#a verdant banquet indeed

[silverthefarmer]

i geninuely think Elliott may be the most relatable Stardew character, there are few human experiences as universal as going a little too hard on the seasonal foods during the fall

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Heartbeat

@elentarial I know, I know...I said I'd write cute things, but this one came out a bit...sad (not too much, just a little).

I hope you'll like it nevertheless <3

Characters: Caranthir x Haleth

Words: 1 682

Warnings: a dash of sadness, Caranthir might also be going insane...who knows?

Even though she had left these lands so long ago, Caranthir still retained the echo of her heartbeat as if the very rhythm had been engraved into his heart.

Indeed, it truly felt as if a bone needle was scratching along the shallow grooves in his soul, leaving it raw and bleeding—it hurt, but he welcomed the ache with perverse eagerness.

He would walk the perimeter of his realm stubbornly, every step punctuated by a sharp, piercing pang of painful recollection.

If this was the only physical thing he could retain, he would more than bear it—he would embrace every thrum of that remote heart that had once been his to have and to hold.

The downside of having nearly perfect recall was indeed that—try as he might—he could never forget the alluring, crooked curve of Haleth’s smile and the smell of her hair whenever she had come home through the verdant fields of grain.

Everywhere he looked, he discerned the tiny changes her presence in his lands—no matter for how short a time—had caused, and it fairly broke his heart to know that she was now so far away from him, never to return.

In his innate arrogance, he had once firmly believed that the Aftercomers would simply pass through his life like the seasons—transitory and fragile—without leaving any long-lasting traces. How woefully wrong he had been!

She was in everything he did, vestiges of her taste lingered in every cup of wine, and remnants of the silk of her skin were woven into the threads of his sober bedsheets—and, of course, he could always feel her heartbeat within his hollow chest like a dirge still.

It was a strong, indomitable rhythm that kept his own from stuttering, and—despite the relentless agony—he was thankful for that.

“Moryo, how have you been?”

He could barely hear the words of his brothers—rougher and throatier now than in their youth—over the steady drum of his longing, and he was grateful that his closed expression and cold gaze were not considered to be uncharacteristic or even alarming.

She would have known, he thought, of course, she would have, and she would have mocked and teased him until the mask of aloof indifference cracked under the onslaught of her playful affection.

Did anybody else remember that? Did they even know? Had she shown that tender, vulnerable, bewitchingly girlish side of herself to others?

Probably not—she had ever been a fierce leader and a fearless warrior. Her people had needed her to be strong and decisive, but her childhood had been so recent—at least by Elven standards—that this ethereal chrysalis had still clung to her tough, weathered skin, and he had relished in those precious threads of innocence that gleamed like the lost light of the trees and tasted like redemption when he kissed her lips.

Again, he cursed the well of memories in which every interaction they had ever had was preserved in a crystalline shrine of frozen tears.

As he meticulously checked and mended his armour and weapons, his distracted gaze fell onto the long, pale fingers that had once traced every scar on her body, reading the story of her life from the living vellum that had been but a poor protection against the cruelty of the world.

Through her bright eyes—warm as autumn and yet often hard as the earth in winter—he had caught glimpses of her whole life. It had been so woefully short, and yet she had known things he had never even thought about.

In her arms, he had discovered rapture and delight beyond the satisfaction that followed a well-prepared banquet, or the enjoyment his brother’s songs could elicit.

She had been brave and wild—unlike the lethal ferocity negligently papered over by courteous manners of his kinswomen, Haleth’s savagery had been as bare and bleak as her camp, but it had also followed very strict moral rules that had often struck him as absurd.

Now, with the wisdom only distance and regret could bring, he could appreciate her reasoning better, even though he would still not have claimed that he was able to fully comprehend what profound knowledge had ultimately moved her.

They had shared so much—their time, their food, and their bodies—and yet her heart had ever remained enchanting and mysterious to him.

Sometimes, he believed that they had simply existed on different planes, patently and irrevocably unable to divine what the other saw when looking at a tree, a house, or a child.

“Stop. Being. Morose!” the ghostly heartbeat jolting through his chest seemed to spell out. She had ever seen hope and growth where he could only discern imminent doom and inescapable death, and he missed having her warm hand settle into the crook of his elbow to guide him along an invisible path of wonder and amazement.

Late at night, when sleep would not come to him—proving that even the Fëanturi had deserted them—Caranthir sometimes wondered if she ever thought of him.

Did she think back on the way her words made his sour grimace of displeasure and learned reluctance melt into tentative curiosity?

Had she ever plunged her hands between her strong thighs and caressed her ageing body while thinking of his ever-young fingers?

Since she had left to find peace and freedom somewhere else, he had exchanged the silk and velvet of hopeless courtship against bright, cold steel—there was a strange solace in that as well, for he was not sure that he’d ever be able to bear warmth again without having to stifle the angry sobs he had thought he had left in his past, along with storybooks and wooden toys.

One day, as he was riding to an outpost, the familiar thumping in his breast quickened until it reached a thundering crescendo.

Worry turned into wonder as this strange and yet so beloved pounding suddenly gained an echo; at first, it was faint and faltering, but—by the time Caranthir was back in his rooms—it had grown stronger and more regular already.

He knew not what had happened to Haleth, and he dared not hope that his wildest dreams and most secret aspirations could have come true.

The impuissant anger, intertwined with ferocious hopefulness, made his knees buckle, and he fell to the floor beside his bed, his fingers clawing at the accursed bedsheets frantically.

She would not have withheld such a thing from him, he told himself. She could not have carried off his last chance at redemption, this ultimate, absolute glimmer of hope, without letting him know that she was with child.

“I wanted to go. You would have kept me. You would have begged. You would have cried. You would have threatened. Understand. Forgive.”

Listening to the threefold, erratic cacophony of cymbals and drums in his chest, he let his head drop to the hard, unyielding mattress and wept.

Of course, she would have done as she thought best—she always had—and all the love she might have at one time held for him would not have moved her to reconsider her plans.

From that day on, Caranthir embraced the agony, sending waves of white-hot sparks through his body, with grim fatalism. If not even she, who had loved him, had been ready to grant him mercy and succour, then he was truly lost.

He gritted his teeth, visited his siblings and cousins, and kept his armour spotless, all while being torn apart from the inside out.

Returning to a state of timeless apathy, he might have looked like the perfect embodiment of his race and status to the uninformed outsider, but those who knew him well grew increasingly preoccupied with how withdrawn and sombre he had become.

Years and decades passed him by unheeded, harsh winters melted into fleeting summers, and he tried to drown out the nagging awareness of the respective waxing and waning of the heartbeats of people who had deserted him—the family that had been denied to him, the bliss he had not deserved—by furious industry.

At all times, he kept his hands busy and his doors open. The milling servants and soldiers with their inconsequential gossip and babbling produced a wonderfully lulling buzz that almost distracted him from the gaping, throbbing hole inside of him.

Little by little, even his own staff and kin came to find him shrewd and vaguely menacing; he would stalk the halls, unmindful of the noise and the cold, because he coveted the brouhaha of liveliness and joy. In a way, it made him feel less lonely and rejected, even though he knew that he was ever just an outsider, looking in on a celebration to which he had not been invited.

Beyond his private grief, he was furthermore bound and compelled by the oath he had sworn and the loyalty he owed his siblings.

Caranthir was just rereading a missive his oldest brother had sent when a vicious pang of compounded pain lanced through him—he shrieked and raised his trembling hand to his convulsing chest.

The heartbeat that had accompanied, comforted, and tortured him for so many years slowed, picked up again—racing like a horse in flight—and then stumbled over an unfathomable obstacle.

Not daring to draw breath, Caranthir waited, listening to the frantic echo of that other pulse—strong and frenzied—as he stared, unseeing, down at the neat letters that seemed to swim around the page all of a sudden.

He had never heard a silence like this—final, devastating, and condemning.

Haleth was no more, and he’d never lay eyes on her fair face or hear her raucous, loud guffaw again.

Haleth was gone, and their child—whom he had never met—would be an orphan before long.

“Send word to my brother,” he barked, not recognising the broken voice of a walking corpse pouring from his lips like blood. “Tell him that I am on my way; I have nothing to lose anymore.”

Thank you so much for reading <3

-> Masterlist for November (by @cilil)

[nikhilsingh77770]

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This article is already posted on Medium.com 

Url -https://medium.com/@nikhilsingh77770/green-living-redefined-dosti-greenscapes-in-hadapsar-by-dosti-realty-1f7571e77618 

[five-rivers]

Long Night in the Valley, Chapter 6

Plans were made.

And discarded.

Different plans were made.  

These were also discarded.  

The problem (besides the fact that their best planners (except Yaoyorozu) were out of commission) was that no one knew what needed to be done. If anything.  Yes, Midoriya had run out of the testing center.  Yes, the whole situation where Midoriya was initially placed in a group apart from all the rest of them was shady.  Yes, the fact that Aizawa and the other half of class was still missing was distressing.  

But they didn’t know what was actually happening.  They didn’t know if the others needed help, or what help they would need.  They didn’t know why Midoriya was running, chased by heroes of all things. Jirou had wondered out loud if Midoriya had been mind-controlled by a villain with a quirk like Shinsou’s.  In response, Kaminari had a (brief) breakdown agonizing about whether he had inadvertently helped a villain kidnap his friend.

What a mad banquet of darkness.  

Luckily, they were training for… well, not situations like these, to be honest, but situations.  Just. In general.  Dark, mysterious situations, where one wrong step could send a person plummeting into an abyss of misery.

Anyway.  

When in such a vexing a perilous situation, the thing to do, as Momo had pointed out, was gather information.  

Was Jirou plugged into the wall?  Yes.  Did Shouji manifest enough ears and eyes to make even Fumikage slightly disturbed? Yes.  Did Yaoyorozu make tiny listening devices that fit on the mice and insects that Kouda had called?  Yes.  Did Kaminari spontaneously manifest hacking skills that no one knew about and then deny that they were hacking skills?  Yes.  Had Dark Shadow pressed herself flat to sneak under doors and temporary room partitions?

Also, yes.  

He tugged on Dark Shadow with his mind, directing her to return.

“Find anything new?” he asked.  Tsuyu, his current partner in not-crime-quite-yet and lookout, leaned closer as well, interested.  

“The lady whose quirk they were using passed out,” reported Dark Shadow.  “Everyone she used it on is still asleep.”

“Nothing about Midori?” asked Tsuyu.  

Dark Shadow’s facial expressions were often limited, but, this time, her scowl was clear.  “Stupid stuff.”

“Like?”

Dark Shadow huffed, and Fumikage felt her annoyance. “Like he’s a villain or a spy. Stupid.”

Tsuyu closed her eyes and swallowed with obvious distaste.

“Do you think that’s why he ran?  It seems unlike him.”

“Huh?” said Dark Shadow.  “Midori didn’t run.”

“What are you talking about, Dark Shadow?” asked Fumikage. “Speak clearly.”

Dark Shadow elbowed him.  “Midori’s friends ran!”

“You mean Ochako, Todoroki, and Iida?” asked Tsuyu.

“No, they’re still asleep.  His friends.  Like you and me are friends, Fumi!”

“You mean his quirk?”

“Uhhuh,” said Dark Shadow, bobbing.  “They’re like us.  Isn’t it obvious?”

“Not really,” said Tsuyu.  

Fumikage leaned and against the wall and slid down to put his head in his hands.  “What a mad banquet of darkness, indeed.  It is as if we journey at night, through a verdant and shadowy valley—”

“Come on, we have to tell the others,” said Tsuyu, nudging him.

.

“What happened?” asked Hitoshi, softly, not quite believing what he’d heard.  He rubbed his fingers over the folds of his artificial vocal cords, stored in the top pocket of his backpack.  Legally speaking, he wasn’t supposed to have it, or any hero support gear, outside the school he wasn’t licensed, even provisionally.    But Hizashi had insisted, and Kayama-sensei didn’t object, so…  

“According to the Hero Commission,” said Hizashi, voice tighter than his hands around the wheel, “Shouta and some of the 1-A students were targeted by a villain at the testing center.”

“What?  What villain? Shigaraki?”  That was the one that had been targeting 1-A again and again and again.  The one that had hurt him so badly at the USJ.  

“No,” said Hizashi.  “They said it was Midoriya.”

Hitoshi blinked, his brain first trying to find a villain that matched the name before shoving his fellow student’s face into his mind’s eye. “You mean, he’s the one that wound up fighting the villain.  How many bones did he break this time?  Or did he get a new quirk?”

“No,” said Kayama-sensei.  “They’re really saying that Midoriya is a villain.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” stated Hitoshi. “They think the second coming of All Might sunshine child is a villain?  If he got locked in Tartarus, half the population would, I don’t know, start confessing their sins and become model citizens before the day was out.  If his quirk wasn’t bone-breaking nonsense, I’d say it was the power of friendship.”  He stopped, considered that last sentence.  “Wait, this is about his quirk, isn’t it?”

“We don’t know,” said Hizashi.  

“They’re saying he kidnapped All Might.”

Hitoshi wondered if this was what people felt like when he used his quirk on them, because his brain had just bluescreened and was struggling to restart.  

“They’re what?” screeched Hizashi.  It was a good thing he was the one driving the car.  Hitoshi winced and covered his ears.  

“Didn’t All Might steal Vlad-sensei’s car?” asked Hitoshi, feeling dazed.  “How do you get from that, to Midoriya kidnapping him from across town.”

“I don’t know,” said Kayama, “but it’s all over Heronet and the commission is starting to release it to news networks.”

“That has to be the- the stupidest thing I ever heard! I’d put more money on Yagi kidnapping Midoriya,” said Hizashi, loudly and angrily.  

“What the rat god said before we left makes much more sense now,” said Kayama, mournfully.  

Hitoshi blanched at her reference to the principal.  But then curiosity got the better of him.  “What did he say?”

“That to keep custody of all our staff and students, we were going to have to be creative.”

.

Hizashi had expected many things upon arriving at the testing center.  Being refused access to the unconscious teacher and students was one of them. Obstructive bureaucracy was one of them. People telling him something was illegal or forbidden by protocol when he knew it wasn’t was one of them.  Chaos was one of them.  Confusion was one of them.  Lack of organization was one of them.  

In these things, he was not disappointed.  

What he didn’t expect, however, was for the remaining half of Shouta’s class to not only be one hundred percent down with kinda-sorta kidnapping, but to have already laid a lot of the groundwork for it already.  

Maybe he should have.  But he didn’t.  How was it that Shouta, aka Mr. Expulsion, aka Mr. ‘you have no potential,’ had kept all the students from a class that had no scruples against committing things that most people would consider crimes?  A class that, having been given time to bond, would probably collectively turn to villainy rather than betray one of their number?

He paused and considered his long relationship with Shouta. Mentally squinted.  Never mind.  He could see it now.  

Well.  It wasn’t as if Hizashi wasn’t like that, too.  He’d never really considered expelling any of them.  Except Mineta.  Grape Juice was on thin ice.  

“We most likely would have acted already,” Yaoyorozu said as the rest of the class distracted the commission officials who were supposedly supervising the pickup of the children, “but we didn’t know what we’d do after. No escape plan.”

Reasonable.  The bus driver (Green Light, the Transit Hero) had gone back to the school after dropping them off and had to turn around once he heard the news.  

But, now, Recovery Girl was coming around with a fleet of ambulances from the hero hospital UA contracted with.  A hospital that was, incidentally, not the same as the one the Hero Commission wanted to bring all the people still affected by Saito’s quirk.  

Ambulances had room for riders.  It was unorthodox, but it would work.  

“Well, you have one now,” said Hizashi, quietly.  No one expected him to be quiet.  It made him almost invisible when he was.  

“I know you already have a plan,” interjected Hitoshi. “But is there anything I can do?”

Momo blinked.  “Actually, yes.  We could get them out anyway, but it would help a lot if we had the keys.”

.

The search for Uraraka hadn’t been going well before the city started to fall apart around them.  In fact, it had been going incredibly poorly, because various versions of All Might kept popping up to try and punch Suzuki’s face off.  Literally.  At least two of the All Mights had declared that as their intention prior to attacking.

Tenya wasn’t sure if he should be concerned about his friend’s mental state or baffled about his incredibly violent mental view of All Might.

Perhaps the eyeless villain in Kamino had left a strong impression on him?  But All Might couldn’t have been responsible for the villain’s injuries! It was All Might.  He hardly ever injured villains he took down.  

On the other hand, the villain at Kamino had been terrifyingly strong.  If there were to be an exception to the rule, he was certainly it.  

But the real reason, in Tenya’s opinion, the search had been going poorly was Suzuki.  The man would not stop talking.  His theories were even worse than Todoroki’s!

“That All Might is fake,” he was saying.  “He isn’t even using his quirk, just like Midoriya.”

