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meg-moira · 4 years ago

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The Witch Who Spoke to the Wind

Sequel to Eindred and the Witch

In which Severin, the golden eyed witch, learns that his greatest enemy and truest love is fated to kill him.

Dealing in prophecies is a dubious work. Anyone who knows anything will tell you as much.

“Think of all of time as a grand tapestry,” his great-grandmother had said, elbow deep in scalding water. Her hands were tomato red, and Severin watched with wide golden eyes as she kneaded and stretched pale curds in the basin. “You might be so privileged to understand a single weave, but unless you go following all surrounding threads, and the threads around those threads, and so on - which, mind you, no human can do - you’ll never understand the picture.”

Severin, who was ten years old and had never seen a grand tapestry, looked at the cheese in the basin and asked if his great-grandmother could make the analogy about that instead.

“No,” she replied. “Time is a tapestry. Cheese is just cheese.”

And that was that.

By fifteen, Severin who was all arms, legs, and untamable black hair, decided he hated prophecies more than anything in the world. He occupied himself instead with long walks atop the white bluffs well beyond his family’s home. Outside, he could look at birds, and talk to the wind, and not think about the terrible prophecy which followed him like a shadow.

His second eldest sister had revealed it - accidentally, of course. Severin lived in a warm and bustling house with his great-grandmother, grandmother, mother, two aunts, and three sisters. All of whom were generously gifted in the art of foretelling (a messy business, each would say if asked), and every one of them had seen Severin’s same bleak thread.

He would die. Willingly stabbed through the heart by his greatest enemy and truest love.

Willingly. That was the worst part, he thought.

Severin, who had no talent in the way of prophecies, but plenty of talent in the realm of wind and sky, marched along the well-worn trail, static sparking around his fingertips as the brackish sea breeze nipped consolingly at his face and hair.

I will protect you if you ask me to, it blustered, and Severin was comforted.

He didn’t care who this foretold stranger was. When this enemy-lover appeared, Severin would ask the wind to pick them up and take them far, far away. Far enough that they could never harm him. The wind whistled in agreement. And so it was settled.

At seventeen, he was still all arms and legs, though his eldest sister had managed to tame his hair with a respectably sharp pair of shears. The wind, who had delighted in playing with his wild, tangled locks, did not thank her for it. Severin did thank her; in fact, he’d asked her to do it. He was of the opinion that his newly shorn hair made him look older - more sophisticated. And he left his family home with a new cloak draping his shoulders and a knotted wooden walking stick in hand, thinking himself very nearly a man. He was far from it, of course. But there was no telling him that.

He set out on a clear, cool morning to find his own way in the world, and was prepared to thoroughly deal with anyone who so much as dared to act ever so slightly in the manner of enemy or lover.

He discovered, soon enough, that this was not a practical attitude to take when venturing into the world. Severin spent his first months away from home making little in the way of friends and plenty in the way of thoroughly baffled enemies.

When you meet his gaze, you’ll know, the wind chided as it whisked in and out of his hood.

“His?” Severin said aloud, lifting a single dark brow. “Do you know something I don’t?”

The wind whistled noncommittally in answer.

The wind did know something, as it turned out. At twenty, Severin stood on the warm, sun-loved planks of a dock. As gulls cried overhead, he pressed his fingers to his lips. The young sailor had touched his lips to Severin’s in a swift, carefree kiss before departing on the sea. And though the feeling was pleasant enough, Severin knew that his enemy-lover was not on the great ship cleaving a path through the cerulean waves.

“When I meet his gaze, I’ll know,” Severin said, golden eyes sweeping the horizon. The seaward breeze blustered in such agreement that the gulls overhead cried out in alarm.

What will you do? The wind asked, delighting in whipping the gulls into a proper frenzy.

“Get rid of him, of course,” Severin replied.

What if you don’t want to?

Severin thought that was the stupidest question he’d ever heard. “He’s going to stab me through the heart. Why in the world wouldn’t I want to get rid of him?”

People are foolish, the wind answered, shrugging the nearby sails.

“Not me.” Severin leaned on his stick and looked out at the sea. “I won’t let anyone get away with stabbing my heart.”

When he was twenty-two, Severin knelt at the bedside of a withered, wilting woman. She was a stranger, but the town’s herb witch was away, and Severin happened to be passing through. Though his true strength would always remain with the wind and the sky, the youngest of Severin’s two aunts had a special way with plants, and she’d taught him a fair bit about the many healing properties of the region’s hardy, windblown flora.

He boiled water, adding the few herbs he carried to make a rejuvenating tea. He helped the woman drink, his hand supporting her head and fingers tangling in her sweat drenched hair. After, he pressed a cool cloth to her head, and in the half dark room, she murmured, sharing delirious fears that she would accidentally speak cruel dying words and lay a curse upon him.

Kindly stroking her forehead, Severin assured her that he was not afraid of curses. Even uttered by the dying, a true curse was rarer than the superstitious soldier’s and barbarians liked to believe. Besides, she wasn’t going to die. Severin, who’d seen just enough of the world to have a taste of wisdom, was certain he could save her.

She died within the day.

Whether her condition had been beyond help, or Severin lacked the skills to twist the herbs to his bidding, he would never know. The wind rustled reassurances through the sparsely-leaved trees, but Severin was beyond consolation. Clouds gathered on the horizon, and by nightfall, great branches of lightning crackled across the sky.

He spent the next year and a half in the wilds. Beneath the jubilant light of the sun, he collected plants, acquainting himself with the earth. And beneath the soft, watchful light of the moon, he whispered to the wind and dared to wonder at the shape of his enemy-lover’s face. He could never seem to summon the slightest picture in his mind. Though it really didn’t matter, he supposed. Their eyes would meet, and Severin would know. And then he’d use all of the power at his disposal to send his enemy-lover away.

During this time, Severin sometimes saw bands of barbaric warriors crossing the plains. He kept his distance, but he doubted any of them were interested in either recruiting or killing a scrawny young man in a worn woolen cloak. Few he encountered ever suspected he had any great abilities, and Severin certainly didn’t go out of his way to advertise the fact that he could command the wind and sky when he wished. The barbaric companies had their eyes on more obviously lucrative targets, anyway. A handful of city states which spread across the great peninsula were openly at war with the barbaric tribes from the north.

It was when Severin was returning from his self-imposed isolation that he had his first real encounter with war. He held his sturdy walking stick in hand and carried a bursting bag of herbs, poultices, and leather-bound journals over his shoulder. Severin was so surprised by the sudden, brutal clash of metal and the primal cries that erupted nearby that he halted where he stood. His curiosity both outweighed and outlasted his fear, and after a minute or two of tense consideration, he pressed cautiously onward in the direction of the noise.

By the time he arrived, the battle was done.

It had surely been an ugly, bloody affair, if the splayed out bodies of the city soldiers and barbaric warriors were anything to judge it by. Holding a hand over his mouth, Severin gingerly navigated the carnage and valiantly resisted the impulse to be sick right there in the field. He was nearly on the other side of it when movement caught his eye. Squinting, almost afraid to look, he glanced from the corners of his eyes, sure that it was some grotesque remnant of warfare which awaited him.

Instead, it was a man.

Just a man.

The movement Severin had spotted was the rise and fall of his chest.

Only after turning a careful look around the terrible and silent battlefield did Severin approach the fallen man.

The barbarian’s eyes were closed and his pale brows drew together, as if reflecting pain. His face would probably have been handsome in a rough, simple sort of way if it weren’t smeared in dirt and blood. His light hair, braided and pulled away from his face, was bloodied as well, and Severin frowned at the sorry state of him. After a second wary look around, he knelt with a sigh.

The barbarian’s leather vest was cut, and his thick, scarred arms had earned several new slices as well. Severin, who had more than enough herbs and poultices on hand, reluctantly tore his only spare shirt into bandages. Within the hour the stranger was fully bandaged and muttering in fever addled sleep.

“Don’t worry,” Severin murmured, knotting the last makeshift bandage. “I’ve learned enough from the plants and trees to save you from both fever and infection.”

Behind closed lids, the barbarian’s eyes flitted anxiously to and fro and he mumbled something that sounded like no. Nose wrinkling, Severin leaned in. He heard the sleeping barbarian say, his voice low and cracking, “The curses will take me.”

Severin frowned down at him, unimpressed. “No they won’t,” he snapped, and yanked the bandage tighter.

The barbarian silenced then, and Severin stared at him a moment longer, pursing his lips in consternation. It wasn’t that he minded using his supplies to heal a stranger. But a part of him worried that healing a warrior made Severin responsible for whatever slaughter he resumed when he rose.

Severin abhorred warfare. It was such a terrible waste. But he supposed there was no helping what he’d already done. The barbarian was already on his way to recovery, and Severin certainly wasn’t going to murder him in his sleep. He reached out, intending to test the temperature at the man’s temple, but no sooner had Severin’s fingers touched his overheated skin than the world bled around him. In its place: a vision.

Shock echoed through him, because he was not like the women in his family, able to see phantoms in time. He’d always simply played with the air. The vision dancing before his gaze, however, didn’t seem to care.

Like droplets of ink spreading in water, a prism of colors twisted, threading together into nearly tangible shapes. From the chaos, rose a blond child holding a knit sheep. He was ruddy cheeked and pouting up at his mother. Then ink and water swirled and the images collapsed and shifted. Hulking shadows loomed over the child. The mother wailed her grief. The formless ink shivered, morphing from one scene to the next, nearly too quickly to follow, and Severin was swallowed up in it, overrun and overwhelmed by violence, blood, and pain. Beneath his fingers, Severin felt the movement of shifting, slipping thread.

Just as abruptly as it had started, the vision ceased. Severin’s knees ached where they pressed against the dirt and the barbarian’s skin beneath his hand was no longer overheated. How long had he been within the vision’s grasp, he wondered?

As Severin shifted back, the barbarian groaned. Severin watched as the man’s eyelids fluttered - and at once, the air turned heavy, as if the wind had drawn and held an anticipatory breath.

Dread flooded Severin and he rushed to stand. The barbarian had not yet opened his eyes, and Severin knew with a terrible nameless certainty that he must not be here when this man awoke. Severin could still feel those elusive, unknowable threads beneath his fingers, and his hands shook as he rose. Awakened by his urgency, the wind roared, lending him speed as he fled the clearing.

By the time the barbarian cracked open a single, world weary eye, Severin was long gone, heart still safely beating in his chest.

Severin endeavored to forget about the barbarian. He convinced himself that the vision had been the hallucination of an overexerted body, and that the sensation of inexorably moving threads beneath his fingers was nothing more than a flight of fancy. Severin did not think about how the threads had felt - certain and unyielding - beneath his fragile, very mortal hands. If he did, he feared he might ask the wind to whisk him away from the world altogether, and that, surely, was no way to live.

In a deep, secret place, however, Severin suspected the reason he was granted such a vision was because the stranger’s thread was woven perilously close to his own. Because of this, he set upon an easterly road, endeavoring to put a healthy distance between himself and the pale barbarian.

After nearly a month of travel, he arrived in a small village which sat nestled in foothills, tucked beneath the shadows of great mountains which stood like sentinels above. Severin hadn’t intended to stay, but when it was discovered he had some skill with plants and medicine, the villagers eagerly led him to a hut some distance from the village. It was empty, they explained, and had been for some years. A healing woman had occupied it, some years back, before she’d passed on. The villagers had been saving it, hoping the space would be enough to entice a new healer to make their isolated village a home.

Severin had nowhere else to go, and he supposed a distant, mountain village was as good a place as any to avoid a blade to the heart.

Two years passed, and Severin settled into his little hut. He spent his mornings taking long walks around the surrounding lands, collecting herbs and specimens. Returning home, he’d throw open the windows to allow his friend the wind a brief but wild rampage through the hut. With the air freshened, Severin spread plants across his square dining table and sorted them into jars to be sealed, dried, or preserved in vinegar. His neighbors in the village visited frequently, just as often for his company as for his medicines, and Severin delighted in visiting the town on market days and making the streamers dance in the wind for the children. Evenings were spent in his rocking chair, with a book in his lap and his feet pressed near to the low fire in the hearth.

He was happy, and hardly thought of the barbarian he’d found bleeding in the dirt. That is, until fate caught up with him.

One day, when he was foraging for moss on the hillside behind his hut, Severin felt the whisper-soft touch of thread against his palm. He sat upright at once, and turning and craning his neck, he absently rubbed his palms against his robes.

A company marched into the village. From up on Severin’s hill, they appeared a swarm of ants overtaking the miniature thatched roof homes. The slipping, shivering feeling beneath Severin’s palm intensified, and he stood. His heart drummed a frantic beat against his ribs, and Severin felt with a terrible certainty that fate, like a hunting hound on the scent, had sniffed him out at last.

When Severin called out, begging the wind’s help, it rushed to him, howling atop the hill.

I am here. I am here.

Cradled in the gale, he begged the wind to take him and hide him away, so that the tapestry’s relentless threads might cease dragging him toward the one he never wished to meet.

So be it, the wind said. If that is truly what you wish, I will take you and hide you away forever.

In that moment, nearly caught as he was, Severin was willing to do anything to avoid meeting this man who would kill him - until the screams rose from the pastures in the valley beneath his hut. Severin’s heartbeat was in his throat, on his very tongue, as he held up a hand to stay the wind.

“Just a moment,” he murmured, and turned bright, pained eyes toward the village. The terrified screams of his neighbors pierced him as surely as any blade, and with a mournful twist of his fingers, he bade the wind disperse.

By the time he reached in the pastures, the shepherd, the blacksmith, and Helvia’s two sons lay dead. At the sight of his friend’s bodies, grief and rage stirred within Severin, and the wind, always nearby to him, trembled in sympathy. Gaze sweeping the warriors, he marked the five whose weapons were stained red. Severin was not violent by nature, but if he was to die this day, he resolved to remove from the earth at least these five men, who with bloodied blades, uncaringly spoke of feasting upon the village’s few precious sheep.

When the warriors turned and finally noticed Severin, he lifted his chin and prayed his voice did not betray his fear. “These are simple people. They have little in way of money or goods. It wasn’t for nothing that the shepherd, blacksmith, and teenagers died. They need these sheep. And I cannot allow you to take them.”

The men glanced at one another, eyes filling with a cruel sort of mirth. They laughed at him, and Severin steeled himself for what must come next. He was friends with the wind, but to call down the heavens was an entirely more serious matter. And he’d never done it. At least, not like this.

Severin turned his palms up and glared at the heavens, daring them to refuse him now when he needed them most.

For a long, terrible moment, nothing happened.

And then, the skies erupted.

He had never felt pure, visceral power in such a way, and as it whined and crackled, Severin, with splayed fingers, used all of his strength to tear the lightning from its home in the sky. It rained upon the warriors, screaming in wild, untamable fury. Severin watched the men cry out in agony, and he felt horror and satisfaction in equal measure.

