “Sorry,” she said, wiping her face on her sleeve in a way that would have annoyed her sister, “I think you were quite right: everything all rather overcame me once I knew it was over.”

“That’s often the way,” said the Witch’s girl wisely, “and a well-deserved cry afterwards is no disgrace. Are you feeling better now? Then let’s have a look at your sister.”

Unwrapped, the Bookseller’s youngest daughter’s head winked and blinked at the two of them in confusion as the Witch’s girl examined her, but, having no breath to speak with, it remained silent.

“I haven’t the least idea of how to swap the heads back,” realised the Bookseller’s eldest daughter suddenly, “Honestly I hadn’t thought that far ahead!”

“Ha ha,” said the Witch’s girl obligingly, leaning down to look at the severed stump of neck, which was as cleanly covered with skin as the rest of the head, “But I must say, your lack of foresight upon this matter astonishes me. Surely you have some book somewhere-or-other on fastening magically detached heads back onto their bodies? I am afraid your bookshop must be sadly lacking if not. I shall certainly avoid it when next I require reading materials.”

“Not magically detached heads,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, annoyed. “We do have books on anatomy and chirurgy, of course, and—”

The Witch’s girl, stood back up and deftly wrapped the head back in its handkerchief “I think you’ll find,” she said, “that you will have very little problem. The head hasn’t really been separated from its body, not in any important way; that’s how both parts are still alive. Just… I don’t know, nudge the sheep’s head aside with her real head and see what happens.”

“I see,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter doubtfully. “Well then.”

They looked at each other for a long moment. “The sun is rising,” said the Witch’s girl after several heartbeats.

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter started and glanced out of the window. “Yes, of course!” she said, spurred into activity. She quickly collected her things. “I expect the Witch will be up soon and wanting her breakfast, so you must get to work. She’s an early riser?”

“Not always,” said the Witch’s girl.

They stepped out into the Witch’s yard and the Bookseller’s eldest daughter turned to face the girl. “Thank you,” she said awkwardly, “For all of your help and for, well…” She trailed off a little helplessly.

The Witch’s girl waited a moment and then she leaned up and pressed her lips to the Bookseller’s eldest daughter’s. They stood like that for a long moment, the taller girl dropping her hands to the other's waist; and then she pulled away and said “No, I was supposed to kiss you, so that doesn’t count. We must start again.” And, surprised at her own boldness, she reached up and ran her fingers down through the Witch’s girl’s silky hair until she cupped her chin, which she drew toward her until their mouths met again.

Kissing is like anything else — the more you practice the more you improve. The Bookseller’s eldest daughter suspected she was getting better at it, and when the Witch’s girl let out a little sigh she felt sure of it.

Finally the Witch’s girl stepped back. “That’s two,” she said huskily.

“That’s one,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter quickly leaning forward to steal another, “That’s two.”

The Witch’s girl frowned. “Now you have overpaid.”

“I am a woman of business,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter airily, “and I consider it no bad thing to be in credit with someone I have had repeated dealings with.”

“Be that as it may,” said the Witch’s girl sternly, “with magic the price must be paid exactly, no more, no less.” And then she threw her arms around the Bookseller’s eldest daughter’s head, tugging her down and bringing their lips together one more time. “There,” she breathed some time later, “Our bargain is fulfilled. Good-bye.” And she turned and went inside.

The sun was well above the city walls when the Bookseller’s eldest daughter quietly let herself back inside the bookshop. She crept up the stairs and into the sisters' shared bedroom where the sheep-headed creature still lay passively, staring up at the ceiling. The girl gently encouraged it to sit up, then she opened her satchel and brought out her sister’s head, unwrapping it. “Just… nudge it aside,” she muttered to herself as she held the head up toward its body.

And a moment later her sister was sitting there blinking at her in astonishment.