“I think we all know that the All Might that exists in Midoriya’s mind is not, in fact, the real All Might,” said Aizawa.  

“This destruction is just another ploy, another distraction—”

“We get it,” said Aizawa.  “But it isn’t centered around us, so, logically, it must be centered around Uraraka.”

Suzuki scoffed.  “We should be looking for what Midoriya is trying to hide.”

“The only reason we aren’t beating you up right now,” said Aizawa, “is that we are looking for Uraraka.  So, shut up.”

“What about me?”

Tenya whipped around to see Uraraka stooped over behind them, breathing heavily, hands on her knees.  “Sorry,” she said, “I ran all the way here.”

Aizawa hurried over to her.  Tenya noted that he never quite turned his back to Suzuki.  

“What happened?” he asked.  “Where were you?”

“D- Izuku wanted to talk to me,” she said.  “He said something dangerous was about to happen, but if we went farther in, we could maybe get out?”  

Under normal circumstances, the overly vague report would have been cause for scolding, but Tenya could see how her eyes flicked to Suzuki. There were details she didn’t want him to hear.

“Did he say how to go further in?” asked Aizawa.  

“No.  That happened and he ran off.”  She gestured towards another building that was slowly collapsing.  

“Wait a moment,” said Suzuki.  “If you’re here, what’s there?”

“Uh,” said Uraraka.  

“He told you, didn’t he?  What did he say?”

“Excuse me!” said Tenya.  “You are being very rude right now!  Uraraka has just come back from a harrowing experience!”

Tenya was not very good at lying, but this wasn’t really a lie, per-se.  

The distinction didn’t seem to matter to Suzuki, who gave him a brief, incredulous look before turning back to the gathering storm.  “He doesn’t want us to see this.”

“Don’t you dare,” said Aizawa, eyes narrowing.

Suzuki didn’t listen.

Tenya caught up to him without any trouble and punched him in the back of the head.  “Ow,” said Tenya, who had forgotten he wasn’t wearing his hero costume.  

“Did you break your fingers?” asked Aizawa as he dragged Suzuki back by the foot.  

“I’m going to have you all arrested and stripped of you licenses, unless—”

“Because we didn’t help you with an illegal interrogation? No, you’re not,” said Aizawa.

“Nana!”

The voice bounced off the buildings and was swept away by the wind.  

“Nana!  Master, where are you?”

It was the voice of the younger, vigilante All Might.  

“Is he calling the name or the number?” asked Uraraka.  

“Master!  Please! Answer me!”

With a shuddering heave, the building right next to them tipped over, falling into rubble before it even hit the ground.  The storm wind, heavy with rain and lightning, whipped down the street with all the force of a hurricane.  Tenya had to brace himself and cover his eyes.  

When he could see again, it was to discover Suzuki had run off again.  Towards the fallen building.  

Tenya was honestly torn between letting him get beaten up by whatever had flattened the building, whether it be Midoriya’s subconscious, the illusory All Might, or something worse.  Although, arguably, all those were the same the same thing.  

But Tenya was training to be a hero.  Heroes couldn’t pick and choose who to save.  He, and everyone else took off after Suzuki.  

They all stopped, though, when a boy in a torn UA uniform clambered over the rubble.  The boy cupped his hands around his mouth.  “Nana!”

That hair was recognizable from a mile away, not to mention the height.  All Might. Yet a different version.  Tenya had known UA was All Might’s alma mater, but seeing him in a uniform like this, seeing him vulnerable, not in the way of a man at the end of his career, but as someone just starting out, someone like them, was oddly humbling and completely terrifying.  

What pushed him to this?  What put that distraught tone in his voice?  What put that bloody slash in his uniform and bruised his face?

Tenya had a sinking suspicion he knew what.  He didn’t even want to come into contact with the memory of that monster from Kamino.  

All Might was scanning the ground, looking for- Looking for something.  Someone?

His eyes fell on them, and even from this distance, Tenya could see them widen.  All Might began to scramble down the hill.  

“You,” he shouted, as he came closer.  “You—Underclassmen.  Have you seen-?”  He gasped for air.  

Even Suzuki, from what he could see, looked taken aback.  

“Have you seen a woman about—” He hesitated and adjusted his hand downward, to about the height of his chin.  Which was still taller than Tenya.  

All Might was tall in high school.  Or, at least, Midoriya thought All Might was tall in high school.  

This was confusing.  

“A woman about this tall.  She’s—She has black hair, and she wears it, um, half up.”  All Might fanned his hand behind his head to illustrate. “She’s a hero.  Wears- Wears yellow gloves.”  He paused for a moment, eyes flicking from one to the next.  “You haven’t seen her.”  He whipped back around.  “Nana!”

“What even is this supposed to be?” demanded Suzuki.  

“Truly,” said Todoroki, “their bond is inspiring.  For All Might to tell Midoriya even of this tragedy…”

“Todoroki!  That’s entirely inappropriate!” exclaimed Tenya, turning to face his classmate.  

The wind picked up again.  The buildings began to twinkle.  

Earlier, you said something about being a vigilante. What was up with that, anyway?

Midoriya’s voice sounded like it was right next to him, and yet the sound was entirely sourceless.  

The colors shifted.

.

Izuku wasn’t sure if he wanted to curse the bystander culture encouraged by the hero system or bless it for its unintentional effects.  Even though Toshinori was clearly suffering, slumped against a wall and shoulders heaving, no one stopped to help him.  In fact, most people were averting their eyes, barely looking at him.  

Generally speaking, Izuku decided, he’d curse it.  In this particular instance, however, it benefitted them.  

He looked back and forth before dashing across the street, not caring about jaywalking at the moment.  He jogged up to Toshinori, swallowing the name before it left his lips. Right.  They were undercover, and the commission definitely knew Toshinori’s real name.  

“Dad,” he said instead, and mentally felt himself collide with a wall.  Couldn’t he have picked something else?  Come up with some fake name?  Or just not used a name to begin with.  With effort, he picked himself up and his dream-self kept running.  “I got your text,” he said, instead, for the benefit of anyone listening.  He inserted himself under one of Toshinori’s arms.  “Let’s go home.”

He smiled at a couple of people who were staring and hoped they wouldn’t report this.  

“I can walk, I can walk,” said Toshinori heaving himself off the wall with a shudder.  “I’m fine.”

This was a lie.  Izuku could still see the flashback playing out in his mind’s eye.  Even so, he nodded and tried to give Toshinori space, even as Toshinori put one hand on his shoulder and leaned on it heavily.  

This mental invasion was wearing both of them out.  No.  All of them out.  This was not, they reminded him, at all normal.  

Five gently pressed ways of dealing with flashbacks into his awareness.  Thank goodness for Five and his comparative normalcy.  

“We’re okay,” he said.  “We’re just on a street in Musutafu.  You can feel me, right?  And the sidewalk under your feet.  And you can hear the traffic and smell the cars.”  He kept going.

Toshinori gave a hum of assent after each item Izuku listed, but he could tell it wasn’t enough.  He might be able to see and hear, to touch and taste, but he could do the same things to that mental battleground.  

“What if,” said Izuku, desperately, “you tell me a story?”

“A story?” rasped Toshinori.  

“Y-yeah.  Earlier, you said something about being a vigilante.  What was up with that, anyway?”

.

It isn’t well known, said Yagi’s voice as the world came back into focus in an entirely different city with entirely different weather and signage, but I didn’t grow up in a terribly pleasant area.  

In fact, there was quite a lot of crime.  

Aizawa caught sight of a familiar head of yellow hair positioned above a plain gakuran.  The younger version of Yagi was staring down an alleyway.  

Suddenly, Aizawa felt himself pulled to stand right behind Yagi. A man with a mutation quirk was being mugged by two young men with fire quirks.  He blinked.  The scene didn’t change, even behind his eyelids.  He couldn’t see his students, or Suzuki.  

What was this, a cutscene?

I, ah, rather disliked that.  Obviously, my thoughts about become a symbol of peace for the world were, well… Just thoughts.  But even then, for my own little corner of the world, I wanted to make a difference.

Yagi, showcasing the fact that he’d always been a bit of an idiot, pulled on a medical mask and threw his bookbag at one of the muggers and punched the other one in the face.  At least he wasn’t using his quirk to do it.  The villain would have been paste on the side of the building.  

On the other hand, this was presumably some imagining of Midoriya’s, possibly based on a story he heard from All Might, if the voiceover was anything to go by.  

Oh, said Midoriya, I did that a couple of times.  Stop a mugging, I mean.                                                                                                                                          

I thought you said you weren’t involved in any vigilantism.

It wasn’t vigilantism!  They were just things I happened to run into, and I couldn’t just not help.

Sometimes, I wonder if your quirk really isn’t something like a villain magnet…

The scene shifted again, making Aizawa feel dizzy, even though he wasn’t moving.  Except, maybe that was why he felt dizzy.  Motion sickness.  

I never knew my parents.  I grew up in a foster home.  

Aizawa blinked, and the scene became clear.  A small apartment building with a tiny, tattered lawn. Someone’s shoe had been left on the sidewalk in front, and Yagi was climbing the stairs to the door.  

Then, Aizawa was inside, and internally wincing at the noise level.  Screaming preteens were so far out of his comfort level you couldn’t see it with a telescope.  

(The exception, of course, was Eri.)

As he watched, Yagi was shoved several times, tripped, and had a water-manipulation quirk used to drop something that Aizawa suspected was toilet water on his head.  

Overall, the attitude towards people like us wasn’t quite what it was now, but to be parentless on top of that?  Many of the other children at the home thought there had to be something wrong with me.  There was a sigh.  Judging from what I’ve seen of your memories, I suspect you had the worse time of it.

I had Mom, though.

Aizawa found himself in a small bedroom.  Pinned to one of the walls was a corkboard.  Which looked distressingly like Todoroki’s.  Yagi crossed his arms as he contemplated it.

Once I had built up my confidence, one of the things I was trying to do was find out about a human trafficking ring.

Oh, yeah, those suck.  

… Why do I feel like you have personal experience in the subject.  

It wasn’t my fault.  

Soft, fond laughter filled the room before it was whisked away and replaced with a warehouse that just screamed ‘villain hideout.’

There was a fight.  

I tried my best, tried to be sneaky… I knew I wouldn’t win in a straight-out fight.  But…

Yagi was surrounded and clearly losing.  Then the doors burst open.  A figure floated, framed by the threshold, backlit by the streetlights.

First contact, whispered a voice like the wind.

Nana, said Midoriya.  

Nana, agreed All Might’s voice.  She saved me.  I… Didn’t want to get caught.  I ran. Went back to the muggings.  

And then?

And then—

Another change in scenery.  A sidewalk by a stream.  Yagi stood in his gakuran a few meters away from a woman in a hero costume.  The yellow gloves stood out.  

And then, a week later, she found me.

The woman’s head snapped in Aizawa’s direction, and he had just enough time to realize she could see him before the scene glitched out and he was falling through an empty sky.

[prettylilhalforc]

For your post about asks!

How about Loki and Tyche TP-ing Thor's house? :) For shits and giggles.

@yespolkadotkitty dearest, thank you for such a brilliant ask!

This was an absolute joy to write, once I started, I found it near impossible to stop!!!

Have tweaked the scenario ever so slightly to fit with in Pre Thor cannon.

I do hope you like it lovely!!!!!!!

Fortune Favours the Bold

Warnings: Fluffy mischievous goodness with a dash of pining. F!OC (though am totally down to make a Hermes/Loki fic because you KNOW those two would be trouble with a captial T). Allusion to sexy times.

Rating: M at best, please no under 18s.

Summary: Two gods of mirth and mischief meet once again during diplomatic talks. No one is safe. Chaos ensues.

Tension in the air was positively electric. The glorious feast hall brimming with dignitaries and diplomats alike. Raucous laughter drowns out the jaunt of lyres and lutes. Ambrosia flows like water. Satyrs and Valkyries entwine in celebration, sailing across the marble floor.

A commemoration of months of negotiations culminating to a head.

Finally.

The Olympian delegation had sent their finest emissaries to engage in age-old diplomatic negotiations.

Wise Athena, clever Hermes, and blessed Tyche.

Counsel between the two empires had dragged on for what felt like aeons. The solidification of military alliances had given way tedious litigation. Delving into infuriatingly pithy details of trade agreements and petty squabbles. Either party proved to be as formidable within counsel chambers as they were in the heat of battle.

Steadfast, stubborn, and cunning. No stone left unturned. No treaty left untouched.

Honestly, it was a sheer miracle that either of them managed to contain themselves as long as they had.

Fortune and Mischief.

Antics almost as legendary as the diplomatic talks themselves.

For the past several hundred years the duo had become notorious for their pranks. Each year outdoing the last. Not a single soul, Asgardian nor Olympian, was safe from their machinations.

Across the banquet hall, two pairs of eyes meet. One emerald, one amber; both brimming with diabolical glee. The raven-haired god offers a silent toast to his compatriot. The feminine figure shoots him a roguish smirk before mirroring the gesture. In almost perfect synchronicity, both drink deep from their cups.

Save for the watchful gaze of Freyja, none would be wiser to the fact that neither party were actually present at the feast.

It was time for the real festivities to begin.

----------------------------------------------------------------

A slow, soft clap echoes across the dimly lit corridor. Flames of nearby torches casting a deceptively long shadow of the smaller, robed figure.

Pulling down the hood of her woven cloak, Tyche winks, “Bravo, you scamp. Never thought I’d see the day that the great Orator himself would be caught tongue tied. ”

Emerging from the shadows, the Trickster god gives a flourishing bow, wry smirk writ on his face. “One would be remiss to pass such an opportunity to point out such a glaring oversight in litigation to the God of all Merchants.

Rising gracefully, Loki flicks his raven locks from his face, full of mirth. "Merely doing my duty to ensure the prosperity of either kingdom. As any good consul would.”

Pure laughter bubbles forth from her lips as she leans against the cool marble, “Indeed, rightfully so, Prince of Asgard! Remind me never to cross you on the battlefield. If your blade is as sharp as your tongue, I would surely meet my end. Now, philon, how long would you wager before brother dearest finds himself neck deep in nymph?”

Ebony eyebrow cocked, Loki folds his arms over his leather bound chest. “What fiendish scheme has the vixen of Olympus concocted this time?”

A faint flash of gold illuminates the darkness; a large, sealed amphora appears seemingly from thin air in her delicate hands. Tyche’s warm eyes light up with delight as she leans toward the Asgardian, gently tapping the prince’s nose.

“If you’re keen to find out, we best make haste.”

Turning on her heel, she dashes forth through the corridors laughing with childish glee. The lavender linen of the chiton billowing behind her. Loki gives chase, winding the well-worn paths from their youth.

Breathless the pair find themselves in front of large oaken doors of Thor’s chambers.

Glancing about fervidly, Tyche man’s watch, clutching the earthen vase to her chest with one hand whilst cloaking the duo with the other. Loki’s nimble fingers lace his verdant Seidr through the enchanted lock. Thor had grown wise to his brother’s mischief and sought additional measures from to secure his chambers since the last delegation.

Though, this had proven to be naught but a challenge. An opportunity to hone his skills.

Footsteps resound through the stone hall. The pair share a look of pure terror, eyes widening as the steps approach. Neither deigned to breathe, hearts thundering in their chests. Each second stretching for an eternity.

“Hurry! Before they round the corner!” Tyche hisses.

Sweat beading at his brow, Loki manages to secure the last tumble with a desperate flick. Not a moment later, those same nimble hands grip her frame, all but flinging the small goddess into his brother’s quarters.

Upon regaining her composure, Tyche twirls around in girlish excitement, laughing wildly before falling into the luxurious bed. Her companion chuckles deep within his chest, shaking his head at her antics.

A tiny voice emerging from the depths of his psyche, noting that it was a sight one could become very accustomed to.

Snapping the God of Mischief from his musing, Tyche exclaims, “A gift from sweet Athena herself!”

She holds the amphora aloft like a prized laurel in both hands. Bolting upright, Tyche hefts the earthen vessel towards him with an impish grin.

Catching it with feline grace, lithe fingers pry open the ruddy wax seal revealing length after length of translucent strands of near viscous spider’s silk.

Loki’s vibrant greeneyes widen in disbelief as he steps nearer to the bed, handsome mouth opening and closing several times, “How did she let- Why- Is that what I think it is?! ”.

“Arachne’s thread? Indeed, it is, my Prince.” Tyche states, before spitting out, “After the audacity of that blond oaf to insult our honour after yesterday’s proceedings, my dear cousin was easily persuaded to turn a blind eye.”

Lok’s handsome face splits in to sheer, unadulterated joy. Rubbing his hands together he exclaims, “Never have I been more eager to see my brother eat his words. To work, shall we?”

A broad, pale hand extends forth towards the Goddess of Fortune. With it, an offer to dance.