When a single figure broke from the group, agile enough to evade the lightning and charge across the field, Severin could only look on in exhausted realization. It was the pale barbarian. The man from the battlefield. The child in the vision.

The barbarian charged like a beast, his thickly braided hair bouncing. His brows were drawn down in focus and his lips poised on the precipice of a snarl. It was with a hopeless sense of finality that Severin met the stranger’s gaze.

He met eyes of icy gray, the color of hazy, snow capped mountains in winter, and Severin knew, he knew with a certainty that was sunken into his bones and twisted in his marrow, that this barbarian was the shadow which had haunted him. And he knew, more than anything, the crude blade in the man’s scarred-knuckle hand was fate’s exclamation point at the end of Severin’s ephemeral existence.

Watching as the barbarian pivoted, drawing back his blade, Severin only wished he understood why the women in his family had persisted in calling this man Severin’s truest love. If this was love, the man had a spectacularly terrible way of showing it.

Time slowed to a crawl, and sunlight flashed, reflecting off the blade. As the jagged edge touched the fabric of Severin’s robe, the wind whispered at his ear. Let me show you a piece of the picture.

The wind around him froze, and so too did the world.

Look up, said the wind, a rustle within his ear.

Severin did.

The complexly woven image was shaped by currents in the air - all but invisible to any whose eyes are untrained to look for them. But Severin had a born understanding of the wind and sky, and when he looked up, he saw bits and pieces of an impossibly complex tapestry.

He saw scarred knuckles gently shaping wood. A small child that sat upon broad shoulders. Rocking chairs placed side by side before a glowing fire. Warm hands enveloping his own. Safety. Home.

It was...everything, and Severin’s heart ached with a strange and complex longing for a future that surely could never be.

It’s not impossible, the wind whispered. But the threads will have to tangle and untangle just perfectly so.

“How?” Severin asked, and wondered if he was a fool to feel so desperate a pull towards this life glimpsed in impressions and half images.

The warrior must weep and repent. And a curse must come to fruition.

“And if these things do not happen?”

Then your soul will fade from the earth.

Severin felt torn in two.

The blade has not yet struck your heart, the wind murmured, kind and conspiratorial. There is time still for me to secret you away. I could pull your thread from the tapestry altogether.

“But there would be no hope for that life,” Severin said with a last wistful glance at the scattered mosaic above.

No, none, the wind agreed.

“Okay,” Severin whispered, “okay.” And it felt terrifyingly like surrender.

The wind stirred, and a breeze like a kiss tousled his dark hair.

The blade struck.

It was an intense pressure and then swift, vibrantly blooming pain. Severin wavered on his feet, and looked up. For the second time, he met the warrior’s gaze. And Severin saw and understood that there was no malice in those wintry eyes. Not even frustration or anger. But, instead, an exhaustion deeper than Severin could conceive.

When Severin toppled backward, it was concerning to realize he could no longer feel the grass beneath his body. The man knelt down, and Severin blinked tiredly up at him.

It seemed as though the man were waiting for something. Severin’s slipping mind struggled to think of what - until he recalled the dying woman and her talk of curses. And hadn’t the barbarian said something about curses when he was fever addled and hurt? What had the wind said? Severin was struggling to remember. As his life trickled away in red rivulets which stained the grass and soil, he thought of the boy in the vision - lost and afraid. And he thought of the man he’d become, kneeling stonily over him.

And Severin knew exactly which words should be his last.

Swallowing, he mustered the strength to whisper, “-my hut…it’s just past…the next hill over. In it, I keep medicines and herbs. For the villagers. And travelers who pass.”

For the barbarian would have to stay if he were ever to show remorse. He couldn’t very well continue going about fighting and murdering his way across the peninsula. Which brought Severin to his final words. It took all of his remaining strength to lift his hand. When he reached out, the barbarian startled, as though he expected more lightning to spring forth from Severin’s fingers. But Severin merely tapped his chest and smiled. “May you live a life of safety and peace.”

It was a fitting curse, he thought, feeling particularly clever. And there, on the field, surrounded by sheep, Severin’s heart stuttered and stopped.

It was an abrupt, slipping sensation, like losing your footing on iced over earth. Raw existence rushed around Severin, and he was battered and blown about, like a banner torn loose in the storm. This continued for a dizzying moment, or perhaps a dizzying eternity - Severin really had no way of knowing which. But it stopped when a familiar presence surged around him, blowing and blustering until the wild chaos of existence was forced to let him be.

The wind could not protect him forever, Severin knew, and so he focused his energies until, like a wind sprite, he swirled about the hillside. Below him, he saw the barbarian, his great head bent. Severin, as incorporeal as a breeze, could not resist blustering over the barbarian’s shoulder and observing himself, limp and pitiful in death. Whipping around, he beheld the barbarian - because surely this sight would bring him at least to the verge of tears.

The barbarian frowned down at Severin’s body and rubbed a scarred hand over the patches of stubble on his chin. And then he rose with a great sigh and set off down the hillside, away from Severin and the village.

Severin, who was nothing more than wind and spirit, watched him and despaired. He could do nothing more than whip and howl through the hills as his murderer left him without a backward glance.

Months passed.

Severin did not follow after the barbarian. What good would it do? In this form, it wasn’t as though Severin could speak to him. And if he was doomed to fade and dissolve from existence, he would much rather do so here in the hills he loved than in some strange land trailing after an even stranger man. The wind kept him company, at least, and Severin spent his days whistling through the black, porous stones at the base of the mountains and blowing bits of dandelions across wild tufts of grass.

One day, long after Severin had begun to feel more spread out and thin than was entirely comfortable, the wind rushed to him, carrying with it the scent of dust and dirt and faraway lands.

The barbarian had returned.

Severin was an icy breeze that whipped around the edges of town, and he watched with cool distrust as the man trudged through the streets. His shoulders were slumped and his blond head was turned down. He looked utterly defeated, and any sympathy Severin might have felt was eclipsed by petty spite. He didn’t hold any of the pettiness against himself, though. He was dead, and therefore felt he’d earned at least a little pettiness.

When the barbarian crossed the field, stopping to stand before the place where Severin had fallen, Severin swirled around him, newly curious. The man didn’t look grief stricken, but his face was difficult to read. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and lines of exhaustion around his mouth. Mostly, Severin thought he just looked tired.

When the man approached Severin’s home after having ignored the invitation for months, Severin had a second moment of pettiness and whipped the wind up on the other side of the door, sealing it closed as the barbarian tried to open it. Only when the man shoved it with his great, muscled shoulder did Severin retreat, allowing the door to swing open.

It was with a strange sort of melancholy that he watched the barbarian’s silver gaze sweep over the room. The man looked first at the damp, unkempt hearth before slowly making his way across the room. He glanced from Severin’s well-loved walking stick to the bookshelf built into the wall. He fumblingly ran the backs of his fingers along the spines of the books, as if he was unlearned in the ways of a gentle touch.

Severin was still very much put out about the whole being dead business, but as he watched the barbarian’s almost reverent inspection, he unthinkingly twisted the air in the room, drawing out the cold and pulling in a bit of sun warmed breeze.

By the second day, the man was sitting in Severin’s chair. Severin stewed, swatting at floating dust by the window as his killer rocked to and fro in Severin’s favorite seat. Later, the barbarian stood, stretching his strong arms overhead and twisted his back experimentally. Brows lifting in pleasant surprise, he gave the chair an appreciative pat.

By the third day, Severin had no more dust to swat about. The barbarian had rolled up his ragged sleeves and set about scrubbing every inch of Severin’s little hut. When the hulking man worked open the stiff windows, the wind rushed in, delighting in whipping about the space once more.

He’s done a better job of cleaning than you ever did, the wind sang, slipping once more outside.

He was dead and that meant the wind had to be nice, and Severin told it as much. It’s reply was a soft rustling of chimes that hung from the house’s eaves, and the sound was almost like laughter.

Days passed, and the man began reading Severin’s books. This was probably the most surprising development yet, in Severin’s opinion. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought the large, scarred warrior capable of reading, just - well, he hadn’t thought the large, scarred warrior capable of reading particularly well. But the man seemed to be doing just fine, and sat in Severin’s rocking chair, putting a far greater strain on the sturdy wood than Severin ever had, as he thumbed carefully through the book’s smooth pages.

When little Mykela took ill, Severin knew it well before anyone else. He’d taken a spin through town and as he rode the wintry wind past where she played in the yard, he’d felt the rattle of air in her lungs. But at this point, Severin was little more than a memory on the breeze, and though his worry was agony, he could do absolutely nothing. He spent the rest of the day roaring about the mountain peaks, sending snow flurries spilling down the far side of the cliffs.

Two days later, Severin was idly observing the barbarian, watching the crease between his brows twitch as he slept, when a great pounding broke out against the door. The barbarian rose at once, and Severin watched him cast a brief glance at the walking stick before turning instead to the candle on a nearby shelf. With warm light cupped in his palm, the barbarian approached the door.

When Dormund, Mykela’s father, entered the hut, carrying a limp mound of blankets, Severin felt a spike of icy terror. As the barbarian poked and prodded the fire, Severin carefully stirred the wind to better feed the flames. Severin would have shouted instructions, had he lungs to shout, but the barbarian already had two jars in hand. He held them up, looking a little lost, before he hurried to the bookshelf and selected a thick book. Muttering under his breath, he flipped hurriedly through pages until he found what he was looking for. And then he was kneeling before the pot of water he’d set over the fire, and Severin watched as he scooped careful measurements of Severin’s dried herbs into the roiling water.

Mykela was saved, and as the barbarian sent the girl and her father off with a bag of herbs, it occurred to Severin that he wished to know the barbarian’s name. He wouldn’t learn it until two days later, when Old Cara arrived at the hut, seeking the barbarian’s help for her arthritic knee. After supplying her with the appropriate poultice, the barbarian helped her to the door, and looking up, she patted his shoulder and asked him his name.

Eindred, was his answer.

Eindred.

Severin wished he had lips to test the shape of the name.

Months passed, and was easier now to watch Eindred move about Severin’s hut. In fact, Severin had even begun to enjoy riding the soft breeze from the windows as it wafted around Eindred’s shoulders, curiously observing whatever small thing he happened to, at any given time, be doing with his hands. One day, Severin was surprised to find Eindred’s hands at work, deliberately whittling the curved back of a rocking chair. When the chair was done, Eindred set it carefully, almost reverently beside the first. At the sight, Severin had a bright, nearly overwhelming flash of recognition, and he thought of the image the wind had shown him - of the rocking chairs before a warm, crackling fire.

Severin was fading, he could feel it. To hope was to court a greater disappointment than Severin could rightly comprehend, and yet - he watched Eindred set out with Severin’s walking stick to join the festival, and saw when Mykela took his hand. The barbarian’s stony expression softened, then melted as the girl tugged him after her.

It was the strangest of sensations, because while Severin didn’t strictly have a heart these days, watching the great Eindred meekly follow little Mykela made something in Severin’s incorporeal being ache with unexpected warmth.

Whatsmore, Eindred had been reading Severin’s journals and he would sometimes stop and stare about the hut, as if trying to picture the ghost of Severin’s life there. Once, Eindred draped a thick blanket over the back of one of the rocking chairs and ran his rough hands over it as he frowned contemplatively into the fire.

Summer had come and gone and Severin feared that parts of his soul had already begun to slip into that other-place. And so, with a tender sort of weariness, he drifted on the sunbeams cutting through the clean window glass, and watched with only mild annoyance as Eindred carefully tore a blank page from one of Severin’s journals.

Lips pressing together in focus, Eindred wrote in with small, precise letters, what appeared to be a list.

Confused, Severin drifted closer.

May your every loved one die screaming in pain.

I hope you die with your eyes stabbed out and your heart in your hands.

You will never know happiness.

Your existence will be suffering.

It was a list of curses, Severin realized. Morbid curses, by the looks of it. The last two, however, caught his attention.

May your greatest enemy rise from the grave and never leave you alone.

And,

May you live a life of safety and peace.

And Severin understood.

When Eindred set out from the hut, looking drawn but resolved, Severin began at once to gather his energy. It had been nearly a year since his death, and he feared that there might not be enough of him left to make a return. The second to last curse would help things along, but Severin knew it would be a mistake to rely on it.

And so, as Eindred entered the village, Severin stretched upward and out, calling wind and storm clouds with reckless, hopeful abandon. For his entire life, Severin had lived, certain in the knowledge that love and happiness were not meant for one such as he. How could they be? When a blade was foretold to make a home in his heart?

But Eindred had changed. And the patchwork pieces of tapestry were there, a life Severin had never dared to dream of, right there - if he could only summon the strength to reach out and grasp it.

Below, Eindred bowed his head before the townsfolk, confessing his part in the tragedy which played out on their soil. Above, Severin swallowed the skies and became the storm.

Severin felt it, distantly below, when the people in the village forgave Eindred. And he felt when Eindred’s bittersweet tears tickled the earth. He felt Eindred return to the hut, and then after pacing restlessly about, return at last to the pastures where it had all begun.

And then came Eindred’s pained voice, calling out from the fields below. “Severin!”

Eindred had never said his name before, and Severin, who was the clouds and the wind and the rain and the sky, rumbled his joy at the sound of it.

“It was my hand which ended your life,” Eindred continued. His deep voice was shaking. “And with your dying breath you gifted what I thought was a nightmare. Did you know that it would turn out to be a dream? I think you did.”

Just wait, Severin wanted to tell him, because he’d seen a future better still. The only question that remained was whether he had strength enough to reach it.

Rugged face upturned, Eindred called to Severin and the sky, which were one and the same. “Though it’s a dream, I’ll never know peace. How can I? When I live in the home of the one I so coldly murdered? I would leave, but the villagers have my heart - as they had yours. In this state, I don’t think I’ll ever truly know true rest or true peace - despite the great power of your curse.”

You will, Severin said, and lightning streaked across the sky. I will.

“Even now,” Eindred said, through wind and rain, “I’m not sure if you are my greatest enemy or ally.”

There it was.

His greatest enemy.

Severin, with every ounce of power he possessed, claimed the title. For he was the greatest enemy the old Eindred, warrior and killer, had faced. With his parting curse, Severin had forced the old Eindred to do the one thing he’d feared most of all: to live and face all he’d done.

Severin felt a rushing, coursing energy thrumming within and without and he knew that he must catch it and hold it, though he wasn’t sure how.

The tapestry threads, the wind whispered. Severin had spread so thin, his old friend was nearly a part of him now.