“Ophelia!” she said. “Where is… what has… Oh! Why is there an old sheep’s head in my lap!” And she leapt to her feet, knocking the horrid thing to the ground so that it rolled away on the floor.

"Oh, Miranda!" cried the Bookseller’s oldest daughter, falling upon her sister and wrapping her arms tight around her.

“What has been happening!?" said the Bookseller’s youngest daughter, squirming away, "Oh! Get off me you great lump… you’re squeezing me! Ow! Ophelia! You smell like a tavern! And a stables! Stop it!”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter released her sister at last and looked her up and down. “What do you remember?” she asked.

The Bookseller’s youngest daughter frowned and thought. “I don’t really remember… Have I been ill? I dreamed that I was at a, a ball.” She shivered. “It was somehow quite awful, though I can’t now recall why. It’s all fading… But then you were there, and… who was that girl you were with?” Then she started moving her head about. “Why does my head feel so odd?”

“Does it?” said her older sister, stiffening in alarm.

“Yes, it feels… lighter—” and just then she put a hand to the back of her head, and immediately she shrieked “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY HAIR”

When the Bookseller arose half and hour later he found his two daughters preparing breakfast in an icy silence. Both had their correct heads, he noted with satisfaction. Whatever it was must be over. He’d be able to marry them each off with no-one the wiser.

Musing philosophically over the caprices of women, he sat down at the table and awaited his morning cup of tea.

[1] Mr Prosper appears to have been forewarned of the fairies’ anger — perhaps through some cryptic remark made by the magic mirror he is supposed to have owned — for by the time the fairies came for him he was already racing to the city gates in a hastily packed phaeton. And it was here, as he was attempting — unsuccessfully — to use various classical spells of opening upon those great portals, that the fairies overtook him. Faced with the host of furious spirits Mr Prosper abandoned his luggage and transformed himself into a barn owl, in which form he topped the walls and flew away, pursued by his former patrons. Whether he managed to escape I do not know, but it was several years before he was seen about in the city again.

Bereft of its horses, his phaeton was discovered upturned in the spice-traders' square just before dawn and its scattered contents were quickly appropriated and divided up among the less cautious of the city’s inhabitants. And I believe that the Witch’s girl later purchased a writing set and a pocket watch belonging to that unlucky magician, both of which had somehow found their way to Carpet Street and Mr Shovegroat’s Emporium.

The next chapter

#The Bookseller’s Eldest Daughter and the Witch’s Girl #If you've recognised the fairy tale you know that there is a third part to come #witchings #fairies #long fic

10 notes · View notes

pergimelaut · 10 months ago

Text

Pesan Ini Kutulis Untuk Mengingatkan Diriku (Dan Dunia) Bahwa Aku Masih Mengingatmu

Why is grief the providence of youth? I don't know. But I'd imagine that age deepens all feelings. —Knives Out

Ketika aku mengunjungi SMA setelah bertahun-tahun lamanya, aku mengingat bangku panjang tempat yang selalu kita pakai untuk berbincang. Di depan Green House. Aku melihat bangku itu dan mendengarkan percakapan kita. Kita bicara tentang apa saja. Dunia yang kita harapkan terbentuk di masa depan. Kondisi yang saat itu terjadi di negara-negara Barat dan permasalahan yang ada. Seolah-olah kita perlu dilibatkan untuk menyelesaikannya.

Aku mengingat obrolan kita tentang negara, ketika kita jalan kaki dari SMA ke UGM---nggak jauh, sih, hahaha, tidak sampai 2 km. Aku mengingat keluhanku saat itu tentang masyarakat Indonesia, yang hingga hari ini tidak pernah kusuarakan lagi bahkan kepada diriku sendiri, karena kamu menyadarkanku bahwa ada hal yang melampaui sikap dan tindak-tanduk masyarakat, yaitu sistem yang membentuk laku mereka. Banyak yang berharap Indonesia akan lebih baik ke depannya, dan jangan putus asa, jangan. Jangan menyerah pada mimpi, dan orang lain.