And what a beautifully chaotic dance it is. The pair dip and weave from post to pillar, as the near invisible strands are strewn across the crimson expanse of the room. Flashes of green and golden light bounce off the gleaming marble, followed by peels of laughter.

Norns how he had missed this.

Soon the chambers transformed into a hidden web, ready to ensnare Thor and his amorous companion.

And not a moment too soon.

A voice resounds beyond the door, booming like thunder followed by saccharine giggles.

In a flurry, Tyche grabs the Trickster god by his leathers, dashing through the heavy velvet curtain onto the nearby balcony.

Another deep chuckle threatens to rumble forth from Loki’s chest, cut short by the gentle press of a warm to his lips. Tyche cocks her head, motioning for her counterpart to listen, worrying her bottom lip.

Loki’s gaze drifts to the plump lip caught between her teeth. How had he not noticed the plushness of her sweet mouth before now?

The resounding slam of the heavy chamber doors hurls him back to the present.

Within the chamber, giggles give way to soft gasps and groans.

The chill night air suddenly a welcome relief as the amorous activity causes a flush to rise the column of his neck. In it hangs something foreign yet all too familiar. Neither mischief maker dares to make eye contact, shifting awkwardly as the amorous sounds grow in volume.

Thankfully a shrill shriek cuts through tension, followed shortly a resounding bellow,

“LOKIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII! TYCHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

Two pairs of eye meet, one emerald, one amber. Both brimming with diabolical glee. In almost perfect synchronicity, the pair cackling wildly as they descend to the gardens below.

[raptorginger]

In the Land of Gods & Monsters: Chapter 2 - Miss

chapter 1

Rey sat on an old upholstered bench in the entrance hallway of the dark house where The Ceremony had been held.  Her hands were folded tightly in her lap, her fingers knotted tightly together.  She stared not at the faded silk paper nor the somber portraits hung on the dark walls but at her hands.  A lit sconce was hung every few feet along the length of the hallway, but somehow they did little to dispel the oppressing dark of the place.  Lord Ky’loren had disappeared up the stairs, presumably to clean himself up a bit.  Rey was glad of it.  She’d never been so close to an unmated Alpha before, and the force of his presence was overwhelming.  Rey felt like her insides were tearing her apart, one side wanting to fight and flee and the other wanting to surrender.  It made her feel hot and sick in equal measure.

She jumped when a servant appeared in front of her and quietly placed her small valaise at her feet.  Rey owned very little, the lords and ladies she’d previously lived with not allowing it.  Even her clothes hadn’t been hers.  The valaise contained only what she’d managed to fritter away over the years.  A small handful of books, a battered sketchbook, a few squares of cloth she’d embroidered, and her most cherished possession a small stuffed rabbit that she’d managed to hide from Lady Bazine all those years ago.  A kindly housemaid had given it to her when she’d first arrived at Netal Manor, and she named him Charlie.  She opened the small case quietly and tugged the little rabbit out.  She sighed and held it close, finding some comfort in the childlike gesture.

“What’s to become of us, Charlie?” she whispered to the doll.  She’d heard stories about Omegas from the lords and ladies and their servants.  Some terrible, some sad, few happy.  She felt the familiar sting of tears prick her eyes, and she sniffled quietly and hugged Charlie tighter.  What would be her story?

Ben Solo, Lord Ky’loren, stepped quietly onto the landing, and watched the Omega Rey on the hallway bench.  His Omega.  A small bag was open at her feet, and she pulled something from it, her movements graceful and nimble.  It resembled a stuffed toy, tan in color with floppy limbs and ears.  She held it close and whispered something.  She seemed so alone, almost childlike.  Something twisted painfully in Ben’s chest as he the sparkle of tears form in her eyes.  Her scent called to him, as it had when she’d been thrust into the Ceremony room earlier.  She smelled of delicate flowers.  Sweet grasses.  Sunshine.  But something clouded it.  His Omega was still in pain.  She was terrified.  Ben was not unfamiliar with the situation of Omegas in the realm, but he’d never given it much thought.  He’d only agreed to attend this Ceremony to appease the ton.  He’d have been stripped of his title and lands if he refused again, and if there was one thing he enjoyed, it was being Lord Ky’loren.

He heard his footman approach behind him.  He held up his hand indicating that the man should stop.  

“My Lord,” the footman whispered in greeting.

“Have you secured the lady’s things?”  Ben asked softly.

“That’s all she has.  That bag there, Sir,” the man replied quietly.  Ben didn’t miss the tone of sadness, of pity, in the man’s voice.  He turned to look him in the eye.  Surely he couldn’t be serious?  As Ben looked in the younger man’s coffee brown eyes, he saw no lie or exaggeration.  He turned back to Rey, her shoulders now shaking as she tried to hold back her sobs.

“Christ,” he hissed under his breath.  He’d heard about Omegas being treated this way, but he never thought he’d see it.  “Get the team and driver ready, Finn.  Try to get a message to Maz so she can get some clothes ready for Miss Jinn.”

“By your command, My Lord,” Finn murmured before dashing off.

Ben walked quietly down the rest of the stairs, pausing just in front of where Rey sat huddled on the bench.  He took his soft black cloak off his arm and wrapped it around her in one fluid movement.  She flinched again, as she had when he’d reached out to touch her the first time.  He felt anger bubbling beneath his skin, but he willed the feeling into submission.  Rey looked up at him, her eyes red from crying, her cheeks tear stained.  It was indeed a stuffed rabbit that she held to her chest.  Ben felt his long neglected heart breaking for her.  Had she really known so little kindness in her life?  One of her hands reached tentatively out to tug the edges of his cloak closer around her small frame so she could hold it closed around her as he dried her eyes with a clean handkerchief.  

“Thank you, Alpha,” she whispered, casting her eyes down again.  Rey panicked.  She was not supposed to speak until spoken to.  She braced for the punishment she was sure was coming.

Ben sensed her fear spike, even as the lower parts of him stirred at hearing her call him by his designation.  “You’re welcome, Miss Jinn,” he replied in a gentle voice.  He was determined to get her to trust him.  It almost frightened him how much he wanted that.

Rey looked back up at him in surprise.  He picked up her small case and snapped it shut.  They both looked towards the open door as a young man approached them.

“Coach is ready, My Lord,” he stated with a bow.  He turned to Rey and bowed again.  “Miss Jinn.”

“Thank you, Finn,” Ben said, his voice strong and commanding.  He held his hand out to Rey.  She released the edges of the cloak and took his gloved hand tentatively.  His grip was strong and sure as he led her from the dark home into the grey light of day.

Rey could not hold back a gasp as she saw the elegant coach that stood before them.  Its black lacquer shined bright even in the grey of the sky, its red and gold filigree distinct and delicate.  A team of four beautifully matched black horses snorted and stomped their hooves, their breath steaming in the slightly cooled air.  A driver sat proud on the wide bench, reins at the ready.  He turned towards them and tipped his hat.  The footman Finn stood beside the carriage, holding open the door for them.  He too nodded at them.  Ben handed her into the carriage deftly, and Rey saw his hand clench and unclench when she let go.  The inside of the coach was just as elegantly appointed as the outside, with dark red velvet and black and gold lacquer paneling.  The seats were plush and soft, and Rey found herself sinking gratefully into the velvet.  Finn snapped the door closed and could be heard joining the driver at the front.  Ben set her small bag beside her and took the seat opposite, reaching up to knock, signalling they were ready to depart.  The carriage gave a lurch, but the well sprung coach neither bobbed nor shook as it rolled along the cobbled streets.

Rey glanced out the window and watched the world speed by.  In the confined quarters of the carriage, his scent was even stronger, and Rey found herself getting a bit lightheaded.  She held Charlie and the cloak tighter and tried to breathe evenly.  She heard the sound of liquid being poured into a glass, and her mouth watered.

“Here,” Ben said.

Rey opened her eyes and saw he was holding a glass of water out to her.  She let Charlie fall into her lap, and she took the glass gratefully.  The carriage bumped a little, and she grabbed the glass with both hands to keep it from spilling.  The cloak slipped from her shoulders as she drank greedily.  She held it out tentatively, and Ben carefully filled it again.  She drank this one slower.  She blushed to realize Ben was watching her, looking at her.  When the glass was finished, she held it in her lap, unable to meet his scrutinous gaze.

“You scratched yourself pretty hard,” he said as he leaned back in his seat, his arms held out along the back of the seat, his long legs crossed as he studied her.

Rey fiddled with the glass and nodded.

“You shouldn’t hurt yourself like that, Little Omega,” he said chidingly.

Rey felt a little prickle of anger.  His tone was strange.  She didn’t like it.  “Please don’t call me that,” she whispered angrily.  She closed her eyes, bracing for the hit, but none came.  He hadn’t acted at all like she’d been taught to expect.

“I’ll call you what I like,” he replied conversationally.  “And I’ll thank you to do the same.”

Rey looked up in surprise.  “I-I don’t have to call you Alpha?”

He barked a laugh.  “No, you don’t.”  Rey watched his eyes darken.  “Although, I’d prefer it if you used that in bed.”

Rey felt her face flame, and she looked away.  She tried to push further back into the cushions away from him.  She’d so far been able to keep that part of this arrangement out of her head.  Now it was the only thing she could think about.

“So shy, Little Omega.  Don’t worry.  I’ll cure you of that soon enough,” he purred.

Rey felt the shaking overtake her again, the threat of tears.  Would he take her unwilling?  He had the right.  She wouldn’t cry in front of him.  Not again.  At the same time, a small part of her preened at the name.  At the thought of him taking her.  Rey shoved that feeling aside.

“Where are we going?” she asked as she watched them fly through the edges of the city and into the countryside.  She’d never been allowed out of the Earl’s manor.  This was the most she’d seen of the city in her entire life.

“To my estate in Naboo, Theed Park.  You’ll like it, I think.”

Rey’s eyes snapped to his again.  She’d heard of the part of the country called Naboo.  It was supposedly the crown jewel in the realm’s crown.  Lush and verdant, teeming with lakes and rivers, thick with forests and wildlife, it had once been the exclusive hunting and vacation grounds of ancient royalty.  Now it was an incredibly prosperous region, overseen by the earls and ladies of Ky’loren for many generations.  Members of the ton tripped over themselves to get one of the exclusive invitations to Theed Park and its legendary banquets, balls, and hunting parties.  The previous Earl of Ky’loren, Luke Skywalker, had ceded the title to his sister Leia in a strange move, however no one dared criticize it.  He and the Countess’ husband, General Han Solo, had passed away some months ago.  Ben Solo had taken over the title for his mother at her request, although it was the Dowager Countess Leia who was still seen the most in society.

He was studying her intensely again, and Rey began to fidget.  She had always been told she was a disappointment as an Omega.  Too tall, too lithe instead of small and voluptuous.  Her skin was freckled and tanned easily instead of creamy and delicate like porcelain.  Her warm brown hair was always falling from its pins and her eyes were a hazel color, almost green.  She wondered if she disappointed him, then chided herself for caring at all.  All that mattered to him was that she was an Omega, prized and rare.  The coach bounced over a rough bit of road, and the glass flew out of Rey’s hand and clattered to the floor.

“I’m sorry!” Rey cried as she fell to the floor to retrieve the glass, Charlie falling from her lap beside the cup.  It was a lot bumpier and colder on the floor of the coach, and Rey whimpered when her head hit the seat.

Her hands had grabbed both items when Ben’s strong fingers wrapped around her arms and hoisted her up off of the floor and into the space beside him.  His hands around her arms kept her from leaping back to her side of the coach.  He took the glass gingerly from her hand and placed it back in the little locking cupboard built into the side of the coach before trying to pluck the stuffed toy from her fingers.  Rey made a small sound of protest and refused to let go.

“Ben no, please don’t,” she pleaded as she tugged the toy away from him, panic overtaking her.  She inhaled sharply and pressed her mouth closed.  If there was one thing she had been told never to do, it was use an Alpha’s given name, especially an Alpha lord’s.

To her surprise, Ben let Charlie go without a protest and without striking her.  He was staring at her strangely, and she found herself rooted to the spot.  He held his hand out and she gently laid the stuffed animal in his large hand.  He turned it over and over, carefully examining the old toy with its button eyes and stitched face.

“I’m sorry, My Lord.  I shouldn’t have done that,” she murmured.  She gasped when she felt his other hand close gently over her knee, heavy and warm.  He took her by the wrist and placed Charlie back into her hands, using both of his to hold hers.

“Say it again,” he commanded.  His voice was like the velvet that surrounded them and Rey shivered.

“Say what?”  she asked, genuinely confused.  His eyes were so dark, so mesmerizing, she felt like she was falling under some kind of Alpha spell.

“My name.  Say my name again.  Rey.”

Another small sound left her mouth at the way he said her own name.  Her tongue flicked out to wet her dry lips, and she watched his eyes follow the tiny movement.

She swallowed nervously.  She felt so strange.  Hot.  Shaky.  “Ben,” she breathed.

He pulled her closer.  Heat was rolling off of him, too.  “Again,” he whispered, his voice deep and gravely.  One of his hands left hers, but Rey hardly noticed.

“Ben,” she said, a bit louder this time, more of a whisper than a breath.  Ben groaned quietly as his fingers stroked the nape of her neck, just above her mating gland, his touch featherlight.  Rey yelped and jumped back, squirming as far as she could into the corner of the coach on the seat opposite him.  The gland there was more sensitive than it had ever been, and her nerves felt like they were screaming.  What was happening to her?  Rey breathed shakily and watched Ben warily across from her.  The way he was looking at her frightened her.  His gaze was hungry and predatory, his eyes almost completely black.

“You’ve never been through a heat, have you Little Omega?” he growled, his voice low and dripping with pleasure.

She shook her head.  She had never been touched like that either, but she wasn’t about to say as much.  He looked entirely too pleased with the situation.  He was leaning forward now, his dilated eyes watching her closely.  He looked so large, and Rey was suddenly very aware of how easy it would be for him to overpower her.  She drew her knees up close to her chest, not that that would do anything if he decided he wanted to assert his right as an Alpha over her at that moment, but it at least made her feel better.

Ben seemed to regain control of himself, and he sat back again.  He still watched her, though, as if she were some kind of puzzle.  The coach rolled along, Rey and Ben in silence, for some time before he spoke again.

“You know I can take whatever I want,” he said, his voice carefully neutral.  

Rey bristled.  “Then do it,” she challenged.  “Might as well get it over with.”

Ben tilted his head, his expression curious.  “No.”

“No?”  He didn’t want her, then.  She displeased him.  The Omega in her wailed in despair.  Her rational half hissed at it to hush.

He grinned wickedly.  “No.  We’ll be married when we arrive at Theed Park, that’s not going to change.”

Rey looked at him suspiciously.  What was happening?

“But I want you in my bed willingly, Little Omega.”

Rey scoffed.  No Alpha was ever that considerate.  No man, Alpha or not, was that considerate.  At least, not that she’d been told.

Her eyes went wide when he stood abruptly and placed his hands on either side of her to lean over her.  His scent, which she had gotten used to, filled her nose, and she almost had to bite back a moan.

“One way or another, I’ll have you begging for it.  You’ll come willingly.  That I can promise you,” he purred in her ear.

[autolovecraft]

I saw below me the lights of the city by sunset.

Peasants had told them they were near, and Iranon knew that this was not his native city of Aira. When the men of Teloth heard these things they whispered to one another; for though in the granite city, and my calling is to make beauty with the things remembered of childhood.

I know that welcome shall wait me only in Aira, the city of marble and beryl, how many are thy beauties! Long have I missed thee, Aira, for I was but young when we went into exile; but my father was thy King and I shall come again to thee, for it is so decreed of Fate. All here must serve, and song is folly. There would he ever say he once dwelt as a Prince, though here we knew him from his birth though he thought himself a King's son. And sometimes at sunset I would climb the long hilly street to the citadel and the open place, and look down upon Aira, the city of marble and beryl, how many are thy beauties! I loved the warm and fragrant groves across the hyaline Nithra and where the falls of the tiny Kra.

They ate plentifully of fruit and red berries, and marked not the passing of time, but many years must have slipped away. I am Iranon, who was a Prince in Aira. Often at night Iranon sang to the revelers, but he was always as before, crowned only in the vine of the mountains and beyond, and I would not leave thee to pine by the sluggish Zuro. And peradventure it may be that Oonai the city of lutes and dancing is even the fair Aira you seek, for it is so decreed of Fate.

Into the sunset wandered Iranon, seeking still for his native land and for men who would understand his songs and dreams. In all the cities of Cydathria and in the vale the children wove wreathes for one another, and at evening told again of his dreams of Aira, delight of the past and hope of the future. I remember the twilight, as the stars came out one by one bring dreams to the minds of dreamers.

At the sunset Iranon and small Romnod went forth from Teloth, and for long wandered amidst the green hills and cool forests. All in Teloth must toil, replied the archon, for that is the law.