Severin listened, and felt for that thread which had teased and tickled his palm. And when he was sure he felt it, he wrapped himself around it and pulled. The sky around him screamed as he dragged himself forward toward something - something -

White light was all around him, and then it wasn’t. The air was cool and damp, and the evening sang with the wind’s gleeful gusts and the soft patter of rain on grass. Severin lifted a hand, and looked it over in tentatively blooming relief. Pressing the hand over his heart which beat with a strong, steady rhythm, Severin breathed a relieved, ragged sigh.

Eindred stood in the field, turned away from him. Drawing in a breath, Severin delighted in the sound of his own voice. “May your greatest enemy rise from the grave, Eindred, and never leave you alone.” He smiled as he spoke, and very nearly pressed his fingers to his lips to feel the shape they took when saying Eindred’s name.

Eindred turned. “So you are my greatest enemy then?” He sounded wary.

“I don’t think it’s so simple as that. Do you?”

Eindred’s expression shifted and he shook his head. When he next spoke, it was soft and fumbling, as if he still hadn’t fully adjusted to a world which was kind. “I made a chair,” he blurted out. “A few actually,” he added, rubbing a hand over the back of his head.

Severin wanted to say, I know. I saw. But that would require more explanation than he cared to give at the moment, so instead, he replied, “Do I get the new rocking chair or my old one?”

“Any,” Eindred stammered, “Either. Both?” He looked at Severin, and the earnest weight of his gaze held the promise of all the chairs Severin could want and anything else Eindred could possibly make with his scarred hands.

The fondness that bubbled up within Severin was so abrupt and filled him so thoroughly that he wanted to laugh with it. “Lucky for you, I only need one chair. You can keep the old one if you like it. I trust your craftsmanship.”

Severin turned then, because it was cold and every part of him felt so entirely bright and buoyant that he thought he might die if he didn’t move. However, when he realized Eindred was not following, he stopped. “Well? Are you coming?”

Eindred looked up, as if he’d been startled. “Where?” he called.

Standing there, sodden in the field, Eindred looked after Severin, as if he was afraid to hope - as Severin once had been afraid to do. And it occurred to Severin that Eindred would need to hear it said aloud.

“Home, of course. Where else?”

“Home,” Eindred repeated, as if confirming it to himself.

And when Severin turned again towards home, Eindred followed.

By the time they reached the hut, both were shivering from the cold, and as they crossed the threshold into the warm space, Severin swayed on his feet. He’d almost forgotten the immense power he’d used, and now the harsh ringing in his ears was a stark reminder. Warm, rough hands steadied him and when Severin tilted his head up, he saw that Eindred wore an expression of poorly concealed terror.

“I’m not going to die all over again,” Severin assured him. “I just used a lot of magic.” As he said it, he swayed once more, this time falling forward.

Eindred caught Severin again, one arm wrapped around his back and his other hand braced against his chest. Beneath where Eindred’s palm pressed, Severin’s heart thrummed. And Severin watched, curious, as Eindred’s expression twisted. He no longer claimed the title of warrior, Severin knew, but it was nonetheless with a warrior’s gravity that Eindred met Severin’s gaze.

“These hands will never again harm you. I swear it.”

“I know,” Severin replied, and pressed a hand over the back of Eindred’s rough knuckles. “Help me to a chair?”

Eindred did, and helped to remove Severin’s thick outer robe before Severin sank gratefully in front of the fire. Eindred left him a moment, and Severin closed his eyes.

He intended to just rest them for a second - maybe two, but when Severin next opened his eyes, the room was darker and he was draped and bundled in blankets, softer and thicker than any he recalled owning. The fire was still crackling, and the warm light made soothing shadows dance across the hut’s wooden floor. The other chair was occupied, Severin realized, and he watched as the hearth’s orange light played across Eindred’s sleeping features. Compared to Severin’s mountain of blankets, he had just one draped over his lap, though he didn’t seem cold. Nonetheless, Severin shifted a bit, and peeled a soft fleece blanket off his own pile to toss it onto him. The blanket fell short, and with a quick whispered word, the wind slipped under the door and flipped the offending blanket up onto Eindred’s chest.

“That’s better,” Severin said.

The wind played a little with the fire before tousling Severin’s hair and departing with a sibilant, save your strength foolish human. You’re still recovering, and slipped out the way it had come.

When Severin turned back to Eindred, he saw the large man was sitting up and his eyes were now open. Blinking, Eindred rubbed a hand over his face and then, stiffening in sudden shock, he whipped to look at Severin. Heaving a great sigh, he rocked back in the chair. “Still breathing,” he said.

“I don’t plan on stopping.”

Something almost like a smile twitched at Eindred’s lips and Severin was enchanted by it.

“You were dead and now you’re alive. Forgive me. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.”

“You’re the one who believes in silly curses.”

Eindred’s brows rose. “Silly? Says the one who was brought back from the dead by one.”

Severin waved a dismissive hand. “The curse might have set the stage, but I was director, crew, and cast.”

And there was another smile, like a glimpse of sun between clouds. Severin was beginning to fear there might be no practical limit to the lengths he’d be willing to go to see another smile.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Eindred replied. “I get the feeling you know a great deal more about the world and magics than I.”

“Well Eindred,” Severin said, scooting his chair a little closer to both Eindred and the fire. “What do you know of grand tapestries?”

Eindred, looking more than a little lost, shook his head. “Nothing. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen one.”

“Well,” Severin said, and grinned. “What do you know of cheese?”

EDIT: A novel based on Eindred and the Witch and The Witch Who Spoke to the Wind is in progress! I will post news about it on my Tumblr and my Patreon as news becomes available :)

#my writing #original writing #my story #Eindred and the Witch #original story #fantasy #fantasy story #love story #eindred the warrior #severin the witch #writing #writeblr #short story #long short story #7000+ words #fantasy short story #amwriting #story

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nova-is-a-writer-now · 4 years ago

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The things we never tell.

[[Zuko x Reader]]

Summary: After the war Y/N strays away from her friends, and her relationship with Zuko seemed everytime more distant, slowly she starts to fall into a darker place.

A/N: I took a very extensive but very needed break, I’m incredibly sorry to anyone who sent me a request before I disappeared and was left waiting for me to post it but my mental health was not the best during this past few months and it’s been hard to do anything at all. But I’m back and I hope writing again gives me a sense of purpose or something lol. Talking about mental health, this fic talks about heavy topics like depression and isolation, if you’re not confortable with that or are going through this stuff I recommend skipping this one, I will have lighter fics coming soon. Remember you are never alone, no matter how much you feel like it. There’s always someone to reach out to or ask for help.

Requested: Yes!!!! By a lovely blog that deactivated but went by the name of aristasiaclarke :( (yes that’s how long I’ve been away) But side note, if you sent me a request before my break and would still like me to write it send it to me again I’d be more that happy to do it!

Warnings: Depression, Anxety, Isolation, Angst

~IF YOU HAVE ANY REQUESTS DONT HESITATE TO ASK ~

The war was over, it had been for months now, yet some things hadn’t gone back to normal . You decided to stay in the palace after Zuko was crowned since your relationship with him had only grown stronger by being so close to losing eachother. Your friends on the other hand all went their separate ways. The friend group you’d spent so many days with, planning on how to defeat the firelord, training, camping, going on missions, it all became just memories and it had been so long since you’d all been together last. You couldn’t complain though, you understood after everything that had happened all your friends were left with many responsibilities laying on their shoulders and, in a way, none of you were the same kids you were when this adventure started. You had all grown up.

Zuko and you spent a lot of time together those first few months since you moved in, that period of time when his people understood his need to settle into his position and take charge of his nation, but after that was over the workload was relentless, Zuko had been left with a broken nation and the full responsibility of fixing it. At first he always made sure to eat every meal with you, chat and update you on everything new that had happened, little by little he started to miss lunch and then it was dinner, soon breakfast and any midday break was gone as well. It came to a point where you rarely saw him at all, him working so late you were usually asleep by the time he came to bed, if he did at all, and you waking up to an empty bed every morning.

Slowly but surely a feeling you knew all too well started reappearing in your chest, something you hadn’t felt in years and were too scared of to even acknowledge. You tried to figure out what to do with all the free time you had in your hands so the feeling wouldn’t consume your mind, you remodeled at least fiver rooms in the palace, picked up several hobbies, offered your help to servants all around just to be rejected, anything and everything your mind could think of, but nothing was enough. That darkness and emptiness inside of you seemed to be determined to conquer your every waking moment once again.

Last time this happened you had your old friends around you, back at home. You family did everything they could to help you, and little by little you learnt how to heal. But this was different, all you had now were empty hallways that lead to even emptier rooms, and the ones that weren’t empty you weren’t permitted to go into.

Days were longer and shorter at the same time; on one hand, a day seemed to last ages, all you did was wait til night fell so you could go back to bed and rest, on the other you started spending more time inside your room, taking naps here and there turned into sleeping most of your days, taking baths became a task harder than any of the ones you’d had to complete in your adventure days, the curtains stayed closed and the bed unmade, day and night slowly started to blend in together.

Servants noticed first, they knocked on the door several times a day to ask if you needed anything at all, to which you would always answer no. When you stopped going to the dinner hall they started to bring food to you, most of which you didn’t eat. One too many times they even had to drag you to the bath so they could get a chance to clean your room.

It was your personal maid who had decided to finally bring in the palace medic. After running some tests on you he concluded there was nothing wrong with you and all it could be was hormonal changes. But hormonal changes weren’t supposed to last weeks, not to mention months.

The maid tried encouraging you to go out to town, visit some new boutique that had opened or a restaurant with great reviews, but all you ever said was “maybe tomorrow”. She came to understand that tomorrow wouldn’t come.

—————————

One day she decided to not stand by and witness a girl who had once been the light in every room wither away. It took all her courage to approach the fire lord,. Even though she knew of his kindness and how different he was from his predecessor he was still an intimidating ruler.

“Fire lord” she called as the young man walked through the palace surrounded by his officials, discussing some political matter she assumed. He didn’t seem to hear her so she sped up and stood in front of the group of men.

“I’m sorry but any issue at the moment will have to wait, important matters need to be addressed with urgency.” He informed her with his usual formal tone.

“Your majesty, it’s miss Y/N, she-” the maid started but was soon interrupted

“Yes, well if she requires my presence please inform her I’m occupied at the moment, but whatever she needs she can ask the help to do it for her.” Zuko attempt to walk past her but the maid stopped him once again.

“Your majesty, I hope I’m not being too bold but I don’t think you understand, she’s very unwell.” the maid saw as Zuko was about to protest her audacity, but once his eyes fell on her he seemed to realize the seriousness of the matter.

Zuko’s heart sank, all kinds of thoughts went through his head, had you gotten injured? Had one of the rebellious groups he’d been dealing with infiltrated the castle and taken you? had you fallen ill with a terrible condition? He soon turned to his second in command and said “You can take charge from here”

The man rather surprised replied after a few seconds “Your majesty, this matter requires your presence, it can not wait.”

“Well it will have to, I’m going to be unavailable the rest of the day. I’m sure you all can manage without me.”

———————

Nothing could’ve prepared Zuko for the sight he encountered when he entered the royal chambers. He hadn’t sleept there a few nights in a row, not wanting to wake you up at late hours when he was done with his workload of the day, but even when he did sleep there he was too tired to even notice anything wrong. Now, at broad daylight, he saw it all.

You were cuddled up under the covers, your hair matted and messier than ever, very dark under eye bags and an extremely pale complexion, even laying down and under blankets and covers he could tell you’d lost a worryingly amount of weight. He’d never seen you in such state.

“What happened to her? Is she ill?” Zuko asked the maid who stood next to him.

“The medic has been called, your majesty, he wasn’t able to point out anything wrong with her. Said it was just hormonal changes, but I don’t think that’s what’s going on.” she said softly.

“Well then bring another doctor in. Someone has to know what’s wrong.”

“Yes, your majesty, we’ll being someone else in first thing tomorrow.” she bowed and was about to leave the room when the firelord stopped her.

“Thank you... for bringing this to my attention and for looking after her.”

The maid just bowed once again and made her way out of the room. Zuko walked up to you, your eyes were closed and even in your sleep an uneasy expression was plastered on your face.

“Love...” he cooed stoking the side of your face slowly. “Hey, darling... wake up.”

He made sure to rest his hand on your forehead to see if you had a fever, but on the contrary you were rather cold. You barely opened your eyes, but it was enough for Zuko to see how the light that had once been there was now gone.

“Zuko?” you asked, your voice barely audible and raspy as you tried to blink the sleepiness away slowly.

“Hey, do you feel sick Y/N? Does anything hurt?” Zuko’s hand had moved from your forehead to your cheek and his thumb was now sweetly caressing your skin.

You hadn’t felt a loving touch in what felt like so long, you’d almost forgotten that you could feel something good and not painful. It was all it took for tears to slowly start forming in your eyes and eventually rolling down your face.

At the sight of your partner’s concern, you forced yourself to smile a little and respond “Nothing hurts.”

“Y/N... something’s not right. I’ve never seen you like this before, i need you to tell me what’s going on.” Zuko’s voice was almost breaking, you could tell how hard he was trying to be strong and keep collected for you, this broke your heart even more.

You took in a deep breath, your mind running while trying to find an answer for him. You knew what was wrong, you’d ignored it so far, pushed it away even though it now consumed your every waking moment, but you knew you couldn’t do this anymore. “I don’t feel well, Zuko. I haven’t for a while now.”

“Are you ill? We’ve called a doctor already, he should be-” He said before you cut him off.

“Zuko... It’s not that kind of unwell.” you almost whispered. “A doctor can’t help me with this.”

The firelord seemed lost for a while, not quite sure of what you meant. You took a second before sitting up on the bed and pressing your back against the headboard. You decided to recount the events of the last time you’d gone through this to him, every sleepless night and every full of sleep day, the multiple crying sessions, the pain and hopelessness, the ever changing appetite, the heavy chest you couldn’t seem to get rid of. This was all terribly hard for you to do but needed to be done, for your sake and for his. Zuko didn’t seem to understand at first, his eyes looking at you attentively, waiting for the moment where the pieces of your story would fall into place. It took you saying how what was wrong with you wasn’t physical but rather emotional for him to get what you were referring to. His face had fallen into a heartbreaking expression, you didn’t know if it was guilt or pity or something in between.

Once you were done and the tears that pooled in your eyes while tellling your story had fallen, Zuko held your hand tightly. “This is all my fault. You should’ve been my priority.”

“Zuko...no. This isn’t your fault, it’s nobody’s fault.” You assured him as your hand went up to his cheek.

“I’m so sorry. You shouln’t have had to deal with this alone. You were there for me when no one else was and I want to do the same for you, always.” He tilted his head into your palm before turning slightly to kiss it.

“I’d like that... I really would.”

For the rest of that night, you and your partner opened up to each other like you’d never had before. For the first time since the war had ended you didn’t feel so alone, you were together and that made you feel like you had the strength to get better, maybe not today or in the days to come, but someday. He gave you hope.