Tiap kali gua lagi mau bahagia gitu, yang kayak gini nih … gua tuh seneng, tapi rasanya, kayak gak boleh seneng-seneng banget gitu. Kayak ada yang ngelarang. —Jatuh Cinta Seperti di Film-Film

Malam terakhirku ziarah dari kuburanmu adalah malam yang buruk ketika aku pulangnya nggak bisa menyetir motor dengan benar. Pikiranku yang sempit telanjur panik takut dikejar oleh penjaga kuburan yang terus membentak menagih biaya parkir ketika aku nggak punya uang sama sekali. Aku berhenti di ruko yang sedang tutup dan cuma bisa memarkirkan motorku dan duduk. Bernapas. Bingung. Gelap. Sejak saat itu, aku belum pernah ke kuburanmu lagi.

Aku mengingatmu dalam aksi massa yang kuikuti selama kuliah. Aku mengingatmu selama menerima kenyataan bahwa negeri ini mungkin tak pernah baik-baik saja. Aku mengingatmu dalam hari-hariku yang terlalu bahagia, dalam perjalanan pulangku yang melewati tempatmu berdiam selamanya, dalam keterserahanku ketika aku hanya pengin bertahan dari hari ke hari saja.

Aku mengingatmu dalam kekhawatiranku kalau aku nggak pernah bisa S-2. Aku mengingatmu dalam kesedihan yang datang tiba-tiba bahwa ketika aku ke luar negeri nanti, kamu nggak ada di sana (kamu bahkan udah nggak ada sejak sekarang, sial betul kan). Aku mengingatmu dalam kegiatanku sehari-hari, ketika aku nggak betul-betul sedang sedih, ketika aku nggak betul-betul sedang senang. Lagi begini-begini saja. Tahu-tahu keingat saja.

Hal-hal yang berharga tidak akan singgah untuk waktu yang lama … ia mengenang semuanya karena yang ia miliki hanya kenangan. —The Hen Who Dreamed She Could Fly

Semalam, aku tiba-tiba sedih memikirkan bahwa apa yang kujalani sekarang terkesan melupakanmu. Awalnya begini. Aku sedang berbagi cerita dengan seseorang, bahwa ketika aku kecil, aku diajari untuk nggak sering-sering melakukan ziarah makam. Aku sepakat bahwa makam perlu dibersihkan, dan mengunjungi makam bisa menjadi jalan untuk membersihkannya. Tapi, nggak sering-sering. Jangan diagendakan untuk memperingati momentum tertentu, atau hari peringatan yang ada hitungan-hitungan kelipatannya, atau hari raya. Jangan jadikan bagian dari tradisi, karena, ya, memang bukan tradisi. Kupikir, itu masalah kepercayaan saja. Atau prinsip. Bukan anti berziarah. Tapi mendoakan kan, bisa di mana saja.

Tapi, seseorang menanggapi bahwa cara seperti itu bisa diartikan mudah melupakan orang. Kayaknya, aku salah menyusun kata-kata padanya. Maksudku nggak begitu. Tapi, mungkin memang bisa, kalau disimpulkan kayak gitu. Dan kayaknya, dia nggak bermaksud menuduh sekejam itu. Tapi, penerimaanku begitu, bahwa apa yang kulakukan terkesan melupakan kamu yang telah pergi. Dan aku nggak begitu. Aku nggak begitu kok. Aku nggak lupa. Aku masih ingat sedihnya hari-hari itu, masih, masih. Aku juga nggak mau melupakannya. Dan kalau aku harus mengulang kesedihan itu lagi, aku mau kembali ke hari-hari itu.

Dan, ya, kesedihan itu kembali lagi. Aku sedih lagi.