Our gods have promised us a haven of light beyond death, where shall be rest without end, and crystal coldness amidst which none shall vex his mind with thought or his eyes with beauty. In all the cities of Cydathria and in the vale the children wove wreathes for one another, and at dusk I dreamed strange dreams under the yath-trees on the mountain as I saw below me the lights of Aira shine as softly and magically as shone the moonlight on the floor as he is rocked to sleep at evening, there walked into the lethal quicksands a very old man in tattered purple, crowned with withered vine-leaves, nor the youth in his golden voice. Beyond the Karthian hills, or in any spot you can find in a day's, or a year's, or a lustrum's journey. Thither would I go were I old enough to find the way, and thither should you go and you would sing and have men listen to thee. And too, I remember the sun of morning bright above the many-colored hills in summer, and the falls of the tiny Kra sing to the verdant valleys and hills forested with yath trees? But he was old, and shook his head as he replied: O stranger, I have indeed heard the name of Aira, the city of lutes and dancing is even the fair Aira you seek, for it is so decreed of Fate. And in the city were the palaces of veined and tinted marble, with golden domes and painted walls, and green gardens with cerulean pools and crystal fountains.

And peradventure it may be that Oonai the city of Teloth and fare together among the hills of spring. Then one night the reddened and fattened Romnod snorted heavily amidst the poppied silks of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst Iranon, pale and slender, sang to himself in a far corner. The words you speak are blasphemy, for the gods of Teloth have said that toil is good.

And when Iranon had wept over the grave of Romnod and strewn it with green branches, such as Romnod used to love, he put aside his silks and gauds and went forgotten out of Oonai the camel-drivers whisper leeringly. On the faces of men were frowns, but by the stone embankment along the sluggish river Zuro sat a young boy with sad eyes gazing into the waters to spy green budding branches washed down from the hills by the freshets. And peradventure it may be that Oonai the city of Teloth and fare together among the hills of spring. I sing, and laugh not nor turn away.

Behold, when I was small like you I dwelt in the valley of Narthos by the frigid Xari, where none would listen to my dreams; and I told myself that when older I would go to Sinara on the southern slope, and sing to smiling dromedary-men in the marketplace. And too, I remember the twilight, as the stars came out Iranon would sing of Aira and the river Nithra, and the visions that danced on the moonbeams when my mother sang to me.

In those groves and in the morning an archon came to him and told him to go to the shop of Athok the cobbler, and be apprenticed to him.

And if you suffer no singers among you, where shall be rest without end, and crystal coldness amidst which none shall vex his mind with thought or his eyes with beauty. I learned in the far city, and yearn daily for the warm groves and the distant lands of beauty and song. There would he ever say he once dwelt as a Prince, though here we knew him from his birth though he thought himself a King's son. How I loved the warm and fragrant groves across the hyaline Nithra, and the curving Nithra reflecting a ribbon of stars. I have seen Stethelos that is below the great cataract, and have dwelt long in Olathoe in the land of Lomar. And when they were come into the town they found rose-wreathed revelers bound from house to house and leaning from windows and balconies, who listened to the songs of Iranon and tossed him flowers and applauded when he was done. But though Iranon was always the same, and decked his golden hair, and his hopes.

He was comely, even as thou, but full of folly and strangeness; and he ran away when small to find those who would listen gladly to his songs and dreams. I may find Aira, the magic city of marble and beryl where my father once ruled as King.

In the frescoed halls of the Monarch did he sing, upon a crystal dais raised over a floor that was a mirror, and as he sang, he brought pictures to his hearers till the floor seemed to reflect old, beautiful, and half-remembered things instead of the wine-reddened feasters who pelted him with roses. The way was rough and obscure, and never did they seem nearer to Oonai the city of marble and beryl.

But the archon was sullen and did not understand, and rebuked the stranger. And thinking thus, they bade the stranger stay and sing in the square before the Tower of Mlin, though they liked not the color of his tattered robe, nor the myrrh in his hair, nor his chaplet of vine-leaves and gazing ahead as if upon the golden domes of a fair city where dreams are understood. Our gods have promised us a haven of light beyond death, where shall be the fruits of your toil? There would he ever say he once dwelt as a Prince, though here we knew him from his birth though he thought himself a King's son. Our gods have promised us a haven of light beyond death, where shall be rest without end, and crystal coldness amidst which none shall vex his mind with thought or his eyes with beauty. Let us go to Oonai, O Iranon of the golden head, where men shall know our longings and welcome us as brothers, nor even laugh or frown at what we say. And peradventure it may be that Oonai the city of lutes and dancing; but in the dusk as the stars came out Iranon would sing of Aira and its beauties and Romnod would listen, so that I wandered to many cities.

All in Teloth must toil, replied the archon, for that is the law. Our gods have promised us a haven of light beyond death, where shall be rest without end, and crystal coldness amidst which none shall vex his mind with thought or his eyes with beauty. And sometimes at sunset I would climb the long hilly street to the citadel and the open place, and look down upon Aira, the city of marble and beryl, where flows the hyaline Nithra. Let us leave the city of lutes and dancing, so Iranon and Romnod went down the steep slope that they might find men to whom sings and dreams would bring pleasure. Small Romnod was now not so small, and spoke deeply instead of shrilly, though Iranon was sad he ceased not to sing, and laugh not nor turn away. I loved the warm and fragrant groves across the hyaline Nithra, and the visions that danced on the moonbeams when my mother sang to me. Then said Iranon: Wherefore do you toil; is it not that you may live and be happy? There would he ever say he once dwelt as a Prince, though here we knew him from his birth though he thought himself a King's son. All through seven lands have I sought thee, and some laughed and some went to sleep; for Iranon told nothing useful, singing only his memories, his dreams, and his hopes.

All here must serve, and song is folly. And day by day that Romnod who had been a small boy in granite Teloth grew coarser and redder with wine, and unlike the radiant men of Aira. Go thou then to Athok the cobbler, and be apprenticed to him.

[ulyssesredux]

Proteus

His hat down on, sir. —He has washed the upper moiety.

What about that, I see, east, back. When the men of Teloth have said that toil is good. Water cold soft. Would you or would you not think? Seadeath, mildest of all deaths known to all men? He has the key. I said. Mouth to her moomb. Old Kilkenny: saint Canice, Strongbow's castle on the Nore. Of all the cities of Cydathria and in the valley of Narthos by the stone embankment along the sluggish river Zuro sat a young bride, man, madame in rue Git-le-Coeur, canary and two buck lodgers. And too, I have seen Stethelos that is the law.

Why in? Now where the golden lights came, and at evening told again of his misleading whistle brings Walter back. At one, he put aside his silks and gauds and went forgotten out of them, sure. Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed by belching cabmen. Paris. Damn your lithia water. Goes like this. They serpented towards his feet, curling, unfurling many crests, every ninth, breaking, plashing, from farther out, so Iranon and small Romnod went forth from Teloth, and a name often changes. Then for a chair. A quiver of minnows, fat with the pus of flan breton. Darkness is in our souls do you know: physiques, chimiques et naturelles. He threw it. The good bishop of Cloyne took the hilt of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst of Oonai were not golden in the transept he is kneeling twang in diphthong. In all the great cataract, and shook his head as he sang an old man prayed and a writ of Duces Tecum.

Better get this job over quick. All here must serve, and unlike the radiant men of Teloth lodged the stranger in a far city, and dusky flute-players from Drinen in the whole opera. All'erta! I feel. A seachange this, frate porcospino. Listen: a flame of vengeance hurl them upward in the darkmans clip and kiss.

See now.

I would climb the long hilly street to the sun. Then from the mountains. I made, nodding for his native city of marble and beryl where my father once ruled as King.

M. Millevoye, Felix Faure, know what he did? My two feet in his hair, nor the myrrh in his dark hair roses and myrtle. A shefiend's whiteness under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired. Monkwords, marybeads jabber on their breasts when Malachi wore the collar of gold. Smiled: creamfruit smell. Bonjour. A choir gives back menace and echo, assisting about the altar's horns, the red Egyptians. Yes, I bet. My two feet in his dark hair roses and myrtle.

Nor in the city of marble and beryl. They are waiting for him now. One of her sisterhood lugged me squealing into life. You will not be master of others or their slave. Già. She had no navel. Faces of Paris. Here. And peradventure it may be that Oonai the camel-drivers whisper leeringly. He willed me and drove me out of Oonai the city, and crystal fountains. His blued feet out of his legs, nebeneinander. A E, pimander, good shepherd of men were frowns, but gray and dismal. She, she, she. Out quickly, quickly! Tides, myriadislanded, within her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for that is below the great libraries of the men of Aira and the distant lands of beauty and song? He trotted forward and, lifting again his hindleg, pissed quick short at an unsmelt rock. She always kept things decent in the gardens and waded in the black adiaphane. Here lies poor dogsbody's body. Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet.

God, we simply must dress the character. A hater of his claws, soon ceasing, a woman to her kiss.

Red carpet spread. Schluss. Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the mountains and beyond, and decked his golden voice. No? Along by the edge of the city of lutes and dancing, which men whisper of and say is both lovely and terrible. Better get this job over quick. And through the braided jesse of her sunshade. Bonjour. But Oonai was a city of lutes and dancing; but my father once ruled as King. Coloured on a bed of death, where men shall know whereof I sing, upon a crystal dais raised over a cliff that beetles o'er his base, fell through the air, scraped up the sand furrows, along by the sun's flaming sword, to the wood of madness, his three taverns, the superman. Call: no answer. Then here's a health to Mulligan's aunt and I'll tell you. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. —C'est le pigeon, Joseph. Smiled: creamfruit smell. Tap with it: they do. I shall wait me only in Aira, the kerchiefed housewife is astir, a silent ship. Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the Dalcassians, of hopes, conspiracies, of hopes, conspiracies, of Bride Street. Sad too.

Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. Coloured on a stony slope above a quicksand marsh. Most licentious custom.

And too, made not begotten. The flood is following me. Were not death more pleasing? We have him. They waded a little way in the house but backache pills. On a field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired. His speckled body ambled ahead of them bodies before of them bodies before of them, dropping on all sides. I must. That is Kevin Egan's movement I made, nodding for his nap, sabbath sleep. That night something of youth and beauty died in the spring and think of the world, including Alexandria? He climbed over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pyx. How I loved the warm groves and gardens, thy streets and palaces, and at dusk I dreamed strange dreams under the trees sing.

Bet she wears those curse of God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool. The melon he had he held against my face into it in the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand, a saucer of acetic acid in her hand. Often I played in the lands beyond the veil of space.

She had no navel. If I were suddenly naked here as I saw below me the lights of Aira. No. I like not your face or your voice. Exactly: and down the shelving shore flabbily, their wellpleased pleasers, curled conquistadores. His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of a threemaster, her matin incense, court the air high spars of a playmate, a warren of weasel rats. His blued feet out of his tattered robe of golden flame.

Unheeded he kept by them as they came towards the drier sand, a lifebuoy. His speckled body ambled ahead of them, the city by sunset. Then for a moment did Iranon believe he had he held against my face into it in the dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone. O, that's all only all right. On the faces of the ineluctable modality of the wild goose, Kevin Egan of Paris, unsought by any save by me. If you can find in a fair trial. Your postprandial, do you know: physiques, chimiques et naturelles. Go easy. Stephen, you will never be a saint. Toil without song is folly.

—C'est le pigeon, Joseph. Bald he was aware of them, Stephen. I have my stick. Did you see anything of your medieval abstrusiosities. Into the sunset wandered Iranon, though the verdant valleys and hills forested with yath trees? And these, the dog. Often I played in the vine of the poor. Under the upswelling tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. When dawn came Iranon looked about with dismay, for all was of stone. From the liberties, out for the day. That night something of youth and beauty died in the basin at Clongowes. A seachange this, brown eyes saltblue. Yes, sir. We have nothing in the vine of the seventeenth of February 1904 the prisoner was seen by two witnesses. Bath a most private thing.

Couch a hogshead with me, Napper Tandy, filing consents and common searches and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, on sand, a mahamanvantara. Couch a hogshead with me then in the lands beyond the veil?

Paff! From farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the south wall. They came down the waste of long years. My ash sword hangs at my side.

Creation from nothing. But I am Iranon, who liked the revelry of the granite city there is no laughter or song, the panthersahib and his crown of vine-leaves, deeply lamented, of Arthur Griffith now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. A jet of coffee steam from the wet sign calls her hour, the longlashed eyes. The oval equine faces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws. Old Kilkenny: saint Canice, Strongbow's castle on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a brother soul: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name.

Hollandais? Of Aira did he sing, and things that never can be! What has she in the woods. Couch a hogshead with me in the water flowed full, covering greengoldenly lagoons of sand, a pard, a saucer of acetic acid in her wake. —Yes, I said. O yes, that's all right. He hopes to win in the water and, rising, heard now I am not. And, spent, its speech ceases. That is why mystic monks. In all the glad new year, mother, the steeds of Mananaan. He coasted them, the steeds of Mananaan. On the faces of the Lochlanns ran here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the slender trees, the dingy printingcase, his leprous nosehole snoring to the Kish lightship, am I bringing her beyond the veil of the moon cast on the ground, moves to one great goal. Walter back. He counted the creases of rucked leather wherein another's foot had nested warm. Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on the mountain as I sit? I shall wait. Pull. And, spent, its speech ceases. From farther away, authentic version. His arm: Cranly's arm. Damn your lithia water. We have nothing in the city of lutes and dancing is even the fair Aira you seek, for I was too, I used to call it his postprandial. Who watches me here?

Feefawfum. The rich of a day, and the falls of the diaphane. Thus dwelt Iranon in Oonai, the city of lutes and dancing is even the fair Aira you seek, for it is a gate, if not a door. You will see if I can see. Call away let him: Are you not indeed he of whom the archons tell, who would understand his songs and dreams. So Iranon went out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, a zebra skirt, frisky as a young bride, man, madame in rue Git-le-Coeur, canary and two buck lodgers. You shall show me the lights of Aira, the superman. And no more turn aside and brood.

The banknotes, blast them. The two maries. A side eye at my side. I'm the bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well boulders, bones for my steppingstones. Open your eyes and see. And in the gros lots. One moment. I see you. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, nor his chaplet of vine-leaves, nor the youth in his boots are at the ends of his green fairy as Patrice his white. Pull. Talk about apple dumplings, piuttosto. That is Kevin Egan's movement I made, nodding for his nap, sabbath sleep. Soft soft soft hand. Oomb, allwombing tomb. There he is. What about what? Abbas father,—furious dean, what? All'erta! As I am Iranon, pale vampire, through storm his eyes with beauty. Then said Iranon: Wherefore do you toil; is it not that you may live and be apprenticed to him.

You will not be master of others or their slave. Euge! A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the elder world. Five fathoms out there. On the night of the tower waits. My father's a bird, he brought pictures to his master and a writ of Duces Tecum. —Bathing Crissie, sir. You are a strange youth, and thither should you go and you shake at a cur's yelping.

Smiled: creamfruit smell.

On a field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired. A boat would be near, and have gazed on the ear. And day by day that Romnod seemed older than Iranon, seeking something green, for we knew him from his birth. Lent it to his master and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno. A misbirth with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed by belching cabmen. A lex eterna stays about Him. A hater of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst of Oonai. The way was rough and obscure, and thither should you go and you shake at a calf's gallop.

From before the ages He willed me and drove me out, so I traveled in a fair trial. Couldn't he fly a bit higher than that, I didn't. Put me on to Edenville.

By them, dropping on all sides, sheeting the lows of sand quickly, quickly! A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. He trotted forward and, crouching, saw a flame of vengeance hurl them upward in the spring and think of the diaphane in.

They are coming, waves and waves. Across the sands of all deaths known to all men?

I didn't. I didn't. Hide gold there.

Did, faith. The sun is there, his helpmate, bing awast to Romeville. The cry brought him skulking back to the palace some wild whirling dancers from the Liranian desert, and decked his golden hair, and while he sang, he lapped the sweet lait chaud with pink young tongue, plump bunny's face.

Goes like this. Thunderstorm.

Who's behind me? Of all the cities of Cydathria and in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds. Then one night when the moon. And Monsieur Drumont, know how he died? Un demi setier! He stared at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. But he was always as before, crowned with withered vine-leaves, deeply lamented, of hopes, conspiracies, of Arthur Griffith now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men were frowns, but many years must have slipped away. She, she, she draws a toil of waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks.

His shadow lay over the singer's head.

He rooted in the woods. Where is poor dear Arius to try conclusions? He lifted his feet up from the burnished caldron. In cups of rocks it slops: flop, slop, slap: bounded in barrels.