#zuko au #zuko fic #zuko x reader #atla zuko #zuko angst #zuko fanfic #avatar zuko #prince zuko #zuko x you #fire lord zuko #zuko x y/n #zuko x oc #atla imagine #atla fanfic #aang #katara #sokka #fanfic #fire nation

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scotianostra · 3 years ago

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On 21st July 1796 Robert Burns died in Dumfries.

Rather than write up an account from several sources and my own knowledge as I normally do I will leave it to the poet and neighbour of the Ploughman Poet, Alan Cunninham, to describe the fateful day……

“It was soon spread through Dumfries that Burns had returned from the *Brow much worse than when he went away, and it was added that he was dying. The anxiety of the people, high and low, was very great. I was present and saw it. Wherever two or three were together their talk was of Burns, and of him alone. They spoke of his history, of his person, and of his works - of his witty sayings and sarcastic replies, and of his too early fate with much enthusiasm, and sometimes with deep feeling. All that he had done, and all that he had hoped he would accomplish, were talked of: half-a-dozen of them stopped Dr. Maxwell in the street, and said, "How is Burns sir?” He shook his head, saying, “he cannot be worse, ” and passed on to be subjected to similar inquiries farther up the way. I heard one of a group inquire, with much simplicity, “Who do you think will be our poet now?”

Though Burns now knew he was dying, his good humour was unruffled, and his wit never forsook him. When he looked up and saw Dr. Maxwell at his bed-side, - “Alas!” he said, “what has brought you here? I am but a poor crow and not worth plucking.” He pointed to his pistols, those already mentioned the gift of their maker, Blair of Birmingham, and desired that Maxwell would accept of them, saying they could not be in worthier keeping, and he should have no more need of them. This relieved his proud heart from a sense of obligation. Soon afterwards he saw Gibson, one of his brother-volunteers by the bed-side with tears in his eyes. He smiled and said, - “John, don’t let the awkward squad fire over me!”

His household presented a melancholy spectacle: the Poet dying; his wife in hourly expectation of being confined: four helpless children wandering from room to room, gazing on their miserable parents and but too little of food or cordial kind to pacify the whole or soothe the sick. To Jessie Lewars, all who are charmed with the poet’s works are much indebted: she acted with the prudence of a sister and the tenderness of a daughter, and kept desolation away, though she could not keep disease. - “A tremor,” says Maxwell, “pervaded his frame; his tongue, though often refreshed, became parched; and his mind, when not roused by conversation, sunk into delirium. On the second and third day after his return from the Brow, the fever increased and his strength diminished. On the fourth day, when his attendant, James Maclure held a cordial to his lips, he swallowed it eagerly - rose almost wholly up - spread out his hands - sprang forward nigh the whole length of the bed - fell on his face and expired. He was thirty seven years and seven months old, and of a form and strength which promised long life; but the great and inspired are often cut down in youth while "Villains ripen gray with time”.

I can’t really add to what Cunningham has written, what I will add is the remarkable story about the night almost 40 years after his death the poet’s skull was taken on a wee walk by a group of Dumfries locals with a strange interest.

The men, led by newspaper editor John McDiarmid, were keen advocates of phrenology - a now discredited pseudo-science that believed you could read deep truths about someone's personality from plotting the bumps on their head.

McDiarmid and others were keen to study the skull of the ploughman poet - a man who was thought of as a natural genius and whose personality was well-known throughout the world.

The phrenologists were interested in Burns because he was such an important character in the public imagination and therefore they wanted to see if the bumps on his skull would match up to his public persona.

However, the Bard's widow Jean Armour was not thought to be keen to allow the phrenologists to disturb her husband's resting place because his remains had already been moved once before.

When Burns died in Dumfries he was not buried in the imposing mausoleum that currently stands in the town's St Michael's kirkyard. The bright, white, rock star tomb, with its pillars and domes and its marble figure of Burns at the plough, was erected 19 years after his death, following a long fundraising effort. His widow was disgusted by the gruesome exhumation of the poet's body, and the remains of two of his sons, to the relocate them to the new monument.

Dumfries Courier editor McDiarmid wrote an account of removing Burns from his original resting place.

He told how when the workmen tried to lift the original wooden coffin "the head separated from the trunk, and the whole body, with the exception of the bones, crumbled into dust".

The newspaper editor may have been accurately describing the scene but he was not there at the time, he arrived in town two years after the event and must have cursed his luck at missing out on getting his hands on Burns' skull for a phrenological study.

It was not until Jean Armour died in 1834 that another opportunity arose to get a plaster of Paris cast of the skull. McDiarmid realised the crypt of the mausoleum was going to be opened and he appears to have obtained permission from Jean's brother to take a cast of the skull. The group carrying out the plan comprised of six men plus their assistants, and by the end of the night the Provost, the Dean of Guild and rector of Dumfries academy as well.

They don't want to be seen and they didn't want a mob to assemble and say 'here they are violating the poet's grave, we are going to stop them. They make their first attempt at 7pm but there are too many people about. At 10pm in come our boys again over the walls, sneak up to the mausoleum with the keys, they go down into the vault with a ladder and a muffled lantern so people didn't see the light.

According to Burns' experts who reconstructed the process, McDiarmid had thought he would be able to take a plaster cast of the skull in the vault but he realised he couldn't. So he popped it into a linen bag and walked it up the high street to Queensberry Street where the plasterer James Fraser worked. They made a mould and from that they took a cast of the skull.

There are several persons involved, one of which is the surgeon Archibald Blacklock and according to the published accounts he, very scientifically, handles this skull.

He also apparently tried his hat on it out of awe, because the skull is so large he wants to know if his hat can fit on it or not. The workmen around him then all apparently try their hats on the skull as well. The freshly-cast skull was rushed to Edinburgh, to George Combe, the master of phrenology, who prepared a report on Burns' personality.

Phrenologists believed the brain was made up of 27 individual "organs" that determined personality and these could be measured by studying the shape of the skull. Combe's report rated Burns for a number of character traits based on the size of the "organs".

One of Burns' organs that was very large was his organ of “philoprogenitiveness,” his ability to produce and care for children! Along with a high score for benevolence, the phrenologists said this explained his love for weak and helpless creatures displayed in poems such as To a Mouse and On Seeing a Wounded Hare. A lot of it was just talking about the poetry and the life and trying to make sense of this scientific analysis in relation to Burns' well-known public character and his written work.

This was a "risky" strategy, because Burns was so well-known that if their findings had been at odds with his public persona it would have made phrenology look like a fraud. So they worked very hard to make sense of these materials. Instead of the scientific philosophy of trying to prove your hypothesis wrong, the phrenologists wanted to confirm their prior beliefs.

The anatomical museum of the University of Edinburgh has a cast of Burns' skull which is likely to be one of the original copies made that night in 1834, there is also a copy in The Burns Museum at Alloway.

Pics include a drawing of the poets “death room” and the skull in the museum.

#Scotland #scottish #poetry #rabbie burns #literature #national bard #history

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perfectpaperbluebirds · 3 years ago

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@sicktember Prompt # 11: Bed Rest

Title: Stubborn Cold

Fandom: Letterkenny

Based on this post by me. Inspired by @sick-bae

Wayne goes about his day with a sneezy, feverish cold. His loved ones try to convince him to take a day off.

(Author's note: My first attempt at Letterkenny sickfic, written in the style of a script. Writing this fandom in prose just… didn't work for me, because the show is sooooo dialogue-based, while the scenes are pretty static. Feedback on my take of this kooky fandom is welcome!)

For those that haven’t watched the show: Puppers is a beer, darts are cigarettes. These are a bunch of Canadian hick farmers (yes, they actually call themselves the Hicks) from a town called Letterkenny who happen to be best friends. Wayne is well-known as the toughest man in Letterkenny.

(WAYNE is sitting up in bed wearing plaid, flannel pajamas, facing the camera. His nose is red and raw while the rest of his face is overly pale. He looks tired and sick.)

WAYNE: Had some chorin' to do the other daaaaaay.

(Scene change to outside at the produce stand. KATY, DAN, and DARRYL are drinking beers and relaxing, dressed for autumn. WAYNE walks up to join them, looking tired and pale as he sits down with a groan.)

DARRYL: 'bout time you got here. We thought you got lost.

(WAYNE sneezes twice, wetly. Everyone blesses him.)

DAN: Were yous in the dusts over theres, Wayne?

WAYNE: I suppose I might've been (He sniffles.)

DARRYL: The rest of us have been sittin' here for a while, where've you been?

WAYNE: Had some things to take care of in the field.

DARRYL: You look about done-in. Get this man a puppers.

WAYNE: (Frown deepens.) Nah, no puppers for me.

DARRYL: What do you mean no puppers? When a man sits down to take a breather, he has a puppers. It's the way things are meant to be.

WAYNE: Well Darry, it just so happens I have a splittin' headache even though I haven't had a drop to drink since yesterday, so it just so happens I don't want a puppers right now.

DARRYL: Well if you have a headache so bad that you don't want a puppers, it seems to me you should probably go inside and have a lie-down.

WAYNE: Well you know, I'd love to go have a lie-down, 'cept for the fact that there's a boatload of chorin' to do and no one but me to do it.

DARRYL: Well I'm just sayin', you should either sit and have a puppers with us or you should go have a lie-down.

WAYNE: And I'm just sayin' you should mind your own business, Darry.

(WAYNE stands.)

WAYNE: Best get back to it. Every damn thing on this farm decided to break down today, so I've got double the work to do.

(He exits. He sneezes twice off camera. Everyone blesses him again, then exchange worried looks.)

(Scene changes to WAYNE and DAN working on a piece of farm equipment in a field. WAYNE is kneeling down with his back to the camera. DAN is under the machine on the other side. Suddenly, WAYNE pulls out a handkerchief and sneezes twice. DAN slides out to look at him.)

DAN: Bless yous, Wayne. The dusts and pollens are bads this times of year.

WAYNE: I s'pose. (He sniffles and wipes his nose, then continues working)

DAN: How's abouts we grabs a break and smokes a dart?

WAYNE: Too busy fer smokin' darts. This machine needed to be up and running this morning. (He coughs into his elbow.)

DAN: Nows just a minutes. We've been working on this for an hour and youse haven't smoked once. That's not naturals.

(WAYNE is about to respond, but instead has a harsh coughing fit.)

DAN: Nows that sounded painful. Are youse all rights?

WAYNE: 10-4, super chief.

DAN: I'm not sures I believes you. You don't wants to smokes and you're coughing up a lungs. Seems to me you should go insides and have a lie-down. You're getting sicks, and you wants to stops it before it gets worse.

WAYNE: (Frown deepens.) Well I'd love to go have a lie-down Squirrely Dan, 'cept for the fact that there's a boatload of chorin' to do and no one but me to do it.

(DAN shakes his head, looking disapproving. WAYNE stands and wipes his hands on a rag, sniffling.)

WAYNE: That should do 'er. Think we're done over here.

DAN: I guesses I'll go finds Darry and smokes a darts with him then, since youse won't rest.

WAYNE: Good 'nough then.

DAN: I thinks you're makings a big mistake.

WAYNE: Guess that's my business and not yours.

(As WAYNE walks off camera, he sneezes twice, sounding more congested all the time. DAN blesses him again, looking concerned.)

(Scene changes to the barn where WAYNE is working. KATY approaches. WAYNE sneezes as she does. He looks worse than ever, with a raw, red nose and dark circles under his eyes. He's shivering.)

KATY: Bless. How are ya now?

WAYNE: (Very hoarse and congested.) Not so bad, and you?

KATY: Not so bad. But what's the deal, big brother? You look worse than that dead rabbit Stormy dragged in from the woods.

WAYNE: (Frown deepens.) Nothin' to worry about. Little bit of a sniffle from a stubborn cold.

KATY: You’re not fooling anyone with that lie. Everyone knows you're sick as a dog. You shouldn't be working like this.

WAYNE: A sniffle's no reason to stop chorin'

(KATY moves to his side, placing a hand on his forehead.)

KATY: That fever you have is, though.

(WAYNE considers for a moment, but shrugs, then continues working, coughing as he does.)

KATY: (Sighing.) You got the stubborn part right for sure. Go have a lie-down, before you catch your death. You're shivering.

WAYNE: You know I'd love to go have a lie-down, 'cept for the fact that there's a boatload of chorin' to do and no one but me to do it.

KATY: The chorin' will get done one way or another. You need to rest. You're sick.

WAYNE: Well the fact is, I don't have time to be sick, and a man shouldn't lay around doing nothing no matter how he's feeling. I'll be fine. Leave me be, Katy.

(KATY walks off, rolling her eyes.)

(Scene changes to evening. WAYNE is still working in the barn. He is shivering and sniffling and completely miserable. He sneezes several times, then rubs his eyes. We hear someone approach him from behind. A hand reaches out to feel WAYNE's forehead, then his cheek.)

WAYNE: I'm fine Katy. Go on. I'll be in after a while. (He coughs harshly.)

ROSIE: Nope, you're coming in right now.

(WAYNE spins around quickly, surprised. KATY and ROSIE are standing behind him.)

KATY: Since you wouldn't listen to me or Dan or Darry, I had to bring in the big guns.

(ROSIE gives WAYNE a sympathetic look, then wraps him in a tight hug. He hesitates for a moment, then hugs her back, burying his face in her hair.)

ROSIE: Let's get you inside. You're burning up. I already called McMurray and Joint Boy. They'll do your chorin' tomorrow with Dan and Darry. You're on bed rest for at least a day, mister.

(WAYNE groans, leaning more of his weight against her for a moment. ROSIE begins to lead him to the house. KATY follows.)

KATY: Leave it to the girlfriend to talk some sense into his thick head. Make sure you make him soup, Rosie. He'll say he doesn't want any but he's lying.

(Scene change back to sick WAYNE sitting up in bed from the beginning.)

WAYNE: Being sick is about as inconvenient as a snow day in June and just as miserable too.

(ROSIE walks in carrying a steaming bowl and mug on a tray, which she sets beside him with a smile. WAYNE watches her, then looks back at the camera.)

WAYNE: But every now and again, laying around doing nothing is just about alright.

~END~

#sicktember2021 #sickfic #everyone is hotter with a fever #prompt 11

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13uswntimagines · 4 years ago

Text

Tater Tot Emergency (Soran x Child!Reader)

Request: I was wondering if you could do a soran imagine with the reader as their kid but the team doesn’t know and their kid is very sick with like cancer or something along the lines of that

Authors Note 1: So I changed this request up a little bit because I felt really uncomfortable writing about cancer. It brought up some really bad feelings and felt really heavy, so i changed to appendicitis instead.

Authors note 2: I’m not sure how i feel about this one, but i hope you enjoy it. Let me know what ya think or hit me up if you have ideas or just want to say hi.