Of the future we see, does it hold something for me? —Given and Denied

Selama ini, caraku pulih dari racun dari duka karena kepergianmu adalah menyingkirkan apa yang menjalin kita. Kamu ada dalam daftar universitas tujuan untuk studi lanjut, video esai dalam durasi panjang tentang politik atau filsafat, berita-berita internasional di media massa, buku teori dan bacaan berat tentang hasil penelitian, foto salju atau daun yang berguguran. Aku kehilangan minat atas kegiatan yang dulunya kujadikan kesenangan.

Kucari hal lain yang membuatku bahagia tanpa tiba-tiba membayangkan kamu di sana. Mudah senang dengan hal-hal kecil. Bisa merawat keinginan sederhana yang kujalin sendiri. Berhenti peduli pada sistem besar yang membentuk dunia (ini privilege). Kamu nggak ada di sana. Kamu nggak ada dalam serial komik yang kuikuti (banyak, lho!), lagu-lagu pop yang kudengarkan (bisa tiap hari lagu favoritku bertambah satu!), bayanganku tentang tinggal di Jogja hingga sisa usia (percaya nggak?), novel yang sedang kukerjakan (PERCAYA NGGAK?), pekerjaan yang kutekuni saat ini (nggak akan bisa kautebak, pokoknya), keseharian rutin yang kujalani (betul nggak tertebak, deh). Atau, ya, hari ini. Kamu nggak ada di konsep "hari ini". Kita selalu bicara besok. Besok. Yang jauh. Keyakinan bahwa kita (kamu) masih akan hadir di masa depan.

Mereka anak-anak, dan anak-anak tak pernah mati. Kematian adalah urusan orang dewasa. —Seasons Passing in a Blink

Sebagaimana perubahan selalu terjadi di sekitar kita, manusia pun berubah. Tentu, kepergianmu berdampak (besar) padaku, tapi banyak juga kejadian-kejadian yang berkelindan dan berpengaruh untuk membentukku sekarang. Terutama ketika jarak waktu di antara kita semakin besar, dan pertemuan kita menjadi jarang (alias nggak pernah ada lagi), sehingga rantai sebab-akibat antara mengubah-diubah pun tidak seintens sebelumnya. Kadang, di antara rasa sedihku, aku juga merasa buruk karena itu. Kalau aku mengunjungimu, mungkin kamu nggak mengenali orang ini lagi.

Tapi, yah. Ada banyak yang berubah dariku, dan akan kuceritakan nanti.

Hari ini, aku akan ziarah ke kuburanmu.

Dan aku mau beli bunga untuk diriku.

Yogyakarta, 29 Februari 2024

#dia yang pergi dari dunia

4 notes · View notes

catboygirling · 1 year ago

Note

Trick or treat!!! :D

happy halloween, toma! you get:

The Hen Who Dreamed She Could Fly by Sun-mi Hwang! a korean tale of a domestic chicken who runs away from the farm and adopts a wild duckling.

#kitty.txt #asks #tomaturtles

2 notes · View notes

nix-lw · 2 years ago

Text

Day 1: Metamorphosis

The story about how Yrsa gained her new form. Or is it really new? Word count: 1906

The setting sun cast its last rays on the city of Winter Dale, bathing it in a warm light. Along the busy streets walked wolves and companions of all shapes and sizes on their way home from their work. The shops in the main square were just starting to prepare for closing time and customers were hurrying to make their last minute purchases. In the midst of the haggling shopkeepers, the hurried scholars and the guards on patrol a pair of young lupins could be spotted walking towards the city's Temple of Totema. The female walked with confidence in her step while the male followed her closely like a concerned mother hen.

“Are you ready for this, my love?”

Yrsa sighed and gave her worried mate a reassuring smile.

“This is the third time that you have asked me since we left home, dear.”

She gave Fayrn a playful nip in the ear. He yelped in surprise and instinctively jumped away to the side, his fur standing on edge. Yrsa just rolled her eyes and kept walking.