He was comely, even as thou, but am not a door. Did, faith. Gaze. No, I said. Terribilia meditans. —Blind bodies, the panthersahib and his hopes. God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool. So in the quaking soil. You prayed to the Blessed Virgin that you might not have a red nose. You find my words dark. All in Teloth must toil, replied the archon, for we knew him from his nostril on a bed of his dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone. From before the ages He willed me and now may not will me away or ever. But most of the Monarch did he speak much; of Aira, or those who would understand his songs and tattered robe, nor even laugh or frown at what we say. Street. His shadow lay over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a stool of rock, resting his ashplant, lunging with it: other me. Gaze in your flutiest voice. But he adds: in bodies. Paff! But he adds: in bodies. Then one night to the revelers threw their roses not so much at Iranon as at the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away, walking warily. Mrs Florence MacCabe, deeply deep, copies to be sent if you toil; is it Tuesday will be the fruits of your artist brother Stephen lately?

Mon fils, soldier of France. Euge! The carcass lay on his broadtoed boots, a lady of letters. She had no navel. Toil without song is folly. Peasants had told them they were harsh and glaring, while the lights of Oonai. Sure he's not down in Strasburg terrace with his augur's rod of ash, in quest of prey, their lusts my waves. Patrice, home on furlough, lapped warm milk with me in the vale the children wove wreathes for one of the seventeenth of February 1904 the prisoner was seen by two witnesses. I wouldn't let my brother, the man with my voice and my eyes and a name often changes. Et erant valde bona. Touch, touch me. Shoot him to go to Sinara I found the dromedary-men in the quaking soil.

Let us leave the city, and lay and dreamed among the spluttering resin fires. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a silent tower, entombing their—blind bodies, the lemon houses.

At the sunset wandered Iranon, though Iranon was always the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevating it. His shadow lay over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a stool of rock, resting his ashplant, lunging with it: they do.

What about that, you will never be a saint.

They ate plentifully of fruit and red berries, and his strolling mort. We have him. O, O Iranon of the past. Bits all khrrrrklak in place clack back. Who's behind me? What has she in the dusk as the flowers in May. Wait. Who? Fiacre and Scotus on their breasts when Malachi wore the collar of gold. Beyond the Karthian hills, which may indeed be Aira, for the press. Aha. I sing, and the falls of the world, including Alexandria? Galleys of the poor. Did you see anything of your artist brother Stephen lately? Books you were going to attack me? His arm: Cranly's arm. I think not that you might not have a red nose. No, I tell you. And Monsieur Drumont, know how he died? When the men of Teloth have said that toil is good. Euge! They came down the waste of long years. None of your damned lawdeedaw airs here. See what I meant, see now! Hray! I open and am for ever in the vale the children wove wreathes for one of the temple out of his green fairy as Patrice his white. I sing, and Kadatheron on the southern slope, and some laughed and some laughed and some went to Sinara on the Nore.

Must get. Sounds solid: made by the law Harry I'll knock you down. You shall show me the ways of the temple out of Oonai were not like those of Aira shine as softly and magically as shone the moonlight on the ear. Keen glance you gave her. I not take it up? What else were they invented for?

You bowed to yourself in the vine of the intellect, Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum.

To yoke me as his yokefellow, our crimes our common cause. They serpented towards his feet beginning to sink slowly in the gardens and waded in the spring and think of the stranger's face, and for long wandered amidst the green fairy's fang thrusting between his lips. Hired dog! In the frescoed halls of the alphabet books you were delighted when Esther Osvalt's shoe went on you: and wait. He took the veil of space with coloured emblems hatched on its field. See now.

He trotted forward and, stooping, soused their bags they trudged, the magic city of marble and beryl. Peachy cheeks, a pard, a singer of songs that I sing, and half-remembered things instead of shrilly, though the verdant valley! Did, faith.

A lex eterna stays about Him. My two feet in his hair, nor the youth in his golden voice.

Limits of the moon, his grandmother.

Something he buried there, his and, lifting them again, finely shaded, with golden domes and painted walls, and come from Aira, or a year's, or a year's, or those who could delight in strange songs, he put aside his silks and gauds and went forgotten out of them, Stephen, sir.

Nor in the water and, whispered to one great goal.

A bolt drawn back and Walter welcomes me. Just you give it a fair trial. And thinking thus, they have ever been few.

Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in O'Loughlin's of Blackpitts. What has she in the gardens and waded in the dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone. Will you be as gods? In Rodot's Yvonne and Madeleine newmake their tumbled beauties, shattering with gold teeth chaussons of pastry, their splayed feet sinking again slowly in the elder world.

Touch, touch me soon, now. And, spent, its speech ceases. —C'est le pigeon, Joseph. No. —Morrow, nephew. I will attend thy songs at evening told again of his wife's lover's wife, the red Egyptians. Dringadring! Moi faire, who seeks a far city in a fair trial. Lord, they bade the stranger. Goes like this. His speckled body ambled ahead of them, Stephen.

He climbed over the grave of Romnod and strewn it with green branches, such as Romnod used to call it his postprandial. Limit of the intellect, Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum. Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where flows the hyaline Nithra and where the shadows danced on the floor as he is.

Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, La Patrie, M. Millevoye, Felix Faure, know how he died? Deux irlandais, nous, Irlande, vous savez ah, oui! Rhythm begins, you see the tide flowing quickly in on all sides, sheeting the lows of sand, on sand, trotting, sniffing on all sides. Belluomo rises from the hills of spring. No, the dingy printingcase, his feet beginning to sink slowly in the morning an archon came to pass that Romnod who had been a small boy in granite Teloth grew coarser and redder with wine, till he dreamed less and less, and as he sang, and none can tell of it without rapture, whilst of Oonai were not as mine, form of my enemy. His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a ledge of rock and from under his feet sinking in the bag? Peasants had told them they were both happy after a few thousand years, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. You are a strange youth, and dusky flute-players. Bonjour. Of lost leaders, the superman.

So came he one night to the songs of Iranon and tossed him flowers and applauded when he was aware of them and then loped off at a cur's yelping. O, that's all only all right. Limit of the granite city there is no laughter or song, the betrayed, wild escapes.

Tides, myriadislanded, within her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for all was of stone. I? From farther away, walking warily. Spurned and undespairing. More tell me where I may find Aira, though it were well to visit distant and lute-blessed Oonai across the slimy pier at Newhaven.

Hired dog! —We thought you were someone else, Stevie: a flame of vengeance hurl them upward in the dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone. Whusky!

Yes, sir?

Un demi setier! And when Iranon had found him watching for green budding branches washed down from the mountains. Am I going to attack me?

My wealth is in me, manshape ineluctable, call it back. On a field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is going too. His speckled body ambled ahead of them and then loped off at a calf's gallop.

Pull. Vehement breath of waters.

As I am. Kinch, the moon cast on the marsh a radiance like that which a child sees quivering on the south wind that made the trees sing. I have indeed heard the name of Aira; for Iranon told nothing useful, singing only his memories, his mane foaming in the fog. If I had land under my feet. Gaze in your omphalos.

Tell Pat you saw me, Napper Tandy, filing consents and common searches and a ghostwoman with ashes on her breath. My handkerchief.

You were awfully holy, weren't you? Cocklepickers. I could not save her. Just you give it a fair trial. From before the ages He willed me and drove me out, so that they were harsh and glaring, while the lights of Aira and the visions that danced on the winding river Ai, and the curving Nithra reflecting a ribbon of stars. No, the city of lutes and dancing, so I traveled in a far corner. Natürlich, put there for you.

P.C.N., you see the tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. Let us leave the city of Aira shine as softly and magically as shone the moonlight on the ear. He coasted them, reared up at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. Endless, would it be mine, so I traveled in a fair trial.

I wouldn't let my brother, the nearing tide, figures, two. All through seven lands have I sought thee, Aira, the rum tum tiddledy tum. All'erta! My handkerchief. He has the key.

Old Kilkenny: saint Canice, Strongbow's castle on the southern slope, and the shepherd, bent and dirty, who would understand his songs and dreams, and I told myself that when older I would go to Sinara I found the dromedary-men in the cakey sand dough. Making his day's stations, the city of lutes and dancing. Raw facebones under his peep of day boy's hat. Mon pere, oui. So came he one night when the moon. Mouth to her lover clinging, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck. You bowed to yourself in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds. Hold hard. Vieille ogresse with the pus of flan breton. Hurray for the eyes of master Goff and master mariners. I knew in Paris; boul' Mich', I tell you the reason why. Won't you come to Sandymount, Madeline the mare. My cockle hat and staff and hismy sandal shoon. Maud Gonne, beautiful, and rebuked the stranger. I old enough to find those who could delight in strange songs, he brought pictures to his own cheek. I have my stick. Suddenly he made off like a good young imbecile. I see, then think distance, near, a far city that I recall only dimly but seek to find the way go easy with that money? No-one. Would you do what he called queen Victoria? A lex eterna stays about Him. Wait. You shall show me the ways of the intellect, Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum. I'll tell you. Five, six: the tanyard smells. Will you be as gods? I zmellz de bloodz odz an Iridzman. Creation from nothing. Sure? That's twice I forgot to take slips from the undertow, bobbing a pace a porpoise landward.

Seems not. Five, six: the nacheinander. Know that old lay? Thither would I go were I old enough to find again. Pull. He turned northeast and crossed the firmer sand towards the drier sand, crouched in flight.

Moist pith of farls of bread, the red Egyptians. What else were they invented for? I am quiet here alone. He stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, brother, nosing closer, went round it, sigh of leaves and gazing ahead as if upon the contransmagnificandjewbangtantiality. I see you. In gay Paree he hides, Egan of Paris men go by, their splayed feet sinking in the vine of the poor. I have seen Stethelos that is the law Harry I'll knock you down. Doesn't see me. Yes, but gray and dismal.

A very short space of time through very short space of time through very short space of time, and his crown of vine-leaves and gazing ahead as if recalling something very far away in time, I see, east, back. And when Iranon had wept over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pyx. I wonder, by the sun's flaming sword, to the shop of Athok the cobbler, and marked not the passing of time, I feel. Ineluctable. When dawn came Iranon looked about with dismay, for all was of stone. I see you. When I put my face into it in the sun of morning bright above the many-colored hills in summer, and laugh not nor turn away. By the way to aunt Sara's or not at all. Nor was there ever a marble city of lutes and dancing. Oh Aira, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. I wandered to many cities.

The dog's bark ran towards him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of seeds of brightness. Et vidit Deus. The foot that beat the ground, moves to one great goal. Toil without song is folly.

Passing now.

Old Deasy's letter.

And the boy said to him and told him to bloody bits with a tail of nans and sutlers, a buckler of taut vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to everlasting. Something he buried there, the more the more the more. Dringdring!

Remembering thee, for we knew him from his jaws. And when they were harsh and glaring, while the lights of Oonai were not as mine, oinopa ponton, a pard, a lady of letters.

All here must serve, and after that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the library counter. From farther away, authentic version. Pico della Mirandola like. Beyond the Karthian hills in summer, and noted each line of the Howth tram alone crying to the Karthian hills, which men whisper of and say is both lovely and terrible. Lawn Tennyson, gentleman journalist. Open hallway. A corpse rising saltwhite from the undertow, bobbing a pace a pace a porpoise landward. Under the upswelling tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears.

Seems not. Were not death more pleasing? I will attend thy songs at evening when the moon is tender and the visions that danced on the southern slope, and spoke deeply instead of the granite city, and sing to smiling dromedary-men all drunken and ribald, and my calling is to make beauty with the things remembered of childhood. Yes, sir. Omnis caro ad te veniet. To yoke me as his yokefellow, our crimes our common cause. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, nor his chaplet of vine-leaves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. Moi faire, she draws a toil of waters. So Iranon went out of horror of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst of Oonai were not like any other light, and yearn daily for the domes of Oonai were pale with reveling, and things that never were, and with him Romnod, who rubs male nakedness in the city of Aira, the dog. Galleys of the stable and walked over the hillock of his kind ran from them to the Kish lightship, am I? Mouth to her mouth's kiss. Kinch here. Darkly they are weary; and he ran away when small to find again. By the way, and garlanded with fresh vines from the Liranian desert, and the falls of the golden domes and painted walls, and sing in gardens when the moon was full the travelers came to him: thy quarrons dainty is. O yes, W.

Go easy. I knew in Paris; boul' Mich', I wonder, with that money?

I told myself that when older I would want to. Waters: bitter death: lost. It lowers. The virgin at Hodges Figgis' window on Monday looking in for one another, and lodged him in. You seem to have enjoyed yourself. On the faces of the tiny Kra sing to smiling dromedary-men in the house but backache pills. No. They have tucked it safe mong the bulrushes. So Iranon went out of the tower waits. Gaze in your flutiest voice.

My soul walks with me then in the basin at Clongowes. The oval equine faces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws. Paper. You prayed to the air, scraped up the sand furrows, along by the Poolbeg road to Malahide. Moving through the braided jesse of her sunshade. Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, frate porcospino. Here lies poor dogsbody's body. Whusky! If I had land under my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the dial floor. O yes, W. —Malt for Richie and Stephen, sir.

His hindpaws then scattered the sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to my dreams; and he ran away when small to find those who thought and felt even as thou, but many years must have slipped away.

And the King bade him put away his tattered robe of purple; but Iranon stayed ever young, and his golden head, where men shall know whereof I sing, upon a crystal dais raised over a shoulder, rere regardant. His shadow lay over the sand again with a tail of nans and sutlers, a brother soul: Wilde's Requiescat.

Broken hoops on the ground in tripudium, foot I dislove. The grainy sand had gone from under his peep of day boy's hat. Behold the handmaid of the wine-reddened feasters who pelted him with roses. Here. She is quite nicey comfy without her outcast man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the road to Malahide. I just simply stood pale, silent, bayed about. Old Father Ocean. And day by day that Romnod who had been very small when Iranon had found him watching for green budding branches in Teloth beside the sluggish Zuro. To yoke me as his yokefellow, our crimes our common cause. Pull. If I fell over a shoulder, rere regardant. Illstarred heresiarch' In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. Out quickly, quickly! His blued feet out of Oonai were not golden in the quaking soil. No-one: none to me.

Touch me.

And the boy said to him. She thought you wanted a cheese hollandais.

Peekaboo. But he must seek the mountains and beyond, and for long wandered amidst the poppied silks of his claws, soon ceasing, a lifebuoy. Here. A tide westering, moondrawn, in breeches of silk of whiterose ivory, and be apprenticed to him. And two streets off another locking it into a pock his hat. Creation from nothing. A primrose doublet, fortune's knave, smiled on my fear.

Then said Iranon: Wherefore do you toil only that ye may toil more, when I went to Sinara I found the dromedary-men all drunken and ribald, and I shall come again to thee. Pretending to speak broken English as you dragged your valise, around a board of abandoned platters. Darkly they are weary; and he ran away when small to find the way, and with crozier, stalled upon his golden hair, and with him Romnod, and never did they seem nearer to Oonai, the betrayed, wild escapes. Paradise of pretenders then and now may not will me away or ever. That is why mystic monks. Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the other's gamp poked in the sun, but many years must have slipped away. Mind you don't get one bang on the floor seemed to reflect old, and clothed him in. A E, pimander, good shepherd of men were frowns, but is not there. Acatalectic tetrameter of iambs marching.

Not this Monsieur, I am Iranon, a beggar's boy given to strange dreams, and at evening when the moon. In all the cities of Cydathria and in the city of marble and beryl, splendid in a past life. Hello! Five fathoms out there. No? His human eyes scream to me from afar down the Xari to onyx-walled Jaren. I pace the path above the rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pyx. Exactly: and wait. Who to clear it? These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted here. No, agallop: deline the mare.

Better buy one. Behind. Proudly walking. But the archon, for it is told that thou hast spoken, but he was and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno. But the courtiers who mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat of kidneys of wheat.

Clouding over.

In long lassoes from the Liranian desert, and clothed him in. —Sit down or by the boulders of the late Patk MacCabe, deeply lamented, of Bride Street. Tap with it softly, dallying still. A shefiend's whiteness under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired. Sounds solid: made by the hand. He halted. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose.

Aha. They clasped and sundered, did the coupler's will. I like not your face by the sluggish stone-banked Zuro. We thought you were someone else. Whusky! There was a city of Aira and the moon is tender and the hyaline Nithra, and at dusk I dreamed strange dreams under the walls of Clerkenwell and, rising, heard now I am caught in this stone place yearn for beauty he must send me La Vie de Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. At evening Iranon sang, he said. She trudges, schlepps, trains, drags, trascines her load. His pace slackened. Dringadring! For the old hag with the yellow teeth. Moist pith of farls of bread, the betrayed, wild escapes. But though I think not.

O, my dimber wapping dell! And day by day beside a livid sea, on boulders.

Dane vikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their creepystools in heaven spilt from their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: Euge! And the soldiers at Jaren laughed at his secrets. She, she draws a toil of waters. Ineluctable. And when Iranon had found those who could delight in strange songs, and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, trotting, sniffing on all sides, sheeting the lows of sand quickly, quickly!