Emily and Lindsey loved camp. They loved seeing their team, and they loved playing footie. Yet, they weren’t as excited to be there as they usually were. Instead, their minds were more focused on a little girl just down the road hanging out with Lindsey’s mom for the duration of the camp. A little girl that had been in their life for just under a year, who they had never been away from before. They had heavily debated taking you to camp, but in the end, it was decided that meeting the entire team (besides Kelley who had been there during the adoption process), would be a little too overwhelming for your tiny body. They weren’t hiding you, they just didn’t know how to break the news to the rest of the girls.

“Mom said that she finally got the tater tot to go down for a nap,” Lindsey sighed, sitting heavily on the bench next to Emily, who wrapped her arm tightly around Lindsey’s waist.

“How was her fever?” Emily asked, leaning her head on Lindsey’s shoulder and eyeing the various pictures your grandmother had sent them. It sucked to be away from you in general, but right now it sucked all that much more because you were sick. You had come down with what they thought was a stomach bug, and all they could do was pray that it passed soon.

“Holding steady at 101, and she couldn’t get her to eat,” Lindsey grumbled.

“Did she try giving some to Roary first?” Emily laughed, grabbing Lindsey’s phone and examining the picture of her little one cuddled up with her stuffed Triceratops. You didn’t do anything without Roary, and your moms had used that to their advantage several times.

When you didn’t want to eat your veggies, well Roary loved broccoli. When you didn’t want shots, Roary went first to show you that it wasn’t all that bad. The two women would be forever grateful to your Aunt Kelley for getting him for you.

“Yeah, She even tried ice cream,” Lindsey mumbled, her eyebrows furrowing in worry.

“And the munchkin still didn’t go for it?” Emily questioned exasperated. You never turned town icecream. It was your absolute favorite food ever and their Trump card. It was the one thing that could get you to do just about anything. Lindsey shook her head slightly. “She must not feel good,” Emily huffed.

She hadn’t wanted to leave you in the first place, but your grandmother had convinced them that it was just a stomach bug, and you would be fine for the three days they would be at Camp. Now, she was entirely rethinking that decision.

“What the hell are you two talking about. Who’s Roary?” Pino interrupted before Lindsey could respond, plopping down on the bench next to the two blonds, who shared a frantic look.

“Um…” Lindsey started, not quite sure how to explain to the other woman that they had a 4-year-old daughter. A 4-year-old daughter who was currently not feeling too great.

“Alright ladies, let's get back to work,” Vlatko called, catching the attention of the women who had crowded around Emily and Lindsey, who both sighed in relief. The crowd began to disperse, walking towards the field, except one woman. The only woman who knew that you existed, who sent both worried looks.

“Everything alright?” Kelley asked, eyeing the two women’s distress.

“We hope so,” Emily muttered, sulking back towards the field.

It was halfway through practice when it was decided that everything was most certainly not fine.

“Hey Linds, your phone is going crazy,” One of the coaches called out after Lindsey’s phone had buzzed for the 6th time in the last 5 minutes. Lindsey rushed over to the bench, grabbing the offending device, her eyes widening as she answered the next frantic all.

“Hey Mom, everything Ok?” Lindsey asked, trying to sound calm, even though she most certainly didn’t feel that way. If her mom was calling then it had to be bad. She listened for a few seconds, her face becoming more worried with each word. “You’re talking too fast,” She said quickly, as Emily jogged up next to her, placing a comforting hand on her arm. “Are you at Memorial or NorthWest?” She asked, biting her lip and gesturing for Emily to start picking up their stuff. “Tell them to do it, we’ll be there as soon as we can,” She finished, hanging up the phone and shoving it into her pocket, and gesturing towards Vlatko, who came running over along with the rest of the team.

“I got the bags,” Emily said as she heaved up both her and Lindsey’s bags. She didn’t know exactly what was going on, but she knew that it was serious and they needed to move now.

“We need to go, now. My mom had to take her to the hospital.” Lindsey barked out towards Vlatko. He nodded, immediately. He knew about you by necessity, that way he would understand if any emergency were to happen.

“Of course, do you need someone to drive you?” He asked, his back straightening and concern leaking into his voice.

“No, we got it. Ready babe?” Emily said distractedly, checking to make sure that she had all of their things.

“Who? What the fuck is going on?” Megan exploded, as several of the women behind her nodded. Sonney and Lindsey had been acting strange all weekend. They were glued to their phones and always whispering conspiratorially to each other. The women were going to get to the bottom of it.

“Our daughter is having emergency surgery and we need to go, now.” Lindsey spat over her shoulder, grabbing Emily’s hand and moving towards the exit. Several of the women gasped, while others just looked on in shock. Kelley rushed forward, placing a hand on the women’s shoulders, and forcing them to turn around.

“If you think you’re going by yourselves, you’re both out of your fucking minds,” She growled. She might not be your mother, but she cared about you and from the tears in both women’s eyes, they were in no state to drive. One person in the hospital was enough, they didn’t need any more emergencies.

“Guys,” Emily started, holding her hand out in a placating fashion.

“No. She’s our niece and we always show up for family.,” Alex said firmly, standing behind Kelley and crossing her arms. Sure, they had just learned about you, but that didn’t make you any less their family. There would be time to quiz your mothers about you later, but right now, they just needed to support them.

“Let’s get going then,” Kelley said grabbing the keys and rushing towards the vans. You were in trouble and they needed to get moving.

“Lindsey, over here,” Lindsey’s mom called the moment she saw her daughter enter through the emergency room doors. Emily and Lindsey quickly made their way over to the woman, the women of the USWNT following behind them like lost puppies.

“What happened?” Emily demanded, her mother-in-law nodded hastily.

“Her temperature spiked, and she was in so much pain, so I brought her here. They said her Appendix burst,” she explained in a rush. Lindsey’s hands migrated to her hair, agitatedly pulling at the strands, while Emily rubbed her hands into her eyes with a groan. How the fuck did this happen while?

“Ah, you must be Mommy and Mama?”A tall, bald man in a white coat and scrubs approached the women,“And you must be the rest of the team?” He smiled gesturing to where the team had taken up residence in the cramped waiting room.

“Is Y/n ok?” Lindsey rushed out, Emily nodded, wrapping her arm around her wife and looking at the doctor expectantly. They didn’t know what they would do if… the thought was too painful to even imagine. They shouldn’t have left you, even if it was with your grandmother and they were only a few miles away.

“She’s stable now. The surgery was a success, we were able to remove her Appendix, and she’s currently getting set up in a recovery room,” He listed professionally.

“But she’s going to be alright now,” Emily asked, desperation leaking into her tone.

“Barring any infections and some pain around the incision, she should be fine. Kids typically bounce back pretty well,” The doctor nodded and all of the women took a sigh of relief. You weren’t totally out of the woods, but you could be alright.

“Can we see her,” Lindsey quieted, sniffling lightly, and trying to discreetly bring a hand up to wipe her nose. She felt a tissue being placed in her hands by a woman behind her, and she murmured out a thank you.

“I’ll have a nurse come get you as soon as she’s been settled,” The doctor affirmed, smiling lightly, and turning to go talk to the nurse at the nurse’s station.

“You two go in first, we’ll hang out here until she’s awake and ready to meet us. We don’t want to overwhelm her.” Tobin spoke quietly, rubbing Lindsey back, as Christen did the same for Emily.

Lindsey and Emily’s breath left them as they entered your room and took in your appearance. Your little body looked so tiny in that bed, the numerous wires connected to you making you look impossibly more fragile. They couldn’t help the smile that cracked across their face at the sight of Roary laying beside you, a bandage wrapped securely around his middle in the place she assumed yours was.

They carefully made their way over to you, Lindsey sitting on your right and Emily on your left, both women grabbing your tiny hands.

“I can’t believe they bandaged the Dino too,” Lindsey laughed as she ran a hand through your wispy Y/H/C hair, brushing it away from your eyes.

“Kel will be thrilled she’s so attached to that thing,” Lindsey whispered, running her fingers lightly over your cheeks. She smiled when your nose scrunched up cutely.

“Mama?” You mumbled, your Y/E/C eyes fluttering.

“Hey baby, Mommy is here too,” Lindsey smiled, leaning over so you could see her better, her thumb running soothing circles over your cheeks.

“Hey monster, try not to move too much ok? You hurt your tummy,” Emily said softly, placing a soothing hand on your chest, to stop you from trying to sit up.

“Dey fix Roary too?” You asked, squeezing the stuffed dino under your arm more tightly. The women smiled indulgently at you.

“Yeah, and he said he’s feeling much better. What about you?” Emily asked, running her hand soothingly through your hair.

“I’m otay. Can I have water?”You asked, Lindsey, raising her eyebrow at you.“peas?” You smiled mischievously at your mama, batting your eyelashes, and she rolled her eyes.

“Kelley wants to know if her, Alex, Chris, and Tobin can come in?” Emily grumbled, glancing up from where she was texting updates to the USWNT group chat.

“Might as well bring in the whole crew,” Lindsey mumbled under her breath. Where one went the others were sure to follow, and though this wasn’t the perfect moment, she knew that the other women were worried about you.

“Hey baby, there are some people who really wanna say hi, wanna meet them?” Emily questioned lightly, brushing the hair away from your eyes yet again.

“You Team?” You asked, your eyes lighting up in excitement. You had only heard stories about the women from your Mommy, Mama, and Aunt Kelley. If they were half as cool as Aunt Kelley said they were, then you couldn’t wait to meet them (especially your Aunt Alex because Aunt Kelley made heart eyes every time she talked about her).

“Yeah, baby,” Lindsey said softly, replacing Emily’s hand on your chest to slow your excited wiggling.

“Aun Kelwey?” You cheered. You loved the woman (not as much as you loved your mamas, but pretty close). She always told you fun stories, and she had given you Roary.

“She’s there too,” Emily smiled lightly at your obvious excitement, standing and moving to go retrieve the said women. You and your Mama didn’t have to wait long before Kelley came busting through the door with the rest of the team following much more carefully behind her.

“Hey short stack” Kelley smiled as she entered the room, (gently) tickling you and kissing your cheeks. The room’s atmosphere lightened at your giggles, and Lindsey and Emily shared a knowing look.

“You knew?” Alex demanded, glaring at her girlfriend as the entire team trickled into the room.

“Of course I knew that Frat Daddy junior had a junior of her own,” Kelley smirked, settling into her chair, watching as you tried to keep your eyes open.

“Tired baby?” Lindsey asked quietly after a few minutes of watching you fight your obviously heavy eyelids.

“Wanna meet the team,” You wined, quietening at your mama’s stern look. Just because you were sick didn’t mean you got to be a brat. All of the women awed at your dinosaur yawn.

“Sleep baby dino, we’ll still be here when you get back,” Kelley said softly, rubbing your leg, as Alex did the same thing on your other side. They would be here for as long as you were to support you and your mothers. Plus, your mamas had some explaining to do. Now that they knew you exited, you had 20 other Aunts who were going to help you get better.

#uswnt x reader #uswnt imagine #uswnt imagines #soran x reader #soran imagine

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doodleimprovement · 3 years ago

Text

AHIT Victorian AU :: Act 2 :: A Realization Long Overdue

Lord Arelius finally has a breakthrough while the girls are sick - though it does, frankly, take a figurative slap to the face.

This is a longer one, folks <3

He couldn’t focus.

God, he couldn’t focus for anything or anyone.

He had contracts to renegotiate, people to contact, *things to do*

But his heart had been in his throat since the morning, when he was woken by Cecilia, telling him the girls had horrid fevers.

The flu. They had the flu.

There had been a small burst of infections in town, several people rendered bedridden but no deaths.

But no children had been infected. Not until Beatriz and Harriet.

Doctor Buonacci had been called immediately, with the physician telling them that the best that could be done was mitigating their symptoms and letting the virus take its course.

It hadn’t been what he wanted to hear, but he knew that if anyone was going to be honest with him, it would be the good doctor.

He stared down at the letter he was composing, a renegotiation with the house of lords concerning something-or-other that his jumbled brain couldn’t focus on. He brushed his hair back for what must have been the 10th time, and he stood up from his desk, grumbling “Damn it all”

There was a knock on the door, and his head whipped up “Come in”

Morgan pushed the door open “Uh, afternoon, m’lord”

He forced his shoulders to relax, he was used to such a conscious decision “Good afternoon, Morgan. Is something going on?”

“Missus Carlile is askin’ for ya. She says she need y’r help”

The Lord’s brow furrowed “alright” he answered, quickly clearing the papers on his desk “Tell her I will be right with her. Is she in the kitchen?” Morgan nodded before leaving down the hall.

He huffed at her sheepishness around him. Vanessa had really left her mark on the girl.

Putting his coat back on as he walked into the hall, a part of him wanted to veer left at the fork to check on the girls, but he resisted that want - an easy task that made him feel guilty - and walked right over to the kitchen’s side entrance.

“Cecilia?” He voiced as he opened the door, seeing her toiling over a pot of soup - the aroma alone making him feel sleepy and calm.

“Ah, there ya are!” She pointed her spoon at him “I need you to help me bring the girls somethin’ light to eat. The broth from this soup should be good for ‘em” She explained “Doc Bonnie said that addin’ pepper can help with their sinuses''

He smelled the slight spice in the air at her mention of it. “Harriet isn’t the biggest fan of pepper” he pointed out

“Which is why we’re not tellin’ her, and you’re helping me with it”

Well, he understood the logic there.

She filled two small bowls with the broth and handed one to him, along with a spoon

“M’lord, if I may..” Cecilia started

“As if i could ever stop you” he responded with a slight smirk. She smiled back.

“I know y’r worried about them” She continued “Morgan says you’re never sittin’ at your desk when she goes to you.”

“Well of course I’m worried” He argued “They’re just children. The flu is… well, it’s dangerous for everyone”

Cecilia gave him a knowing smile “Allow yourself the luxury of caring for them, Lord Lukas” She advised “You’ll feel better if you do”

A bit confused by her wise words, he didn’t get a chance to ask what she meant before she turned around and started for the double doors to the dining room - a more direct route to the girl’s room.

When they arrived, the only light was coming from half an open window. Harriet was half in-half out of the sheets, sleeping with her mouth open, a slight wheeze to her snore. Beatriz, meanwhile, was awake and staring at the ceiling, looking as if she hadn’t slept in days, despite the flu only hitting her this morning

“Hey there” Cecilia started, keeping her voice soft. Little Bow turned her head, raising her hand and waving a little bit. “How ya feeling?”

Bow’s expression - a slightly disgusted one - told the adults all they needed to know.

“Think you can drink some broth? You need to have somethin’ in your stomach. Doc Bonnie says its important” Cici explained “M’lord, can ye wake Harriet an’ see if she’ll have the broth?”