“I am ready. I have been ready for this ever since I learned about the ritual and you know that. You also know that I am far from the first to go through the Change. The experience is different for everyone, but every wolf that we spoke to told us that the transformation is painless. The seidrwolves know what they are doing so there is nothing to worry about, my beloved. I will be just fine.”

The lupin male seemed to calm down at her words and nodded, quickly catching up to her once more.

“I know, you are right… I guess I am more nervous about this than you are. Perhaps it’s because I just found you again that I feel so unwilling to leave your side, even for a second.”

Yrsa felt her chest warm at his words. Her mate could be such a worrywart when it came to her, something she found incredibly endearing but also frustrating. She was not used to having someone concerned for her wellbeing, given her strong physical build and excellent sword skills. All her life she had been regarded as strong, independent and reliable. Having someone that wished to protect her rather than being protected by her was very unusual. Though it could be argued that most things surrounding her and her mate were very unusual.

It had all started with dreams, vivid dreams so real they felt like memories. She had dreamt about flying high up in the air, about strong wings that could carry her over land and sea, about feeling the cold winter winds swirling in her fur as she soared across the sky. At first Yrsa had written them off as just that, dreams. Surely they were only dreams. However, after a few weeks of having these dreams she had begun to feel uncomfortable in her own body. Her legs, her ears, her tail, all of it suddenly felt unnatural. Her entire physical being felt… wrong. As time went on she began entertaining the thought that maybe, just maybe, the “dreams” were more real than she believed.

Then one day she met Fayrn, her beloved mate, and everything came flooding back to her. She realized that the dreams were indeed much more, they were visions of a life lived previously. Another time, another form, but still her. A form of her that she unconsciously longed to return to. Once she had told her mate about her conflicting feelings regarding her body, he had offered to go with her to the Temple of Totema and ask the seidrwolves what could be done. They had told them about the Change, a ritual performed for wolves that wished to transform themselves.

A kind, old jocol had taken the time to explain the process to them. First, one needed to fill out a document with necessary information about the wolf who wished to undergo the Change. This information included things like the time and date of their birth, which of the four spiritwolves they followed, which pronouns they preferred and so on.

This information would then be used by the Head Seidrwolf of Totema to create a personalized ceremonial scroll written in Old Runes, an ancient language that only the seidrwolves remembered and used. This scroll would be used during the ritual to focus energy toward the wolf for which the Change was to occur.

Then secondly, one needed to set a date when the moon would be in the right phase for the ritual. What phase would be needed for each ritual would be told to them by the Head Seidrwolf of Totoma. Third and last was to perform the ritual in the temple. How the actual ritual itself was performed was a secret only the seidrwolves were allowed to know, but the jocol did say that they could differ in execution depending on which of the four spiritwolves the wolf wishing to Change was dedicated to, and the practices of that particular temple’s seidrwolves.

This ritual was not as unusual as the pair had expected it to be, and they managed to talk to a few wolves that had undergone the Change. Their transformations were incredible miracles in the eyes of the young pair but seemingly normal to the seidrwolves of the temple. In their eyes, the Change was as natural as a caterpillar becoming a butterfly.

As the two lupins walked into the Temple of Totema the seidrwolves dedicated to Orrin welcomed them. After the sun had set and the moon slowly started to rise above the city, the Head Seidrwolf of Orrin announced that it was time for the ritual to begin.