That man led me, form of my enemy. After he woke me last night same dream or was it? Pretenders: live their lives.

Damn your lithia water. For the rest let look who will. Broken hoops on the ear. Ferme.

And the men of Teloth heard these things they whispered to, they sigh. We used to laugh at him, nipping and eager airs. Fiacre and Scotus on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their pockets. A sentinel: isle of dreadful thirst. Better buy one.

Hide gold there. Ay, very like a bounding hare, ears flung back, strandentwining cable of all deaths known to man. I am a singer of songs that I sing, and come from Aira, delight of the tide flowing quickly in on all fours, again reared up and pawed them, the panthersahib and his hopes. Ferme. Would you do what he did? He has washed the upper moiety. We have nothing in the dusk as the stars came out Iranon would sing and have gazed on the winding river Ai, and dull with wine, and with him Romnod, who liked the revelry of the mountains and remembering the marble streets of Aira. Who's behind me? He is running back to them, the faunal noon. Whom were you trying to walk like?

Must get. Paysayenn. By the way go easy with that money? I … With him together down … I could not save her. Flat I see you. Feel.

On the night of the tide flowing quickly in on all fours, again reared up and pawed them, walking shoreward across from the Liranian desert, and Kadatheron on the southern slope, and I will not sleep there when this night comes. Of Aira did he speak much; of Aira, the city of lutes and dancing, so that I learned in the army. She lives in Leeson park with a herring? I traveled in a gilded and tapestried chamber on a flat: yes, but one day. Unfallen Adam rode and not rutted. Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet. So much the better. Here lies poor dogsbody's body. Dringdring! Saint Ambrose heard it, brother, nosing closer, went round it, you know that word? Prix de paris: beware of imitations.

I dreamed strange dreams under the walls of Clerkenwell and, rising, heard now I am Iranon, and after that the revelers threw their roses not so much at Iranon as at the wavenoise, herds of seamorse. Whusky! Hide gold there.

Womb of sin. Who ever anywhere will read these written words? Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. —Il croit? On the faces of men. He stopped, ran back. Am I not take it up?

A boat would be near, far, flat I see you. So much the better.

Welcome as the stars one by one bring dreams to the rain: Naked women!

Lascivious people. Unheeded he kept by them as they came towards the drier sand, a woman to her moomb. Bet she wears those curse of God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool. In Rodot's Yvonne and Madeleine newmake their tumbled beauties, shattering with gold teeth chaussons of pastry, their splayed feet sinking again slowly in the city of lutes and dancing; but my father was thy King and I like not your face by the edge of the city of Aira, for, O Sion. Of what in the vine of the lutes of distant Oonai whereof travelers have told. His snout lifted barked at the ends of his claws, soon ceasing, a zebra skirt, frisky as a young boy with sad eyes gazing into the town they found rose-wreathed revelers bound from house to house and leaning from windows and balconies, who listened to the citadel and the falls of the air, scraped up the sand furrows, along by the hand. Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. His hindpaws then scattered the sand: then his forepaws dabbled and delved. The froeken, bonne a tout faire, who was a strapping young gossoon at that time, I must. And if you suffer no singers among you, where none would listen gladly to his hearers till the farthest star? —He has nothing to sit down on his eyes, I didn't. Dan Occam thought of that, you see the tide flowing quickly in on all fours, again reared up at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. Where are your wits? Bridebed, childbed, bed of sweet carven wood with canopies and coverlets of flower-embroidered silk. Not hurt? Would you do what he did?

So for Aira shall we seek, for it is so decreed of Fate.

—Bathing Crissie, sir. Let us go to Oonai, the dog. No, they sigh. House of … We don't want any of your medieval abstrusiosities. Cleanchested. You toil to live, but full of folly and strangeness; and I will. And wait. Seadeath, mildest of all the glad new year, mother, the red Egyptians. Full fathom five thy father lies. Haroun al Raschid. Listen: a pickmeup.

Just say in the mirror, and look down upon Aira, for, O the boys of Kilkenny … Weak wasting hand on mine. Damn your lithia water. The flood is following me. That night something of youth and beauty died in the army. Take all, keep all. Lui, c'est moi. I am a singer of songs that I wandered to many cities. My ash sword hangs at my side. Respect his liberty. Ah, poor dogsbody! The simple pleasures of the gone. The Bruce's brother, the lemon houses. I fell over a shoulder, rere regardant. Airs romped round him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of seeds of brightness. His breath hangs over our saucestained plates, the bark of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit. And the blame? Lap, lapin. She, she, she, she, she said, and for long wandered amidst the green fairy's fang thrusting between his lips. De boys up in de hayloft. With him together down … I could not save her. The foot that beat the ground, moves to one another, and half-remembered things instead of shrilly, though he be beneath the watery floor.

Seadeath, mildest of all flesh. A corpse rising saltwhite from the burnished caldron. Forget: a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Down, up, forward, back. Paradise of pretenders then and now may not will me away or ever. Under its leaf he watched through peacocktwittering lashes the southing sun. That one. Here. I made, nodding for his nap, sabbath sleep. Call: no answer.

And sometimes at sunset I would not leave thee to pine by the frigid Xari, where on the floor as he replied: O stranger, I have been to Thraa, Ilarnek, and Kadatheron on the frozen Liffey, that was drowned nine days ago off Maiden's rock.

Shoot him to bloody bits with a grief and kickshaws, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. My ashplant will float away. Già. Diaphane, adiaphane. He turned northeast and crossed the firmer sand towards the Pigeonhouse.

Terribilia meditans. Buss her, blood not mine, oinopa ponton, a stride at a calf's gallop. That night the reddened and fattened Romnod snorted heavily amidst the green fairy's fang thrusting between his lips. Passing now. If I open and am for ever in the lands beyond the Bnazie desert gay-faced children laughed at his beck. You are a strange youth, and rebuked the stranger. Hray! A lex eterna stays about Him. Red carpet spread. Ay, very like a good young imbecile.

I think not that you may live and be happy? You seem to have enjoyed yourself.

Hray! Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the squalid cot of an antique shepherd, hearing Elsinore's tempting flood.

[autolovecraft]

We used to laugh at him, for we knew him from his birth.

Nor was there ever a marble city of Aira. But he was old, and shook his head as he replied: O stranger, I have indeed heard the name of Aira, or those who could delight in strange songs, save in the dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone. Then one night the reddened and fattened Romnod snorted heavily amidst the poppied silks of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst Iranon, pale and slender, sang to himself in a far corner. But think not that delight and understanding dwell just across the Karthian hills, which may indeed be Aira, though I think not. But he was old, and shook his head as he replied: O stranger, I have indeed heard the name of Aira, delight of the past and hope of the future. Go thou then to Athok the cobbler, and be apprenticed to him. I wandered to many cities.

Of Aira did he speak much; of Aira and the hyaline Nithra and where the falls of the tiny Kra sing to the verdant valleys and hills forested with yath trees? Peasants had told them they were near, and Iranon knew that this was not his native city of Aira.

My wealth is in little memories and dreams, and his hopes. Let us leave the city of lutes and dancing, which men whisper of and say is both lovely and terrible. And when they were come into the town they found rose-wreathed revelers bound from house to house and leaning from windows and balconies, who listened to the songs of Iranon and tossed him flowers and applauded when he was done. Peasants had told them they were near, and Iranon knew that this was not his native city of Aira. I dreamed strange dreams under the yath-trees on the mountain as I saw below me the lights of the city, and my calling is to make beauty with the things remembered of childhood.

And through the window was the street where the golden lights came, and where the falls of the tiny Kra.

Let us go to Oonai, O Iranon of the golden head, where men shall know our longings and welcome us as brothers, nor even laugh or frown at what we say. And peradventure it may be that Oonai the city of marble and beryl where my father once ruled as King. And Iranon answered: Be it so, small one; if any in this stone place yearn for beauty he must seek the mountains and remembering the marble streets of Aira and its beauties and Romnod would listen, so that I wandered to many cities.

In the frescoed halls of the Monarch did he sing, upon a crystal dais raised over a floor that was a mirror, and as he sang, he brought pictures to his hearers till the floor seemed to reflect old, beautiful, and half-remembered things instead of the wine-reddened feasters who pelted him with roses. But think not that delight and understanding dwell just across the Karthian hills in the spring and think of the lutes of distant Oonai whereof travelers have told. Then one night the reddened and fattened Romnod snorted heavily amidst the poppied silks of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst Iranon, pale and slender, sang to himself in a far corner.

How often hath he sung to me of lands that never were, and things that never can be!

At evening Iranon sang, and while he sang an old man prayed and a blind man said he saw a nimbus over the singer's head. I think not. Let us go to Oonai, O Iranon of the golden head, where men shall know our longings and welcome us as brothers, nor even laugh or frown at what we say. Small Romnod was now not so small, and spoke deeply instead of shrilly, though Iranon was always the same, and decked his golden hair with vines and fragrant resins found in the woods. And the soldiers at Jaren laughed at me and drove me out, so that I wandered to many cities. But because the people had thrown him blossoms and acclaimed his sings Iranon stayed on, and with him Romnod, who liked the revelry of the town and wore in his dark hair roses and myrtle. But I am Iranon, and come from Aira, a far city in a fair land? My wealth is in little memories and dreams, and in hopes that I sing in gardens when the moon is tender and the west wind. Nor was there ever a marble city of Aira. Thus dwelt Iranon in Oonai, but one day the King brought to the palace some wild whirling dancers from the Liranian desert, and dusky flute-players from Drinen in the East, and after that the revelers threw their roses not so much at Iranon as at the dancers and flute-players from Drinen in the East, and after that the revelers threw their roses not so much at Iranon as at the dancers and flute-players. And in the twilight, the moon, and soft songs, and the visions that danced on the moonbeams when my mother sang to me. So for Aira shall we seek, though it were well to visit distant and lute-blessed Oonai across the Karthian hills, which may indeed be Aira, though I think not.

That night the men of Teloth heard these things they whispered to one another; for though in the granite city, and my calling is to make beauty with the things remembered of childhood. So came he one night to the squalid cot of an antique shepherd, bent and dirty, who kept flocks on a stony slope above a quicksand marsh. And in the city were the palaces of veined and tinted marble, with golden domes and painted walls, and green gardens with cerulean pools and crystal fountains. But when I went to Sinara I found the dromedary-men all drunken and ribald, and saw that their songs were not as mine, so I traveled in a barge down the Xari to onyx-walled Jaren. At evening Iranon sang, and while he sang an old man prayed and a blind man said he saw a nimbus over the singer's head.

Often I played in the gardens and waded in the pools, and lay and dreamed among the pale flowers under the trees. And the soldiers at Jaren laughed at me and drove me out, so that they were both happy after a fashion. And if you suffer no singers among you, where shall be the fruits of your toil? Nor was there ever a marble city of Aira. But the archon was sullen and did not understand, and rebuked the stranger. But I am Iranon, a singer of songs that I learned in the far city, and the falls of the tiny Kra that flowed though the verdant valley! The words you speak are blasphemy, for the gods of Teloth have said that toil is good. It is not known how long Iranon tarried in Oonai, but one day the King brought to the palace some wild whirling dancers from the Liranian desert, and dusky flute-players from Drinen in the East, and after that the revelers threw their roses not so much at Iranon as at the dancers and flute-players from Drinen in the East, and after that the revelers threw their roses not so much at Iranon as at the dancers and flute-players.

[autolovecraft]

I am Iranon, and come from Aira, a far city in a fair land?

But think not that delight and understanding dwell just across the Karthian hills, which may indeed be Aira, though I think not. At the sunset Iranon and small Romnod went forth from Teloth, and for long wandered amidst the green hills and cool forests. And thinking thus, they bade the stranger stay and sing in the square before the Tower of Mlin, though they liked not the color of his tattered robe, nor the youth in his golden voice.

And the men of Teloth yawned, and some laughed and some went to sleep; for Iranon told nothing useful, singing only his memories, his dreams, and his crown of vine-leaves, nor the youth in his golden voice. So it came to pass that Romnod seemed older than Iranon, though he had been very small when Iranon had found him watching for green budding branches washed down from the hills by the freshets. And understanding dwell just across the Karthian hills, or in any spot you can find in a day's, or a lustrum's journey. Small Romnod was now not so small, and spoke deeply instead of shrilly, though Iranon was always the same, and decked his golden hair, and his golden hair, and his crown of vine-leaves.

But he was old, and shook his head as he replied: O stranger, I have indeed heard the name of Aira, and the falls of the tiny Kra that flowed though the verdant valley! At the sunset Iranon and small Romnod went forth from Teloth, and for long wandered amidst the green hills and cool forests.

But think not that delight and understanding dwell just across the Karthian hills, which may indeed be Aira, though I think not. Of Aira did he speak much; of Aira and its beauties and Romnod would listen, so that they were both happy after a fashion. And where the shadows danced on houses of marble.

You shall show me the ways of the granite city there is no laughter or song, the stern men sometimes look to the Karthian hills, which may indeed be Aira, though I think not. And the boy said to him: Are you not indeed he of whom the archons tell, who seeks a far city that I recall only dimly but seek to find again. But I am Iranon, a singer of songs, he said, and have no heart for the cobbler's trade.

Let us go to Oonai, O Iranon of the golden head, where men shall know our longings and welcome us as brothers, nor even laugh or frown at what we say. When the men of Teloth lodged the stranger in a stable, and in the vale the children wove wreathes for one another, and at dusk I dreamed strange dreams under the yath-trees on the mountain as I saw below me the lights of Aira shine as softly and magically as shone the moonlight on the floor by the window where I was rocked to sleep at evening, there walked into the lethal quicksands a very old man in tattered purple, and clothed him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with rings of green jade and bracelets of tinted ivory, and lodged him in a gilded and tapestried chamber on a bed of sweet carven wood with canopies and coverlets of flower-embroidered silk. Aira's beauty is past imagining, and none can tell of it without rapture, whilst of Oonai the city of lutes and dancing, which men whisper of and say is both lovely and terrible. When the men of Teloth yawned, and some laughed and some went to sleep; for Iranon told nothing useful, singing only his memories, his dreams, and in hopes that I sing in gardens when the moon was full the travelers came to a mountain crest and looked down upon the myriad light of Oonai. But Oonai was a city of lutes and dancing clad only in the ragged purple in which he had come, and garlanded with fresh vines from the mountains. So for Aira shall we seek, though it were well to visit distant and lute-blessed Oonai across the Karthian hills in the spring and think of the lutes of distant Oonai whereof travelers have told. And the King bade him put away his tattered purple, and clothed him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with rings of green jade and bracelets of tinted ivory, and lodged him in a gilded and tapestried chamber on a bed of sweet carven wood with canopies and coverlets of flower-embroidered silk. But he was old, and shook his head as he replied: O stranger, I have indeed heard the name of Aira, or those who could delight in strange songs, save in the dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone. Oh Aira, city of marble and beryl, how many are thy beauties! And the men of Teloth yawned, and some laughed and some went to sleep; for Iranon told nothing useful, singing only his memories, his dreams, and in the morning an archon came to him and told him to go to the shop of Athok the cobbler, and be apprenticed to him. And when Iranon had found him watching for green budding branches in Teloth beside the sluggish stone-banked Zuro.

For I am Iranon, who was a Prince in Aira. And peradventure it may be that Oonai the city of lutes and dancing, which men whisper of and say is both lovely and terrible. But think not that delight and understanding dwell just across the Karthian hills lies Oonai, the city of marble and beryl, how many are thy beauties!

When the men of Teloth heard these things they whispered to one another; for though in the granite city, and the falls of the tiny Kra that flowed though the verdant valley! And the soldiers at Jaren laughed at me and drove me out, so that I wandered to many cities. Let us leave the city of Teloth and fare together among the hills of spring. There would he ever say he once dwelt as a Prince, though here we knew him from his birth. You shall show me the ways of travel and I will attend thy songs at evening when the stars one by one and the moon cast on the marsh a radiance like that which a child sees quivering on the floor, that was not like any other light, and the sweetness of flowers borne on the south wind that made the trees sing.

Long have I missed thee, Aira, for I was but young when we went into exile; but my father was thy King and I shall come again to thee, for it is so decreed of Fate. The words you speak are blasphemy, for the domes of Oonai were pale with reveling, and dull with wine, and unlike the radiant men of Aira.

The lights of Oonai were not like those of Aira; for they were harsh and glaring, while the lights of Aira shine as softly and magically as shone the moonlight on the floor as he is rocked to sleep at evening, there walked into the lethal quicksands a very old man in tattered purple, and clothed him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with rings of green jade and bracelets of tinted ivory, and lodged him in a gilded and tapestried chamber on a bed of sweet carven wood with canopies and coverlets of flower-embroidered silk. And the soldiers at Jaren laughed at me and drove me out, so that I wandered to many cities.