Lukas nodded, and placed the bowl on the side table, sitting carefully at the edge of the bed and cautiously reaching to her forehead, wiping her bangs away from her eyes. God, she was still burning up. He suppressed his worry once again, and quietly spoke

“Harriet? Can you wake up?” He requested, his hand going to her shoulder to shake her slightly.

She shifted, and stopped snoring, her eyes taking their time to open, she groaned a bit as she looked at him “Huh..?”

“Hello there, little fool” He brushed her hair back again “How are you feeling?”

She pouted, and responded with a pitiful whine, covering her eyes with her arm.

He chuckled a little “I know how that feels” he grabbed the broth “Are you able to sit up?”

Her eyes were watery, but she nodded and managed to sit up straight “M-m’cold…”

He frowned “I know you feel that way” He comforted, “Cecilia made you and Beatriz some warm broth to help” He glanced at Bow, watching Cici help Bow’s slightly shaking hands so that she didn’t spill.

He decided to copy her, and while Hattie still looked miserable, she did drink the broth. It spilled a bit, but he diligently used his kerchief to wipe her face.

“Does that feel better?” He asked, glancing at Bow, who was laying back down, and nodded at him. “Hattie?”

The girl just sniffled, leaning forward into his arm and groaning again. He chuckled just a little “I know, I know” he consoled, pulling her off and rubbing her arms “You’ll feel better soon”

She reached and grabbed his sleeve, tugging at it “C-can.. Stay..?”

He blinked “.. Stay?”

Bow turned on her side, looking half awake as Cici grabbed the now empty bowls. “... I’s lonely here” She admitted

The man blinked, his brain trying to catch up to the melty feeling going on in his chest.

Hattie’s hand gripped his sleeve a little tighter.

He took in a deep breath, and wiped at Hattie’s forehead again.

“I’ll be back” he told her, and watched as she let go of his sleeve, disappointment painting her features. “It’s okay.. I’ll be back”

He stood quickly, walking out of the room only to be stopped by Cici right outside the door, who was glaring at him with a disappointed frown.

“What are you doin’ Master Arelius?” She stared him down.

He didn’t respond at first, recalling what she’d said to him earlier

‘Give yourself the luxury of caring for them’

Well… He wasn’t getting any work done anyway.

“... Have my appointments cancelled” He announced to her, his head finally catching up to his heart.

“Shall I have Markus called in, Master?”

“... Yes”

She finally gives him a smile. “Hurry yourself then. Those girls need you”

Lukas nodded, determination set into his face and turning on his heel toward his own room.

He’d only be a minute

He returned to the girls room after a few minutes - seeing that Bow and Hattie were back to staring at the ceiling. A guilty feeling settling in his chest.

Enough, enough. You’re here now. Don’t linger on how long it took you.

He carefully came up to the side of the bed, Harriet catching his figure and looking up at him. She blinked tiredly, but reached out for him almost immediately.

Not hesitating, he reached back and pulled her up against him. Her feverish forehead pressed against his collarbone, and she let out a relieved sigh - his body running cold seeming to be a blessing for once.

Beatriz watched with some confusion in her eyes - she was seemingly much more aware than Harriet was.

Shifting Harriet over to one arm, he reached out to her with a questioning expression, keeping his voice calm and quiet.

“I’m not going anywhere”

That seemed to be exactly what she needed to hear, and she crawled herself out of the bed sheets and clung onto him like a koala, muttering a ‘thank you’ into his shirt as his arm when around her.

It took a little… finagling, but he eventually ended up in the middle of the bed, with Harriet on his right, and Beatriz on his left, the two girls curled up against him, Bow finally seeming relaxed enough to actually sleep. Harriet meanwhile, was about half awake, her breath wheezing slightly from her poor little respiratory system.

His hand gently rubbed her back “how are you feeling?” he whispered “Do you want some water?”

She shook her head, sniffling “..Why’r you here? Aren’t you- busy?” She asked, looking up at him with her tired eyes.

He let out a breath before answering “Because you and Bow need me” He answered succinctly “And you two are more important than a few letters and appointments. Those things can wait”

Her tired expression seemed surprised, but then it melted into an exhausted, but unmistakably happy smile as she readjusted herself to be more comfortable.

“Mmh… Mist’r Conners is right” She muttered, finally seeming to start to fall asleep. “Y’r a good papa..”

Just as her eyes closed, his heart stopped for a moment, before it started thudding in his chest.

Papa

Father. She said that he was a good… Father

His heart nearly overwhelmed him,and his vision blurred. He held the girls a little tighter

“.. Papa, huh?” he whispered, taking in a deep breath.

Those papers at the corner of his desk needed mailing as soon as they were recovered, then.

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tams-writeblr · 4 years ago

Text

Once I’m gone

Rating: M(ature)

Warnings: major character death

Category: F/M (main couple), Multi (side characters)

Fandom: Attack on Titan / Shingeki no Kyojin

Relationship: Mikasa Ackermann / Eren Jaeger | various side couples

Characters: Eren Jaeger, Mikasa Ackermann, Armin Arlelt, Zeke Jaeger, Hange Zoe, Floch Forster, Ymir, Reiner Braun, Pieck Finger, Historia Reiss, several others will make a cameo

Additional Tags: Modern AU | established relationship | toxic behaviour | Eren suffers from Huntington’s disease and tries to settle his matters before he dies | suicial blockhead Eren | aged up characters (by ten years) | suicide tw | depression tw | mental diseases tw | deathly diseases tw | this is clearly not write what you know, but I’m giving my very best to representate the topics as good as I can | this all basically came to me as a fever dream | you remember Thirteen from House, M.D.? I still have a huge crush on her so this version of Eren is greatly inspired by her <3

Language: English (not native, I’m trying my best you guys)

Stats: ongoing - Chapter 1/15 - Part 2/4 - 1507 of 3652 words

Summary: Eren Jaeger knew for years that he inherited Huntington’s disease from his late mother. When he first notices symptoms on him, his long protected plan, to end his life before reaching the critical state of his illness, awakes. But there is still Mikasa, his girlfriend and the only person in the world he cares about more than about himself, and he can’t leave her alone and grieving. It’s time to find a substitute for when Eren is gone. With the help of a new friend Eren tries to scare away Mikasa while driving her into the arms of someone new.

__________________________________________________

Charlatans and Pills - Part 2/4

<<previous

“Hey Mama”, the small, dark haired boy said and pulled his hand towards the woman that sat sunk down on an uncomfortable looking chair.

She didn’t directly look at him, only giving his pulled out hand a small, arbitrary glance and looked up towards the man, standing behind Eren.

“But Carla, Dear”, Eren's father said with a cheerful tone. “Shake at least our Eren’s hand. Aren’t you happy that we are visiting you?”

A thin lipped smile crawled over Carla’s face and her light brown eyes finally found Eren’s glance. “Eren”, she sighed recognizing and rather than just taking his hand, she slipped down her chair and tightly hugged him.

Tighter than Eren would have liked it. He looked up to his father, seeking help, insecure how to behave. She still was his mother, the one that always loved him and guessed every wish from his eyes.

Eren had found out that she was sick, three years ago. Back then they also told him, he eventually would get the same sickness. She often dropped things and so she did on his eleventh birthday with a knife to cut his cake. It fell right on her foot and she had to go to the hospital. After this incident, she never returned to her old self. She behaved strangely ever so often, screaming at his dad for obviously no reason.

But the strangest was when Eren came home from school one day. His father was still at work, he had a small practice in the middle of town, and usually a delicious lunch was waiting for him when he returned home from school. But on this day nothing smelled nice through the house, on the contrary it stank horribly of burned food and everything was full with smoke. Eren found his mother in the upstairs bathroom, her hands were dripping with blood, he had found shards in the kitchen.

“What do you want?”, his mother screamed and held her blood stained hands in front of her face. “Get out! I have to hide from the smoke!”

Puzzled Eren neared his mother. “But Mama, you have to turn off the oven or else whatever's on there will burn even more. Did you cut yourself? Do you need a bandaid?”

“Get our!”, Carla yelled again. “Who the hell are you, how did you get into my house?”

Helpless tears wobbled out of big, green child’s eyes. “Mama”, he whined and ducked away under a roll of toilet paper his mother threw at him. Desperately the boy backed out of the bathroom and ran back to the kitchen where he pulled all knobs of the oven until the red control light went off, then he remembered what his father always had hammered inside his little head: to call him at work, when something was wrong with Mum.

“The number is pinned on the fridge”, he had told him again and again. “I’ll be with you within 15 minutes.” If not at this moment, when should he bother his father at work? Quickly the boy looked for the phone around the smoke filled house, luckily he found it in the living room and not like so often in his parents bedroom. He wouldn’t have dared to walk past the upper bathroom in which he still suspected his mother.

His father indeed arrived within minutes. He found Carla beneath the toilet, sunk down and asleep and immediately called an ambulance. “I’m so sorry”, he murmured again and again while pressing the sobbing and crying Eren against him. “You’ll never have to be alone with her again. Everything will be alright.”

His mother didn’t return home after this incident. His father explained to him that she would now live somewhere, where people could look after her more appropriately. There no knife would fall on her food ever again and she wouldn’t burn any more pans.

But Eren found the place where they brought her simply terrifying. There were only old people. Not old people like his father but really old, probably older than his grandparents. It always smelled strangely and scary sounds came from some chambers.

Eren curled out of his mother’s embrace and his father came to help him.

“There, there Carla, not so fiercely”, he laughed and directed her gently back towards her chair. Then he took place across from her and placed a hand on her knee. “Well my Dear, how are you feeling today?”

Carla looked at him for a long time with a stoic face. At that her left arm twitched permanently. It hit against her thigh and the seating of the chair.

Eren watched the movement hypnotized and flinched when his mother took a deep, loud breath.

“Grisha”, she said with unmistakable joy in her voice. her twitching arm raised and her hand landed accurately on her husband’s. A smile crept towards her lips. “My Dear…” Suddenly she was once again his mother, the pretty woman with light brown eyes and dark hair, sun kissed skin and the most beautiful smile in the world.

Eren felt lighter than before and placed his small child’s hand above his mother’s. She only looked at him briefly, out of the corner of her eyes, before taxing Grisha again. The three of them stayed like this for a while in total silence. Only a far away, old and male voice asked when it was finally time for dinner.

The clearing of a throat crushed the family idly and Eren and his mother heavily flinched.

Carla’s head shot high to look at the creator of the noice’s face. Her own one suddenly started to twitch wildly.

“Mr. Jäger, can I please talk to you for a moment?”, a man in a white coat said. From his father Eren knew that doctors dressed like that.

Grisha got up and agreed with a dark look on his face. “Eren, sit down for so long. I’ll be right back.”

“You are a doctor?”, Eren heard the other man ask when he walked away with his father. The latter didn’t answer, maybe he had only nodded. “Then you must know about the condition your wife is in.”

Eren couldn’t hear more from the conversation. But from the look on his mother’s face, he could tell that her glance followed them.

He didn’t want to turn out like her. What was that for a life? Eren still couldn’t quite understand what was wrong with his mother, but he knew she always forgot things, sometimes even him or his father and that she always flapped around her arms. He didn’t want that, especially not the thing with forgetting. Carefully he took her hand between both of his. “I’m not gonna forget you, Mama”, he said tenderly and patted her hand that was gaunt and wiry. “I promise.”

Carla looked at her boy dumbfounded before pulling her eyebrows into a painful grimace. “Oh Eren, my little baby,” she cried and thick tears wobbled out of her eyes. Fragile and smaller as he remembered her she sat on that horribly uncomfortable chair, her hand between the small palms of her son.

Scared by her sudden burst of emotion Eren pulled his hands away. Two faces, so similar to each other that everyone would see their connection, looked at each other with a mixture of horror and hurt.

When his father returned, Eren asked him to leave.

“Come back soon!”, he heard his mother say softly when Grisha leaned down to her and kissed her.

He promised they would, of course he did. And of course they kept their promise. Eren couldn’t say how many hours of his youth he had spent in that foster home that cared for his mother. The doctors and nurses there did a wonderful job, they deeply cared for his mother, who visibly crumpled infront of her small family’s eyes. She got thinner and thinner and ever more erratic. Until she neither recognized Grisha nor Eren. Sometimes she remembered to have a son called Eren but in her memory he was still a ten-years-old that had broken his arm while wrestling with his friends. That the handsome young man infront of her was her small Eren, she wouldn’t get the idea despite their striking resemblance.

Finally her spasticies became so bad that it became too dangerous to let her eat solid food and she got a feeding tube. From this moment on, things went continuously down hill for Carla Jäger, whose husband was a doctor himself who slowly broke down by looking at her.

Almost exactly ten years after moving to the foster home and a little over 13 years after her diagnosis Carla died on a stormy fall evening. She hadn’t seen her son in four month, he just couldn’t take it anymore.

But losing his mother had broken something deep inside of Eren. Now a full grown man, he knew which fate his mother had handed down to him. But he also knew back than, how he would be reacting towards it, when his time came.

>>next

__________________________________________________

Author’s Note: Hey, thank you for coming back to me! I hope you don’t mind when long flashbacks like this are all in Italics, I know they can be hard to read. Just for Context: Carla was 30 when she had Eren in this story and she dies at 51. Can’t have a main character without a tragic family backstory, can we? See you for the next part!

#attack on titan fanfiction #aot ff #eremika #eren jaeger #carla jaeger #grisha jaeger #once i'm gone #once i'm gone chap 1 #once i'm gone chap 1 part 2 #eren jaeger x mikasa ackerman #grisha jaeger x carla jaeger #writers on tumblr #fanfiction on tumblr #fanfiction #fanfic #writing

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atinytokki · 4 years ago

Text

Distant Daylight

vii. On the Streets

Harsh winds gusted down from the mountains and Yunho could feel them in his bones.

Everything was sore from walking and carrying his entire life with him, but his numb fingers were locked around Gunho, even as his weight seemed to grow more and more with every step.

He wasn’t sure where he was going, but he knew which path led back to town so he pushed forward with everything inside him. The night was deepening and the winds were growing colder, and even the claw-like branches of empty trees against the pale moon did their best to stop Yunho in his tracks.

“I’m freezing,” Gunho sniffled pathetically into his shoulder. He sounded much younger than he was and the sickness had ruined his voice, making him difficult to hear.

“I know,” Yunho told him, lying easily just to help him hold on a bit longer. “We’re almost there.”

He had no idea how close they were.

Eventually, the trees surrounding them became more familiar and an identifiable landmark appeared on the horizon.

A marking stone, one that indicated an intersection.

“Home is this way,” Yunho said aloud, hoping for a response to let him know Gunho was awake, but nothing came.

Unsure where else to go, he made his way across the fields to the street where he knew their old estate still stood, owned by the King and repurposed as whatever he used it for.

The town was quiet, even more hushed and closed down than it usually was at night, but a few lights were on in the windows, including the window Yunho used to gaze out of in his bedroom.