Taking farewell to her mate, Yrsa followed them into the chamber dedicated to Orrin where the ritual was to be held. The room was well lit with torches that spread a warm glow upon the stone walls. In the middle of the room was a round stone altar with runes engraved along the edges. In the ceiling was a large stained glass window depicting the changing of seasons. In the middle of the window was Orrin, his eyes looking down on them from above. The seidrwolves led Yrsa to the center of the altar and motioned for her to sit down. They carefully began cleaning her fur using cloth dipped in warm water scented with daffodils and daisies. The Head Seidrwolf explained that those flowers represented a change, a new beginning and the force of life. By bathing her fur with their scent they washed away her old being and prepared Yrsa for the next stage of her life. After she was cleaned the Head Seidrwolf draped a white linen cape over Yrsa’s shoulders while the other seidrwolves placed pinecones and unlit candles in a circle around the altar. Then the seidrwolves placed themselves in a ring at the base of the altar. The Head Seidrwolf retrieved the ceremony scroll from a nearby table, brought it over to Yrsa and placed it in front of her paws. She unraveled it, revealing a long inscription written in the Old Runes. She took a small box from her robe and opened it. Inside was a blue powder that she carefully dipped her claws into, then used it to paint the mark of Icerun on Yrsa’s forehead.

“Are you ready for the Change, child of Orrin?”

“I am.”

The Head Seidrwolf nodded and placed the hood of the cape over Yrsa’s head. She then motioned for Yrsa to lay down on the floor. It looked like she was covered with a thin layer of snow. The Head Seidrwolf walked down from the altar and grabbed a wooden staff with a large crystal embedded in its tip. Two smaller crystals hung down from it by leather threads. She turned to face the altar and shook her staff. The two crystals clashed together causing a faint echoing sound to bounce around the walls of the chamber.

“Orrin, great father of Icerun, hear our prayer! One of your children is ready for the next stage of her journey through life. The time of Change is upon us!”

She shook the staff once more and all the torches suddenly went out, leaving the room lit only by the moonlight streaming down from the glass window above.

“Her old form lay in darkness beneath the blanket of white, like the land during winter, waiting for the light to grant her rebirth.”

The other seidrwolves began to light the candles on the altar, one after the other. The small flames burned with a pale blue color rather than a normal warm flame.

“We pray that you shine your light down on her and grant her the power to change into the form she was always destined to have.”

All of the candles were now lit and the seidrwolves began to hum a low tone while slowly walking around the altar. The Head Seidrwolf shook her staff once more and pointed in towards the stained glass window.

“Orrin, great father of Icerun, hear our prayer! Grant her new light, grant her new life, grant her new strength. Awaken the ancient power inside her And let her take her new form.”

From the window above a blue light started to shine. It glows brighter and brighter, filling the room with a blinding light. It gathers in front of Yrsa, gathering at the runes on the scroll at her paws. Yrsa felt something starting to swirl around her, like a mist, slowly taking hold of her and lifting her up above the ground. It slips into her mouth, filling her lungs, filling her body, everything. It feels warm, like the sun during spring, but at the same time cold like rimfrost. Something deep within her seems to stir. Yrsa feels how her body slowly begins to change.

She felt her body grow larger. Her legs stretched and bent, twisted and turned. There was no pain, only change. Yrsa realized that it was almost as if her body had waited a long time to take a form other than the one she had been previously. Ears grew bigger, her front legs grew longer and thinner. Then they changed from legs into something else. Wings, large and powerful wings. Hind legs grew bigger, longer, stronger. Claws bent into a new form, like the sharp claws of a lapistrix. Then, as soon as it began, it was over. The swirling power lowered Yrsa back down to the altar floor before swirling up and out the stained glass window.

Raising her head she shed the cloak and howled. There she was, bathed in moonlight, in her changed form. Her true form. A volmyr! All of the seidrwolves joined in with her howl as the Head Seidrwolf recited something in a language Yrsa did not know. Then, with a final shake of her staff, the ritual was done. And Yrsa felt complete at last.

“Orrin, great father of Icerun, we thank you! The time of Change has passed!

Fayrn began to cry as soon as Yrsa re-emerged from the chamber, for he could see the joy in her eyes as she walked towards him in her new form. He ran to her as quickly as he could and nuzzled her cheeks, although he now had to stand on his hindlegs to reach her.

“I am back, my dear.” “Welcome back, my love.”

#lor-ch #lorwolf

4 notes · View notes