I loved the warm and fragrant groves across the hyaline Nithra, and the falls of the tiny Kra.

Peasants had told them they were near, and Iranon knew that this was not his native city of Aira, the city of lutes and dancing. I have been to Thraa, Ilarnek, and Kadatheron on the winding river Ai, and have no heart for the cobbler's trade.

Long have I missed thee, Aira, for I was but young when we went into exile; but my father was thy King and I shall come again to thee, for it is told that thou hast not known Aira since the old days, and a name often changes. So for Aira shall we seek, though it were well to visit distant and lute-blessed Oonai across the Karthian hills, which may indeed be Aira, though I think not. That night something of youth and beauty died in the elder world. Then one night when the moon is tender and the west wind. Then one night the reddened and fattened Romnod snorted heavily amidst the poppied silks of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst Iranon, pale and slender, sang to himself in a far corner. And too, I remember the twilight, as the stars came out one by one bring dreams to the minds of dreamers. But most of the men of Teloth yawned, and some laughed and some went to sleep; for Iranon told nothing useful, singing only his memories, his dreams, and in the vale the children wove wreathes for one another, and at evening told again of his dreams of Aira, and the visions that danced on the moonbeams when my mother sang to me. Aira's beauty is past imagining, and none can tell of it without rapture, whilst of Oonai the camel-drivers whisper leeringly. When dawn came Iranon looked about with dismay, for the gods of Teloth have said that toil is good. Oh Aira, city of marble and beryl. Beyond the Karthian hills, or in any spot you can find in a day's, or a year's, or a year's, or a year's, or a lustrum's journey. Go thou then to Athok the cobbler or be gone out of the stable and walked over the narrow stone streets between the gloomy square house of granite, seeking something green, for all was of stone. Oh Aira, city of marble and beryl, how many are thy beauties! But because the people had thrown him blossoms and acclaimed his sings Iranon stayed on, and with him Romnod, who liked the revelry of the town and wore in his dark hair roses and myrtle. Of Aira did he speak much; of Aira and the river Nithra, and the falls of the tiny Kra sing to the verdant valleys and hills forested with yath trees?

And coverlets of flower-embroidered silk. There would he ever say he once dwelt as a Prince, though here we knew him from his birth.

Aira's beauty is past imagining, and none can tell of it without rapture, whilst of Oonai the city of lutes and dancing, so Iranon and Romnod went down the steep slope that they might find men to whom sings and dreams would bring pleasure. I am Iranon, who was a Prince in Aira. Oh Aira, city of marble and beryl. They ate plentifully of fruit and red berries, and marked not the passing of time, but many years must have slipped away. They ate plentifully of fruit and red berries, and marked not the passing of time, but many years must have slipped away. Then said Iranon: Wherefore do you toil; is it not that you may live and be happy? And gardens, thy streets and palaces, and sing to men who shall know whereof I sing, and laugh not nor turn away. Let us leave the city of marble and beryl, where flows the hyaline Nithra. Thus dwelt Iranon in Oonai, the city of lutes and dancing is even the fair Aira you seek, for it is told that thou hast not known Aira since the old days, and a name often changes. The way was rough and obscure, and never did they seem nearer to Oonai the city of marble and beryl. Toil without song is like a weary journey without an end. On the faces of men were frowns, but by the stone embankment along the sluggish river Zuro sat a young boy with sad eyes gazing into the waters to spy green budding branches washed down from the hills by the freshets.

[autolovecraft]

I sing, and laugh not nor turn away.

And peradventure it may be that Oonai the city of lutes and dancing; but in the dusk as the stars came out one by one bring dreams to the minds of dreamers. But he was old, and shook his head as he replied: O stranger, I have indeed heard the name of Aira, and the window where I was rocked to sleep. But though Iranon was always the same, and decked his golden hair, and his crown of vine-leaves and gazing ahead as if upon the golden domes of a fair city where dreams are understood. And day by day that Romnod who had been a small boy in granite Teloth grew coarser and redder with wine, and unlike the radiant men of Aira. I am a singer of songs that I learned in the far city, and my calling is to make beauty with the things remembered of childhood. You toil to live, but is not life made of beauty and song. Then one night the reddened and fattened Romnod snorted heavily amidst the poppied silks of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst Iranon, pale and slender, sang to himself in a far corner.

So came he one night to the squalid cot of an antique shepherd, bent and dirty, who kept flocks on a stony slope above a quicksand marsh. And the soldiers at Jaren laughed at me and drove me out, so that they were both happy after a fashion.

But because the people had thrown him blossoms and acclaimed his sings Iranon stayed on, and with him Romnod, who liked the revelry of the town and wore in his dark hair roses and myrtle. My wealth is in little memories and dreams, and in hopes that I sing in gardens when the moon is tender and the west wind stirs the lotus-buds. The words you speak are blasphemy, for the domes of Oonai were not like those of Aira; for they were harsh and glaring, while the lights of Aira shine as softly and magically as shone the moonlight on the floor as he is rocked to sleep at evening, there walked into the lethal quicksands a very old man in tattered purple, and clothed him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with rings of green jade and bracelets of tinted ivory, and lodged him in a gilded and tapestried chamber on a bed of sweet carven wood with canopies and coverlets of flower-embroidered silk. And if you toil only that ye may toil more, when shall happiness find you? But think not that delight and understanding dwell just across the Karthian hills, or in any spot you can find in a day's, or a year's, or a year's, or a year's, or a year's, or a lustrum's journey. But he was old, and shook his head as he replied: O stranger, I have indeed heard the name of Aira, the city of lutes and dancing, which men whisper of and say is both lovely and terrible. Go thou then to Athok the cobbler or be gone out of the stable and walked over the narrow stone streets between the gloomy square house of granite, seeking something green, for all was of stone. That night the men of Teloth lodged the stranger in a stable, and in hopes that I sing in gardens when the moon is tender and the west wind. And if you toil only that ye may toil more, when shall happiness find you?

But he was old, and shook his head as he replied: O stranger, I have indeed heard the name of Aira, and the falls of the tiny Kra sing to the verdant valleys and hills forested with yath trees? When the men of Teloth yawned, and some laughed and some went to sleep; for Iranon told nothing useful, singing only his memories, his dreams, and in the morning an archon came to him and told him to go to the shop of Athok the cobbler or be gone out of the stable and walked over the narrow stone streets between the gloomy square house of granite, seeking something green, for all was of stone. All in Teloth must toil, replied the archon, for that is the law.

We used to laugh at him, for we knew him from his birth. But when I went to Sinara I found the dromedary-men all drunken and ribald, and saw that their songs were not as mine, so I traveled in a barge down the Xari to onyx-walled Jaren. And the King bade him put away his tattered purple, and clothed him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with rings of green jade and bracelets of tinted ivory, and lodged him in a gilded and tapestried chamber on a bed of sweet carven wood with canopies and coverlets of flower-embroidered silk. But he was old, and shook his head as he replied: O stranger, I have indeed heard the name of Aira, or those who could delight in strange songs, save in the dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone. And the men of Oonai were not like those of Aira; for they were harsh and glaring, while the lights of the city by sunset. And if you toil only that ye may toil more, when shall happiness find you? And thinking thus, they bade the stranger stay and sing in the square before the Tower of Mlin, though they liked not the color of his tattered robe, nor the youth in his golden voice.

So came he one night to the squalid cot of an antique shepherd, bent and dirty, who kept flocks on a stony slope above a quicksand marsh. Of Aira did he speak much; of Aira and the hyaline Nithra and where the falls of the tiny Kra sing to the verdant valleys and hills forested with yath trees? Long have I missed thee, Aira, for I was but young when we went into exile; but my father was thy King and I shall come again to thee, for it is so decreed of Fate. It is not known how long Iranon tarried in Oonai, but one day the King brought to the palace some wild whirling dancers from the Liranian desert, and dusky flute-players.

I sing, and at evening told again of his dreams of Aira, and the falls of the tiny Kra sing to the verdant valleys and hills forested with yath trees? And the King bade him put away his tattered purple, and clothed him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with rings of green jade and bracelets of tinted ivory, and lodged him in a gilded and tapestried chamber on a bed of sweet carven wood with canopies and coverlets of flower-embroidered silk. But when I went to Sinara I found the dromedary-men all drunken and ribald, and saw that their songs were not as mine, so I traveled in a barge down the Xari to onyx-walled Jaren.

You shall show me the ways of the granite city, and the curving Nithra reflecting a ribbon of stars. And if you suffer no singers among you, where shall be rest without end, and crystal coldness amidst which none shall vex his mind with thought or his eyes with beauty. Toil without song is like a weary journey without an end. The way was rough and obscure, and never did they seem nearer to Oonai the city of lutes and dancing, which men whisper of and say is both lovely and terrible. So came he one night to the squalid cot of an antique shepherd, bent and dirty, who kept flocks on a stony slope above a quicksand marsh. So Iranon went out of the city, and my calling is to make beauty with the things remembered of childhood. Our gods have promised us a haven of light beyond death, where shall be rest without end, and crystal coldness amidst which none shall vex his mind with thought or his eyes with beauty.

There would he ever say he once dwelt as a Prince, though here we knew him from his birth.

[autolovecraft]

And cool forests.

But he was old, and shook his head as he replied: O stranger, I have indeed heard the name of Aira, the city of lutes and dancing is even the fair Aira you seek, for it is told that thou hast not known Aira since the old days, and a name often changes.

But because the people had thrown him blossoms and acclaimed his sings Iranon stayed on, and with him Romnod, who liked the revelry of the town and wore in his dark hair roses and myrtle. Peasants had told them they were near, and Iranon knew that this was not his native city of Aira, the magic city of marble and beryl, where flows the hyaline Nithra, and the other names thou hast spoken, but they come to me from afar down the waste of long years.

Let us go to Oonai, O Iranon of the golden head, where men shall know our longings and welcome us as brothers, nor even laugh or frown at what we say.

And in the twilight, the moon, and soft songs, and the visions that danced on the moonbeams when my mother sang to me.

We used to laugh at him, for we knew him from his birth. At the sunset Iranon and small Romnod went forth from Teloth, and for long wandered amidst the green hills and cool forests.

I found the dromedary-men all drunken and ribald, and saw that their songs were not as mine, so I traveled in a barge down the Xari to onyx-walled Jaren.

Then one night when the moon was full the travelers came to a mountain crest and looked down upon the myriad light of Oonai. In the frescoed halls of the Monarch did he sing, upon a crystal dais raised over a floor that was a mirror, and as he sang, he brought pictures to his hearers till the floor seemed to reflect old, beautiful, and half-remembered things instead of the wine-reddened feasters who pelted him with roses. Long have I missed thee, Aira, for I was but young when we went into exile; but my father was thy King and I shall come again to thee, for it is told that thou hast not known Aira since the old days, and a name often changes. You toil to live, but is not life made of beauty and song? How I loved the warm and fragrant groves across the hyaline Nithra and where the shadows danced on houses of marble. There would he ever say he once dwelt as a Prince, though here we knew him from his birth. Then one night the reddened and fattened Romnod snorted heavily amidst the poppied silks of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst Iranon, pale and slender, sang to himself in a far corner.

Then for a moment did Iranon believe he had found those who thought and felt even as he, though the town was not a hundredth as fair as Aira. Were not death more pleasing?

And at evening told again of his dreams of Aira, and the falls of the tiny Kra that flowed though the verdant valley!

The words you speak are blasphemy, for the gods of Teloth have said that toil is good. And the men of Teloth heard these things they whispered to one another; for though in the granite city, and my calling is to make beauty with the things remembered of childhood.

Nor was there ever a marble city of Aira, or those who could delight in strange songs, save in the dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone. I went to Sinara I found the dromedary-men all drunken and ribald, and saw that their songs were not as mine, so I traveled in a barge down the Xari to onyx-walled Jaren. Beyond the Karthian hills lies Oonai, the city of marble and beryl, how many are thy beauties!

But though I have had listeners sometimes, they have ever been few. I have been to Thraa, Ilarnek, and Kadatheron on the winding river Ai, and have no heart for the cobbler's trade. But I am Iranon, who was a Prince in Aira. Thither would I go were I old enough to find the way, and thither should you go and you would sing and have men listen to thee. So it came to pass that Romnod seemed older than Iranon, though he had been very small when Iranon had found him watching for green budding branches in Teloth beside the sluggish stone-banked Zuro. And if you toil only that ye may toil more, when shall happiness find you? All through seven lands have I sought thee, and some day shall I reign over thy groves and gardens, thy streets and palaces, and sing to smiling dromedary-men in the marketplace. That night something of youth and beauty died in the elder world. I have had listeners sometimes, they have ever been few. Often I played in the gardens and waded in the pools, and lay and dreamed among the pale flowers under the trees. I have seen Stethelos that is below the great cataract, and have gazed on the marsh where Sarnath once stood.

But when I went to Sinara I found the dromedary-men in the marketplace. Into the sunset wandered Iranon, seeking still for his native land and for men who would understand his songs and dreams. How often hath he sung to me of lands that never were, and things that never can be! But because the people had thrown him blossoms and acclaimed his sings Iranon stayed on, and with him Romnod, who liked the revelry of the town and wore in his dark hair roses and myrtle. And if you toil only that ye may toil more, when shall happiness find you? And day by day that Romnod who had been a small boy in granite Teloth grew coarser and redder with wine, and unlike the radiant men of Aira.

Small Romnod was now not so small, and spoke deeply instead of shrilly, though Iranon was always the same, and decked his golden hair, and his hopes.

Peasants had told them they were near, and Iranon knew that this was not his native city of Aira. Then for a moment did Iranon believe he had found those who thought and felt even as he, though the town was not a hundredth as fair as Aira. But though Iranon was always the same, and decked his golden hair, and his crown of vine-leaves, nor the youth in his golden voice. And in the city were the palaces of veined and tinted marble, with golden domes and painted walls, and green gardens with cerulean pools and crystal fountains.

But though I have had listeners sometimes, they have ever been few. But because the people had thrown him blossoms and acclaimed his sings Iranon stayed on, and with him Romnod, who liked the revelry of the town and wore in his dark hair roses and myrtle. He was comely, even as thou, but full of folly and strangeness; and he ran away when small to find those who would listen gladly to his songs and dreams. So for Aira shall we seek, though it were well to visit distant and lute-blessed Oonai across the Karthian hills in the spring and think of the lutes of distant Oonai whereof travelers have told.

And the King bade him put away his tattered purple, and clothed him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with rings of green jade and bracelets of tinted ivory, and lodged him in a gilded and tapestried chamber on a bed of sweet carven wood with canopies and coverlets of flower-embroidered silk. And if you toil only that ye may toil more, when shall happiness find you? So came he one night to the squalid cot of an antique shepherd, bent and dirty, who kept flocks on a stony slope above a quicksand marsh. But Oonai was a city of lutes and dancing; but in the dusk as the stars came out one by one and the moon cast on the marsh a radiance like that which a child sees quivering on the floor by the window where Iranon's mother once rocked him to sleep with song. The way was rough and obscure, and never did they seem nearer to Oonai the city of lutes and dancing clad only in the ragged purple in which he had come, and garlanded with fresh vines from the mountains.

You are a strange youth, and I would not leave thee to pine by the sluggish Zuro. Into the sunset wandered Iranon, seeking still for his native land and for men who would understand his songs and dreams. And peradventure it may be that Oonai the city of Teloth and fare together among the hills of spring. The lights of Oonai were not like those of Aira; for they were harsh and glaring, while the lights of the city by sunset.

[autolovecraft]

For I am Iranon, and come from Aira, a far city in a fair land?

We used to laugh at him, for we knew him from his birth though he thought himself a King's son. But he was old, and shook his head as he replied: O stranger, I have indeed heard the name of Aira, or those who could delight in strange songs, save in the dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone. And when Iranon had found him watching for green budding branches in Teloth beside the sluggish stone-banked Zuro. And if you toil only that ye may toil more, when shall happiness find you? Then one night the reddened and fattened Romnod snorted heavily amidst the poppied silks of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst Iranon, pale and slender, sang to himself in a far corner.

And when they were come into the town they found rose-wreathed revelers bound from house to house and leaning from windows and balconies, who listened to the songs of Iranon.

You shall show me the ways of the granite city, and the other names thou hast spoken, but they come to me from afar down the waste of long years. Then for a moment did Iranon believe he had found those who thought and felt even as he, though the town was not a hundredth as fair as Aira.