Clearly the house was bigger now and more ornate, with a scary looking gate in front. Sighing and redistributing Gunho’s weight, he walked through it and up to the door and knocked.

A frazzled looking woman opened the doors a few moments later and blinked at them in surprise. “Children?” She remarked, glancing past them down the street. “Where are your parents?”

“We need help,” Yunho said quickly, veering away from that question. If he answered honestly, they’d end up right back at the orphanage. “It’s very cold, could we come in and speak to whoever is in charge?”

Convinced by his professionalism beyond his years and the little boy passed out on his back, the woman let Yunho through and instructed him to sit on some floor cushions in the waiting area, where he lay Gunho down next to him.

The interior of the house was completely different. It seemed like everything homey and warm had been replaced from the floors to the colour of the walls to the furniture to the layout of the rooms.

With surprise, as Yunho read the signs above the doors, he began to realise what the place had become.

“They turned our house into a government building?” Gunho’s voice cracked as he turned his head around and squinted at their surroundings.

“You’re awake!” Yunho gasped, a bit too loudly for the formal space and sleepy adults scattered throughout various rooms.

“Excuse me,” a man’s sharp voice reached them from the end of the hall where he and the woman from before stood, staring at them. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“My brother is sick,” Yunho began to explain, getting to his feet and bowing respectfully though Gunho was still too drowsy to follow his lead.

This man was a council official of some kind and it would be a bad idea to offend him.

“We just need somewhere to stay while he recovers, and there was a maid here once named Jaein who promised to help us, so I was wondering if—”

“Don’t come any closer!” The man cautioned with an outstretched hand. “You say the boy is ill? What are his symptoms? I’m sure you’re aware that disease is spreading like wildfire through So-ai.”

“Well, yes,” Yunho stuttered nervously. “He caught some type of sickness and he’s feverish, but no one else will help him...”

“I’m sorry, but you must leave at once,” the official told him immediately. “We will not risk the plague’s spread in the magistrate’s office.”

Yunho’s frustration doubled and he walked closer, appealing to the woman who had been sympathetic earlier. “Please, we don’t know where else to go, can’t you at least tell us where Jaein went?”

“Visit the medicine man in upper Hagilsan,” she sighed, glancing at the apprehensive official as if communicating silently. “He has herbs that may help your brother.”

“And Jaein, I believe, moved to the archipelago,” the man followed up briskly. “Now, you have your answers, please vacate the premises. Without touching anything.”

Yunho obeyed after several bows of thanks and scooped up a drifting Gunho as well as the single bag they’d brought with them, venturing out into the cold again and looking for somewhere to regroup.

The best they could do was an alleyway behind a teahouse where the greenery at least provided some shelter from the winds.

“Remember that time we came here with Mother and Father?” Yunho asked, trying to keep Gunho awake and aware. “And you got lost in the topiary garden?”

Gunho hummed in acknowledgement, eyes cracked just enough to take in his surroundings.

“I need to find the medicine man first, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to bring you along,” Yunho finally sighed, laying out the single blanket he’d stolen when he stole his sick brother from the orphanage and lowering Gunho onto it.

“But I—”

“You’ll be just fine, I promise,” Yunho insisted through the huskiness in his voice. “Just stay here and stay warm, alright?”

Gunho’s eyes shone with fear for himself and his brother, but he nodded regretfully and curled up into a ball. The steam coming through the window eased his tension, and his eyes began to drift shut again.

Knowing it would tempt him to stay the longer he lingered, Yunho made his way back out through the alley and turned northwest to the hills.

Dawn was streaking the sky with greyish strands by the time he reached the hut, exhausted and shivering uncontrollably.

The “closed for business, out of medicine” sign on the door made Yunho’s heart stop for a moment but a candle was on inside and he knew the man could hear him.

“Please, I need help!” He screamed, pounding his fists on the rickety door. “I know you’re in there, please let me in and listen to me!”

The attempts went on for some time before Yunho stepped back and peered into the covered window where the light of the candle was leaking out.

Sure enough, a doctor was there at the table, an empty plate in front of him and his head in his hands.

Angrily, Yunho knocked on the glass and repeated his pleas to no avail. It was if the medicine man simply did not want to hear.

Just like the caretakers at the orphanage and the adults at the office, they would rather allow children to die en masse than put themselves at risk.

A wave of hopelessness crashed over him and he could only stumble away, outraged, and look for something to break in with.

As Yunho’s eyes fell on a large rock in the man’s extensive garden, he noticed a few other items of interest as well.

“Herbs...”

They were the type that could heal if mixed correctly, and while Yunho didn’t know the first thing about herbal remedies, Gunho had always been interested in plants.

Climbing over the fence and hurriedly pocketing two of every type of plant he found, Yunho worked quickly and turned back to the mountain path, aiming to arrive at the teahouse before the sun broke through the bushes and woke Gunho.

The sky was lighter on his return, but thankfully Gunho was breathing and mercifully asleep. Yunho gently rubbed his back until he came to, not saying a word as his brother first fed him some bread and then pulled bunches of herbs and roots out of his pockets and held them out.

“Gunho, do you recognise any of these? Do you think any could bring down your fever?”

The younger boy frowned in thought and looked more closely before gasping and taking a few in his own hands. “This ginger... you could make a tea out of it and some honeysuckle and perhaps elderflower... or you could try a soup of the garlic and coriander seeds. If only we had bone broth or cinnamon bark.”

“Just tell me what to do,” Yunho said with a comforting smile, immediately grateful they had chosen to seek shelter behind a teahouse of all places. Gunho didn’t chide him as he broke in through the window and snatched a few more supplies and key ingredients.

Gunho was growing tired again, instructing Yunho how to make remedies and drinking them despite the bitter taste.

“It’s alright, just sleep,” his older brother soothed, placing a towel soaked in rice water on his forehead. There were signs of activity in the rooms above the teahouse, so it would be best to stay quiet for awhile and hope they weren’t discovered and sent away.

Yunho had no more faith in the adults of So-ai.

He slept on and off that first day, eating no more than a few nibbles of bread smeared with a paste he made from the herbs Gunho didn’t need. All he could do was wait for the fever to break and hope the shop owner wouldn’t notice a few missing bowls and his pestle.

The second day, Gunho seemed to be doing better, but the unbridled cold was taking its toll on both of them and Yunho began to feel under the weather.

While Gunho focused on making more medicine, Yunho took to the streets to busy himself, digging through the garbage collected behind houses and shops, picking up the spare ratty blanket previously belonging to a sick person and any food that wasn’t spoiled.

On the third day, Gunho could walk and move around with some support, and it was time for the two of them to embrace the street life or make a plan.

There was one place the military hadn’t touched, where access was still available to all, so the brothers took the familiar walk to the university library, ducking their heads so the attendant wouldn’t recognise them, and holed up in the map section to find the archipelago.

“Remember when Father taught here?” Yunho commented quietly as he pulled atlases off a shelf, trying to cheer Gunho up. “He would let us play in his office as long as we didn’t break anything, and you always liked watching the students in the courtyard.”

Gunho nodded absently and flipped pages until reaching the eastern coast.

“Look how far away it is!” He groaned, falling back onto the carpet and covering his face with his hands. “We’ll never be able to walk there.”

Yunho took a closer look at all the marked routes and scratched his head. “I imagine most people ride horseback or drive carriages. If we want to take the safer main roads we’ll have to travel east to this city, Panhang, and from there follow the shoreline south until we can take a boat from Kon to the islands.”

He was very proud of his correct interpretation of the map, but his brother immediately started poking holes in his suggestion.

“But that doesn’t even tell us where Miss Jaein is,” Gunho whined from the floor. “It could be any of the nine islands with villages.”

“One problem a time,” Yunho said firmly, sitting back on his heels and formulating a plan. “We need money to travel. Even if we sneak into a caravan, we’ll have to pay for the boat and our food will run out soon. I hate to say it, but I don’t think we’re leaving So-ai for some time.”

Gunho lifted his head and eyed him carefully before sitting up and hugging his legs.

“I don’t want to steal,” he whispered, avoiding his gaze and staring intently at the map. “I know that’s the fastest way to get money, but I just can’t do it.”

He was still pure and untainted despite everything he had been through, and Yunho wanted to continue to protect him, to shelter him from those deeds.

“We’re too young to work for pay,” Yunho reminded him gently. “One of us has to steal.”

Suddenly, he remembered Sangwoo’s words back at the orphanage. Gunho had a baby face, he could use that to his advantage.

“How about this,” Yunho lowered his voice and moved closer. “You can take up a street corner and ask passersby for food and coins. There aren’t many beggars here, which means less competition, so I’m willing to bet it will work.”

“But I’m just a child,” Gunho pointed out. “What if they try to take me to the orphanage?”

“Tell them your parents are sick and unable to work,” Yunho supplied quickly, taking Gunho’s face in his hands and running a thumb over the lingering rash wounds on his cheeks. “Show them these scars and emphasise the fact that you recovered and are now the sole breadwinner, and it will work, I’m sure if it.”

Before Gunho could answer, the library attendant approached them, hands folded and eyes vacant behind his spectacles.

“I’m sorry, but we’re closing. All visitors must exit.”

Yunho drew back and held up the atlas. “Can we take this map?”

The man sighed and reached out to take it from him. “No, I’m sorry, without proof of enrolment in the university—”

“But our father used to work here!” Gunho interrupted before the attendant could get his hands on the book. “I’m sure you recognise us, we used to be here all the time!”

The man hesitated and then relaxed.

Already Gunho’s charms were paying off.

“Very well, I’ll loan it to you until next week, but a class comes in during the mornings so I’ll need it returned. Understood?”

Like perfect little angels, they nodded and skipped out of the library, taking the atlas with no intention of giving it back.

Without the warmth of the building protecting them, they could only leech off any steam that escaped the teahouse and attempt to make small fires of their own.

They snuggled up and shared body heat through the night, but while Gunho’s lingering exhaustion granted him sleep, Yunho could only lay awake and watch the stars, worrying that an early winter would put a damper on their progress.

There was no time to lose, so as soon as the birds were stirring Yunho shook his brother awake and prepared a quick meal of broth for both of them, hiding the bowls and any remains of the fire in the garden with their blanket and setting up shop near the treasury.

“Let’s hope several sympathetic rich people come by today,” Yunho tried to joke, rubbing Gunho’s arms comfortingly when he shivered and rubbed his nose. “I’ll be out looking for food and things to sell, alright? If anything goes wrong, meet me at the teahouse.”

And quickly, they eased into a routine. Gunho would change spots every few days, begging outside the government building and the university during the week and then moving to the town square in the busy mealtime hours. He was reluctant but smart about his tactics, unafraid to put on a show and act younger than he was.

Steadily but slowly, he collected coins for their travel fund, while Yunho watched the street like a hawk, memorising the residents’ schedules and sneaking in when their houses were empty. He tried to steal food from those with excess who wouldn’t notice anything was missing, but two weeks into his new day job, it was becoming difficult to find enough to provide for them.

Dinner was a measly slice of bread, torn in half and shared between them, and partially rotten fruit Yunho gave to Gunho.

“Is it enough yet?” Gunho asked hopefully as he handed over the day’s earnings.

“No,” Yunho told him honestly. “But we’re getting closer,” he encouraged quickly, trying to boost morale. Gunho didn’t need to know how far they still were from their goal.

“I’m still hungry.”

“Well, this is all we have today,” Yunho sighed. “It’s more important that we find water, so I wasn’t able to get much food.”

Gunho shivered again and nodded, laying down without another word and stroking the music box longingly. They couldn’t play it or the teahouse owner might hear.

The crunchy leaves they used as pillows were crumbling into dust, and Yunho knew what that meant.

We have to get out of here before the snows arrive.

Yunho had hit almost every house on the street before realising his method wasn’t sustainable. Sooner or later they would be discovered and blamed for the disappearance of certain foods and valuable items, even if they stayed away during the daytime.

Even the gracious gentlemen Gunho typically swindled would wonder why his worn nightgown still hadn’t been replaced with a shirt and trousers and where his supposedly sick parents were, since by now they should be dead or recovered.

While at the pawn shop selling a nice watch he had pickpocketed, another idea dawned on Yunho.

A faded deck of cards was tucked away into a corner with some other game pieces and before he handed over his goods, he pointed to it and asked how much it was worth.

“Five silvers,” the shopkeeper decided after humming in thought for a moment.

“I’ll trade three for it,” Yunho bartered back, and the man gave in quickly, not really desiring to hold on to the shrivelled deck.

Excited, Yunho passed over the coins and saved the watch for the card tables. He needed to learn every possible gamble and learn it well if he wanted his income to double— maybe even triple— without losing any money or valuables.

He sat in the tavern by the fire for as long as he could before the bar maid sent him away, observing the games that went on there and catching every trick the locals used.

He may not have paid much attention in school, but he was clever when his situation drove him to adapt, and by the arrival of the first snow he was ready to play.

Yunho approached a table of slightly inebriated university students and joined the game, putting the watch and a good chunk of the week’s silver into the pot.

In a scam he formulated by watching the rice field workers, he feigned defeat and got all three of his opponents to bet a significant amount before losing it all the moment he revealed his trump.

The students were shocked, but Yunho made off with their money before they could question it.

Feeling bad that he played games in the tavern while his brother begged in the snow, he hurried back to the teahouse and proudly displayed his earnings, handing over his coat and extra blanket and rubbing feeling back into Gunho’s limbs. His brother needed them more than he did.

“And it’s not even stealing!” He whispered excitedly. “They willingly handed it all over because they knew they’d been beat. You should come to the tavern tomorrow, I’ll show you some tricks and then we can both be making ludicrous amounts of money!”

Shyly, Gunho nodded before snuggling up as usual and watching the fire die down.

He’d been quieter than usual the past few weeks, and Yunho thought he knew why.

At least in the orphanage they’d been fed and clothed and sheltered from the cold. Now they could only dig holes in the snow and hope against hope that someone out there actually wanted them.

If Jaein said no, everything was pointless.

Yunho fought back tears and pulled his brother close. It was like hugging a sniffling ice block.

“We’ll be out of here soon, I promise.”

And Yunho didn’t break his promises.

When the weekend arrived, so did the wealthy customers, looking to unwind in the tavern and maybe bring home a few extra silvers.

For Yunho, the matter was a bit more life and death.

He managed to slip into a seat at a table of store owners, one of whom he recognised to be the teahouse owner. The man didn’t seem to know him, so he exhaled in relief before gambling away money he’d earned by selling some of the man’s own items.

Yunho put almost everything he had in the pot. If he lost, it would set them back until mid-spring, he knew, but if he won...

If he won, they could be out of there by tonight.

Anticipating his opponents’ moves and carefully calculating his own, Yunho again let them think they were winning before falling back on his favourite trick only to discover he’d been beaten at his own game.