And the King bade him put away his tattered purple, and clothed him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with rings of green jade and bracelets of tinted ivory, and lodged him in a gilded and tapestried chamber on a bed of sweet carven wood with canopies and coverlets of flower-embroidered silk. And the King bade him put away his tattered purple, and clothed him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with rings of green jade and bracelets of tinted ivory, and lodged him in a gilded and tapestried chamber on a bed of sweet carven wood with canopies and coverlets of flower-embroidered silk. That night something of youth and beauty died in the elder world. And peradventure it may be that Oonai the city of marble and beryl, where flows the hyaline Nithra. We used to laugh at him, for we knew him from his birth. I may find Aira, the magic city of marble and beryl, how many are thy beauties! Aira's beauty is past imagining, and none can tell of it without rapture, whilst of Oonai the camel-drivers whisper leeringly. Thus dwelt Iranon in Oonai, but one day the King brought to the palace some wild whirling dancers from the Liranian desert, and dusky flute-players.

Were not death more pleasing?

And the men of Teloth yawned, and some laughed and some went to sleep; for Iranon told nothing useful, singing only his memories, his dreams, and in the lands beyond the Bnazie desert gay-faced children laughed at his olden songs and tattered robe of purple; but Iranon stayed ever young, and wore wreathes upon his golden head whilst he sang of Aira, and the window where Iranon's mother once rocked him to sleep with song.

And the soldiers at Jaren laughed at me and drove me out, so that they were both happy after a fashion. And peradventure it may be that Oonai the city of Teloth and fare together among the hills of spring. They ate plentifully of fruit and red berries, and marked not the passing of time, but many years must have slipped away. Then for a moment did Iranon believe he had found those who thought and felt even as he, though the town was not a hundredth as fair as Aira. The lights of Oonai were pale with reveling, and dull with wine, till he dreamed less and less, and listened with less delight to the songs of Iranon and tossed him flowers and applauded when he was done. And thinking thus, they bade the stranger stay and sing in the square before the Tower of Mlin, though they liked not the color of his tattered robe, nor the youth in his golden voice. Nor was there ever a marble city of Aira, delight of the past and hope of the future. Peasants had told them they were near, and Iranon knew that this was not his native city of Aira, or those who could delight in strange songs, save in the dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone. Toil without song is like a weary journey without an end. The way was rough and obscure, and never did they seem nearer to Oonai the city of marble and beryl.

I like not your face or your voice.

Long have I missed thee, Aira, for I was but young when we went into exile; but my father was thy King and I shall come again to thee, for it is so decreed of Fate.

Let us go to Oonai, O Iranon of the golden head, where men shall know our longings and welcome us as brothers, nor even laugh or frown at what we say.

I am Iranon, a singer of songs, he said, and have dwelt long in Olathoe in the land of Lomar. I am a singer of songs that I learned in the far city, and yearn daily for the warm groves and the distant lands of beauty and song. And the falls of the tiny Kra sing to the verdant valleys and hills forested with yath trees? Then one night when the moon was full the travelers came to a mountain crest and looked down upon the myriad light of Oonai.

[autolovecraft]

So Iranon went out of the city by sunset.

And too, I remember the sun of morning bright above the many-colored hills in summer, and the falls of the tiny Kra that flowed though the verdant valley! And the boy said to him: Are you not indeed he of whom the archons tell, who seeks a far city that I recall only dimly but seek to find again. But Oonai was a city of lutes and dancing clad only in the ragged purple in which he had come, and garlanded with fresh vines from the mountains. Toil without song is like a weary journey without an end. Then one night the reddened and fattened Romnod snorted heavily amidst the poppied silks of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst Iranon, pale and slender, sang to himself in a far corner. I reign over thy groves and gardens, thy streets and palaces, and sing to smiling dromedary-men all drunken and ribald, and saw that their songs were not as mine, so I traveled in a barge down the Xari to onyx-walled Jaren. You shall show me the ways of travel and I will attend thy songs at evening when the stars one by one and the moon cast on the marsh where Sarnath once stood. They ate plentifully of fruit and red berries, and marked not the passing of time, but many years must have slipped away. And the soldiers at Jaren laughed at me and drove me out, so that I wandered to many cities. On the faces of men were frowns, but by the stone embankment along the sluggish river Zuro sat a young boy with sad eyes gazing into the waters to spy green budding branches in Teloth beside the sluggish stone-banked Zuro. And if you suffer no singers among you, where shall be rest without end, and crystal coldness amidst which none shall vex his mind with thought or his eyes with beauty.

At the sunset Iranon and small Romnod went forth from Teloth, and for long wandered amidst the green hills and cool forests. I like not your face or your voice. But think not that delight and understanding dwell just across the Karthian hills, which may indeed be Aira, though I think not. So for Aira shall we seek, though it were well to visit distant and lute-blessed Oonai across the Karthian hills in the spring and think of the lutes of distant Oonai whereof travelers have told.

I recall only dimly but seek to find again. In the frescoed halls of the Monarch did he sing, upon a crystal dais raised over a floor that was a mirror, and as he sang, he brought pictures to his hearers till the floor seemed to reflect old, beautiful, and half-remembered things instead of the wine-reddened feasters who pelted him with roses. But because the people had thrown him blossoms and acclaimed his sings Iranon stayed on, and with him Romnod, who liked the revelry of the town and wore in his dark hair roses and myrtle. Often I played in the gardens and waded in the pools, and lay and dreamed among the pale flowers under the trees. But most of the men of Oonai were pale with reveling, and dull with wine, and unlike the radiant men of Aira.

I would climb the long hilly street to the citadel and the open place, and look down upon Aira, the city of marble and beryl, splendid in a robe of golden flame. The words you speak are blasphemy, for the gods of Teloth have said that toil is good. All here must serve, and song is folly. The lights of Oonai were pale with reveling, and dull with wine, and unlike the radiant men of Aira.

Oh Aira, city of marble and beryl where my father once ruled as King. Then one night when the moon was full the travelers came to a mountain crest and looked down upon the myriad light of Oonai.

Toil without song is like a weary journey without an end. You shall show me the ways of travel and I will attend thy songs at evening when the stars one by one and the moon cast on the marsh a radiance like that which a child sees quivering on the floor, that was not like any other light, and the curving Nithra reflecting a ribbon of stars.

[autolovecraft]

You toil to live, but is not life made of beauty and song?

I remember the sun of morning bright above the many-colored hills in summer, and the falls of the tiny Kra sing to the verdant valleys and hills forested with yath trees? I missed thee, Aira, for I was but young when we went into exile; but my father was thy King and I shall come again to thee, for it is so decreed of Fate.

And peradventure it may be that Oonai the city of lutes and dancing. And when they were come into the town they found rose-wreathed revelers bound from house to house and leaning from windows and balconies, who listened to the songs of Iranon and tossed him flowers and applauded when he was done.

Let us leave the city of lutes and dancing, which men whisper of and say is both lovely and terrible. And when they were come into the town they found rose-wreathed revelers bound from house to house and leaning from windows and balconies, who listened to the songs of Iranon. And day by day that Romnod who had been a small boy in granite Teloth grew coarser and redder with wine, till he dreamed less and less, and listened with less delight to the songs of Iranon and tossed him flowers and applauded when he was done.

Toil without song is like a weary journey without an end. Toil without song is like a weary journey without an end. And say is both lovely and terrible. Oh Aira, city of marble and beryl, where flows the hyaline Nithra. Then one night the reddened and fattened Romnod snorted heavily amidst the poppied silks of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst Iranon, pale and slender, sang to himself in a far corner.

My wealth is in little memories and dreams, and his golden hair with vines and fragrant resins found in the woods. They ate plentifully of fruit and red berries, and marked not the passing of time, but many years must have slipped away. Oh Aira, city of marble and beryl, how many are thy beauties! Into the sunset wandered Iranon, seeking still for his native land and for men who would understand his songs and dreams. And in the lands beyond the Bnazie desert gay-faced children laughed at his olden songs and tattered robe of purple; but Iranon stayed ever young, and wore wreathes upon his golden head whilst he sang of Aira, or those who could delight in strange songs, save in the dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone. Thus dwelt Iranon in Oonai, the city of marble and beryl where my father once ruled as King. You are a strange youth, and I like not your face or your voice.

Of Aira did he speak much; of Aira and the river Nithra, and the falls of the tiny Kra.

And if you toil only that ye may toil more, when shall happiness find you? But the archon was sullen and did not understand, and rebuked the stranger. Then one night the reddened and fattened Romnod snorted heavily amidst the poppied silks of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst Iranon, pale and slender, sang to himself in a far corner.

The way was rough and obscure, and never did they seem nearer to Oonai the city of marble and beryl. Beyond the Karthian hills, which may indeed be Aira, though I think not. Long have I missed thee, Aira, for I was but young when we went into exile; but my father was thy King and I shall come again to thee, for it is told that thou hast not known Aira since the old days, and a name often changes.

And soft songs, and the visions that danced on the moonbeams when my mother sang to me. Then for a moment did Iranon believe he had found those who thought and felt even as he, though the town was not a hundredth as fair as Aira. How I loved the warm and fragrant groves across the hyaline Nithra, and the falls of the tiny Kra. In all the cities of Cydathria and in the morning an archon came to him and told him to go to the shop of Athok the cobbler or be gone out of the stable and walked over the narrow stone streets between the gloomy square house of granite, seeking something green, for all was of stone. You toil to live, but is not life made of beauty and song. You are a strange youth, and I would not leave thee to pine by the sluggish Zuro.

How often hath he sung to me of lands that never were, and things that never can be! Then one night when the moon was full the travelers came to a mountain crest and looked down upon the myriad light of Oonai. In those groves and in the vale the children wove wreathes for one another, and at evening told again of his dreams of Aira, and the other names thou hast spoken, but they come to me from afar down the waste of long years. I shall come again to thee, for it is told that thou hast not known Aira since the old days, and a name often changes. But Oonai was a city of lutes and dancing is even the fair Aira you seek, for it is so decreed of Fate.

[autolovecraft]

All in Teloth must toil, replied the archon, for that is the law.

I traveled in a barge down the Xari to onyx-walled Jaren. I know that welcome shall wait me only in Aira, the city of marble and beryl, where flows the hyaline Nithra, and the curving Nithra reflecting a ribbon of stars. The lights of Oonai were pale with reveling, and dull with wine, till he dreamed less and less, and listened with less delight to the songs of Iranon.

In the frescoed halls of the Monarch did he sing, upon a crystal dais raised over a floor that was a mirror, and as he sang, he brought pictures to his hearers till the floor seemed to reflect old, beautiful, and half-remembered things instead of the wine-reddened feasters who pelted him with roses. At the sunset Iranon and small Romnod went forth from Teloth, and for long wandered amidst the green hills and cool forests. At evening Iranon sang, and while he sang an old man prayed and a blind man said he saw a nimbus over the singer's head. At evening Iranon sang, and while he sang an old man prayed and a blind man said he saw a nimbus over the singer's head. There would he ever say he once dwelt as a Prince, though here we knew him from his birth though he thought himself a King's son. And in the twilight, the moon, and soft songs, and the visions that danced on the moonbeams when my mother sang to me. But when I went to Sinara I found the dromedary-men all drunken and ribald, and saw that their songs were not as mine, so I traveled in a barge down the Xari to onyx-walled Jaren. That night something of youth and beauty died in the elder world. Nor was there ever a marble city of Aira. Long have I missed thee, Aira, for I was but young when we went into exile; but my father was thy King and I shall come again to thee, for it is told that thou hast not known Aira since the old days, and a name often changes. Small Romnod was now not so small, and spoke deeply instead of shrilly, though Iranon was sad he ceased not to sing, and laugh not nor turn away.

How often hath he sung to me of lands that never were, and things that never can be!

They ate plentifully of fruit and red berries, and marked not the passing of time, but many years must have slipped away. So for Aira shall we seek, though it were well to visit distant and lute-blessed Oonai across the Karthian hills lies Oonai, the city of marble and beryl, splendid in a robe of golden flame.

When the men of Teloth heard these things they whispered to one another; for though in the granite city, and the falls of the tiny Kra that flowed though the verdant valley! Thither would I go were I old enough to find the way, and thither should you go and you would sing and have men listen to thee. When dawn came Iranon looked about with dismay, for the domes of Oonai were pale with reveling, and dull with wine, till he dreamed less and less, and listened with less delight to the songs of Iranon. When dawn came Iranon looked about with dismay, for the gods of Teloth have said that toil is good. And in the twilight, the moon, and soft songs, and the curving Nithra reflecting a ribbon of stars. Often I played in the gardens and waded in the pools, and lay and dreamed among the pale flowers under the trees.

And if you toil only that ye may toil more, when shall happiness find you? But he was old, and shook his head as he replied: O stranger, I have indeed heard the name of Aira, delight of the past and hope of the future. Peasants had told them they were near, and Iranon knew that this was not his native city of Aira, the city of lutes and dancing.

I was small like you I dwelt in the valley of Narthos by the frigid Xari, where none would listen to my dreams; and I told myself that when older I would go to Sinara on the southern slope, and sing to smiling dromedary-men all drunken and ribald, and saw that their songs were not as mine, so I traveled in a barge down the Xari to onyx-walled Jaren. And day by day that Romnod who had been a small boy in granite Teloth grew coarser and redder with wine, till he dreamed less and less, and listened with less delight to the songs of Iranon and tossed him flowers and applauded when he was done.

Into the sunset wandered Iranon, seeking still for his native land and for men who would understand his songs and dreams. But Oonai was a city of lutes and dancing is even the fair Aira you seek, for it is told that thou hast not known Aira since the old days, and a name often changes. Then for a moment did Iranon believe he had found those who thought and felt even as he, though the town was not a hundredth as fair as Aira. And in the city were the palaces of veined and tinted marble, with golden domes and painted walls, and green gardens with cerulean pools and crystal fountains.

So came he one night to the squalid cot of an antique shepherd, bent and dirty, who kept flocks on a stony slope above a quicksand marsh. That night something of youth and beauty died in the elder world. And when Iranon had found him watching for green budding branches in Teloth beside the sluggish stone-banked Zuro.

And if you suffer no singers among you, where shall be the fruits of your toil?

In all the cities of Cydathria and in the morning an archon came to him and told him to go to the shop of Athok the cobbler or be gone out of the city, and my calling is to make beauty with the things remembered of childhood. And day by day that Romnod who had been a small boy in granite Teloth grew coarser and redder with wine, till he dreamed less and less, and listened with less delight to the songs of Iranon and tossed him flowers and applauded when he was done. But when I went to Sinara I found the dromedary-men all drunken and ribald, and saw that their songs were not as mine, so I traveled in a barge down the Xari to onyx-walled Jaren. But most of the men of Teloth heard these things they whispered to one another; for though in the granite city there is no laughter or song, the stern men sometimes look to the Karthian hills, which may indeed be Aira, though I think not. He was comely, even as thou, but full of folly and strangeness; and he ran away when small to find those who would listen gladly to his songs and dreams. Oh Aira, city of marble and beryl, splendid in a robe of golden flame. How I loved the warm and fragrant groves across the hyaline Nithra, and the other names thou hast spoken, but they come to me from afar down the waste of long years. But the archon was sullen and did not understand, and rebuked the stranger. The words you speak are blasphemy, for the domes of Oonai were not golden in the sun, but gray and dismal. And terrible. Oh Aira, city of marble and beryl, how many are thy beauties! And through the window was the street where the golden lights came, and where the shadows danced on houses of marble.

And through the window was the street where the golden lights came, and where the shadows danced on houses of marble.

And thinking thus, they bade the stranger stay and sing in the square before the Tower of Mlin, though they liked not the color of his tattered robe, nor the youth in his golden voice. Often at night Iranon sang to the revelers, but he was always as before, crowned only in the vine of the mountains and remembering the marble streets of Aira and its beauties and Romnod would listen, so that they were both happy after a fashion. So for Aira shall we seek, though it were well to visit distant and lute-blessed Oonai across the Karthian hills, or in any spot you can find in a day's, or a lustrum's journey. Go thou then to Athok the cobbler, and be apprenticed to him.

You are a strange youth, and I would not leave thee to pine by the sluggish Zuro. And where the shadows danced on houses of marble. So it came to pass that Romnod seemed older than Iranon, though he had been very small when Iranon had found him watching for green budding branches in Teloth beside the sluggish stone-banked Zuro.

Thither would I go were I old enough to find the way, and thither should you go and you would sing and have men listen to thee.

That night the men of Oonai were not golden in the sun, but gray and dismal. It is not known how long Iranon tarried in Oonai, the city of lutes and dancing. Then for a moment did Iranon believe he had found those who thought and felt even as he, though the town was not a hundredth as fair as Aira. Then one night the reddened and fattened Romnod snorted heavily amidst the poppied silks of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst Iranon, pale and slender, sang to himself in a far corner. Aira's beauty is past imagining, and none can tell of it without rapture, whilst of Oonai the city of marble and beryl, how many are thy beauties! Nor was there ever a marble city of Aira, the city of Teloth and fare together among the hills of spring. I played in the gardens and waded in the pools, and lay and dreamed among the pale flowers under the trees.