The teahouse owner took the pot.

Yunho froze in his seat. It couldn’t end like this, he couldn’t let the man leave with all that money, everything he and Gunho worked for.

How could he face Gunho if he lost?

When the man finished the last drops of his drink and rose to return home, Yunho excused himself and made for the exit.

He knew the path the man would take and he knew a better shortcut.

Enraged, with hunger in his sunken eyes and hands itching for silver, Yunho waited in the shadows with a rock clutched in his sullied hand.

He was taking it all back.

The man didn’t know what hit him, slumping to the ground with a minor head wound and staying there while Yunho collected the entire bag of gold and rushed to the teahouse to collect Gunho.

While he shoved blankets and food into their shared bag, Yunho mapped out the fastest way to the coast and tried to consolidate their meagre belongings.

Gunho insisted on returning the cups and bowls to the teahouse owner, making him a pot of headache healing tea for good measure, and joined him as they sprinted through the night to the outpost at the main road.

It took until the moon was high, but a cart on its way to Panhang finally ambled down from the town in time for them to board it.

As he lifted Gunho up into the hay, Yunho caught sight of the beaming smile on his face and felt his own heart soar.

They were finally leaving So-ai, and soon the snow blowing through their hair would be far behind them.

It was a moment worth reliving.

And for one hopeful second, he had completely forgotten they were orphans.

...

A/N: Well it’s been awhile but coincidentally you get a super long chapter to make up for it, since there wasn’t really a good place to split it. Let me know your comments/ predictions and have a great day!

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pressedinthepages · 4 years ago

Text

Ashwagandha

noun. sanskrit. Also known as “Indian gensing,” ashwagandha is popular with herbalists for use as both a sedative, an anti-inflammatory aid, and an aphrodisiac.

Fandom: The Witcher

Pairing: Jaskier/Reader

Word Count: 2504

Rating: E

Masterlist

a/n: Reader Request: [Hello! First of all: I really, really love your writing, it's so good! Could you write a oneshot where the reader helped Jaskier after a bad injury and although they are friends and the reader helped gladly, Jaskier insists to return the favor in a special kind of way, aka fingering/going down on her, while they lay side by side? :3] oh my dear sweet nonnie, i love how your mind works

(There is a link on my page where you can be added to my taglist :D)

Warnings: smut, a bit of whump, hurt, comfort, oral sex

Jaskier finds a way to thank a talented healer after a bout of illness.

The scent of sage, mint, and coriander wafts through your home. Winter approaches, and this blend of herbs tends to be the most successful in staving off sickness that comes with it. You have laid out numerous little bottles, intent on filling your stocks for the coming months. The herbs are fine between your fingers as you sprinkle them into each glass. You top them all off with a high-quality spirit, having recently had a very generous dwarf trade with you for the recipe for your remedy for headaches.

Just as you put the stopper in the final bottle your door swings open, revealing a man flushed with sweat and a delirious look in his eyes. Not far behind him is another man, a bit taller and more than a bit broader, clad in armor with two swords strung across his back. The silver of his hair stands out in the earthy tones of your home, and the panic in his golden eyes fades, relief softening his features when you turn to them.

You recognize Geralt, having traded with him several times in the past whenever he would blow through town. His companion, though, is unfamiliar. You figure that he would be devastatingly handsome under better circumstances, chestnut brown hair sweeping just over eyes the color of a clear sky. Now though, he looks horrible, your chest tightening with worry as it does with every person who stumbles through your door.

You rush to their side, fitting your shoulder underneath the other man’s arm as you lead him to the cot along the wall of the room. You lay him down before setting to work, quiet as you focus on what you may need.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with him, his heart started beating quickly and then he just collapsed. I brought him straight here, I don’t know how else to help him,” Geralt sits in one of the chairs at your table, his figure almost comically large for the furniture.

“You’ve done the right thing, I think this is just the seasonal funk that hits this time of year. I was actually just making a little tincture for it.” You hum, grabbing one of the bottles and uncorking it. You sit on the edge of the cot, gently lifting the man’s head and tipping the medicine down his throat. He swallows, followed by a bout of aggressive coughing before falling back onto the pillow. His eyes fall closed as his breathing evens out, slow and steady as you stand.

“He wasn’t coughing before,” Geralt says, moving to crouch at his side. You smile a bit to yourself, glad that Geralt has found someone that he can trust and care for.

“It’s just the potion I gave him, it’s got a pretty strong spirit that tends to hit the back of the throat. He’ll be just fine in a couple of days.”

Geralt visibly relaxes, his head falling to his chest for a moment. He then rises, pulling a small coin pouch from his waist. He holds it out to you, but you shake your head and push his hand away.

“No, Geralt, I’ll not take your coin for helping your friend,” he smirks at the word, shaking his head as he moves towards the door.

“I saw a few contracts on the board in town, do you mind if he stays here while I work?” Geralt turns back to you, trusting you to take care of his companion.

“Of course Geralt, do be careful though,” you smile, straightening up the counter where you had been working earlier. “Actually, would you mind doing a favor for me while you’re out?”

He only hums, quirking an eyebrow.

“Coriander grows wild in the forests near here, would you mind picking some for me? That’s what really helps the fever.” You take the little bit that you have left and hold it up, showing it to the Witcher. You then tie a little string around the leaves and hang them from the ceiling to dry.

“Easy enough, but it’ll probably be a couple of days before I can get back here,” his voice always comforts you, low and gravelly. You think that if he wasn’t so emotionally constipated he would make for a good bed partner.

“That’s perfectly fine, Geralt. There’s no real rush, I have enough here for what I may need in the immediate future.”

He nods before turning to leave, closing the door gently behind him. You look over at the man laying on your cot, watching as his chest rises and falls with each breath.

You startle when your door suddenly opens once more, Geralt peeking back in. “Forgot to tell you, his name’s Jaskier. Not that he’d let you have a moment of silence when he wakes up, but he may very well forget to actually tell you.”

He leaves once more, leaving you shaking your head with a smile. You go to sit at Jaskier’s side, placing the back of your hand against his forehead. His fever has already started to wane, and he’s not quite as clammy as he was when he arrived.

“You’ll be just fine, Jaskier,” you whisper, brushing some of the hair out of his eyes as you let the calming scent of the herbs surround you once more.

…

After several days of healing, Jaskier looks much better. He has been a great help to you as well, seemingly unable to stay still if he’s awake. Within the first moments of him waking on the first night, he had attempted to woo you into the bed with him, called out for Geralt more than a few times, and almost hit his head when he tried to stand, looking for his lute. His knees had wobbled with the sudden change and he just barely caught himself on the edge of the bed.

Leave it to Geralt to stick you with a chaotic mess of a bard.

You couldn’t help but find him charming as you got to know him, especially since he seemed so keen to assist you in your daily chores. He turned out to be quite efficient at grinding herbs, which he said that Geralt would occasionally let him do in the evenings by a raging fire.

Now, he sits at your table, barefoot and clad in only a light chemise and a pair of navy blue trousers. Jaskier has a large array of bottles spread out in front of him, attempting to find corks that fit in them. It’s a bit shocking how quickly he can find a properly sized cork, it usually takes you hours of trial and error to get them finished and ready to be filled.

You slide up beside him, gently tilting his face to you with a careful touch of your fingers at his jaw. He looks up at you with those beautiful blue eyes, darting between your own and sizzling with energy that runs just beneath the surface. You place the back of your hand to his forehead, checking that the fever has finished running its course.

“How are you feeling? Still a bit tired?”

“Oh for you, darling? I would never tire, maybe only occasionally request a small water break.” Jaskier smirks up at you, abandoning the small basket that had been sitting in his lap.

“Jaskier,” you chide, unable to hide the smile that pulls your lips, “please be reasonable with me.”

“Hmm, and what do I get in return?” You feel his hand run along the length of your arm and down to your waist, pulling you just a bit closer to him.

“Depends on your answer,” you murmur, smoothing away an unruly bit of hair that had fallen into his eyes.

Jaskier huffs a bit, shaking his head before smiling back up at you. Your heart skips a beat at being on the receiving end of such clear adoration, even from a man you only just met.

“Fine, love, I’ll humor you,” the mischievous glint has returned to his eyes, and you’re sure that they never go very long without it. “I feel almost completely perfect, though I will say that I do still feel a bit run down.”

“Thank you, Jaskier,” his smile somehow grows wider at your thanks, visibly preening with even the slightest praise. “That’s expected, I’d say by tomorrow you should be well enough to continue on your travels with Geralt.”

“You truly are a marvel, my dear,” Jaskier turns to face you completely as he pulls you even closer, his face mere inches from your stomach. “I cannot possibly thank you enough for all that you’ve done for me.”

“Hmm, I’m sure you’ll think of a way,” you tease, your fingers dancing down the line of his neck. He visibly shivers with the touch, his eyes darkening with lust.

Jaskier brings his other hand to your waist, gripping you tightly and pulling you to sit astride him. You gasp at the strength with which he moves you, having greatly underestimated the capabilities of the man beneath you.

“Jaskier,” you whisper, a hair’s breadth away from his lips, “you’re still not fully well, I don’t want to hurt you.”

He only smiles, biting his lip as he brushes his nose against yours. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to come up with another way to show my thanks…”

You feel Jaskier’s hands trail down your hips, roving slowly over the curve of your ass before settling under your thighs. Faster than you can blink he stands, pulling you with him in his arms. You grasp tightly to the collar of his chemise as he walks you over to your bed in the corner of the room.

He sets you down gently before leaning over you, pushing you back to lay atop the quilt. His chest heaves a bit and the high points of his cheeks are a bit pink, but other than that you wouldn’t have been able to tell that he had just lifted and carried a grown woman across the room.

“My gods,” you whisper, running your hands down his chest, feeling the soft fabric of his shirt just under your fingers.

“Nope, just me,” Jaskier murmurs, leaning down to kiss along your neck. His mouth is warm and soft on your skin, and after only a moment you turn your head, chasing his lips with your own. When he finally slots your lips together you sigh into him, feeling like you can finally breathe after days of holding your breath. He still tastes faintly of the herby mixtures you’ve been giving him, and you find yourself winding your fingers into the fine silk of his hair.

Jaskier quickly undoes the ties at the top of your skirt, moaning as you lift your hips to his so he can remove the garment along with your smallclothes. His fingers bring goosebumps to the surface of your skin as he drags them along the outside of your bare thigh. Your legs fall a bit further open instinctually, inviting him to bring his touch to your core.

Instead, he parts from you, only enough to barely brush against you with each word from his lips. “Are you sure about this? I don’t want to push you into anything…”

“Please, Jaskier,” you whisper, pulling him back down to your lips. You feel him smile against you before he moves, kissing along your jaw and down the lines of your neck. He mouths at the peaks of your breasts through the fabric of your blouse, sliding down the slope of your stomach before settling himself between your legs, his face level with your heat.

“Just as stunning as I knew you’d be, love,” he hums as his finger slowly drags a line up the slit of your cunt, just barely circling the sensitive bud at the top. Your hips chase him, begging wordlessly for more, faster, slower, anything.

Jaskier slowly pushes his finger inside of you, turning his head to suck a mark into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. He hasn’t shaved since he’s been in your home, and his stubble scratches along your skin with every movement. Jaskier’s fingers move expertly with you, pushing a second finger to move beside the first as his thumb rubs lazy circles into your peak.

He moves his head to kiss up your thigh, closing the distance to your core. His mouth connects with your heat, licking a stripe up your cunt and sucking the tender spot where his thumb was. You look down and watch as Jaskier’s free hand moves underneath him, trying desperately to free himself from the confines of his trousers. When he succeeds his hand flies to your hip, holding you in place as his fingers take on a new vigor in your core.

They curl with every thrust, wringing wet, vulgar sounds from your body. Your mouth makes sounds of its own, moans and cries and pleas and curses, none of them bidden by any particular thought.

His fingers brush against a bundle of nerves deep inside of you, causing your back to arch off the bed and into his touch. He hums against you, vibrations singing through your veins as he thrusts relentlessly into that spot. Jaskier’s hips move of their own accord on the bed, chasing his own pleasure as he brings you yours.

Stars burst behind your eyelids as your fingers curl in his hair, holding him tight to you as your high takes over. You chant his name like a prayer into the night, praising any and all gods for bringing him into your life, even for just one moment.

Jaskier slowly works you through the peak of your pleasure, parting from you when you start to twitch with oversensitivity. He climbs back up your body, his cock resting heavy against your middle, flushed and weeping with how close he is to his own climax.

“Jaskier,” you mumble as he kisses deep into your mouth, “use me for your pleasure.”

He groans as his hips immediately begin their rhythm, fast and sloppy where he pushes against your flesh. His climax comes with a whisper of your name, warmth pooling between you with his release.

You hold Jaskier close as he comes back to himself, his eyes hazy and shiny with bliss. You roll the both of you to the side, leaving your arms around his neck as he nuzzles himself into your embrace.

“Okay love,” he murmurs, his eyes fighting to stay open, “now I really am exhausted.”

You chuckle, wrapping yourself around him as he quickly falls asleep in your arms. You know that he’ll be leaving as the sun rises the next day, but you’ll gladly hold him here for as long as you can.

And hopefully, he’ll know exactly where to return the next time he needs help.

#jaskier x reader #smut #whump #hurt #comfort

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meta-squash · 4 years ago

Text

Brick Club 1.5.10 “Outcome Of The Success”

It’s long, I’m sorry. There’s just so much in this chapter!

The chapter’s first paragraph is a description of the misery of winter weather, bookended by sentences about Fantine. It’s been nearly a year since she was fired. The bit about winter is a description of Fantine’s descent as well as the weather. Winter brings short days which means less work; Fantine’s position in society means she’s finding less work as well because she is essentially freelancing rather than working for an employer with steady jobs. “No heat, no light, no noon, evening touches morning” is such a good description of the way everything is miserable and just blurs together when you’re trying to just stay alive. All the awful stuff is sharp and dull at the same time. “Winter changes into stone the water of heaven and the heart of man.” Fantine is starting to harden here; we see her become more shameless, tougher.

Fantine wears a cap after cutting her hair “so she was still pretty.” And this disappears so rapidly in this chapter. Her beauty is so important. Fantine is the only character aside from Enjolras who is repeatedly described as beautiful in a way that seems to really matter. (Cosette is also beautiful, but that description is almost entirely through Marius’ POV, rather than from a more general POV with Fantine.) The slow destruction of Fantines beauty--the discarding of her pretty clothes for peasant ones, her frequent tears, the loss of her hair and teeth, the torn and threadbare clothing--mirrors her social destruction. She desperately clings to her beauty by wearing a cap, but she obviously gives up pretty soon.

What fascinates me here is that Hugo mentions that Fantine admired Madeleine, like everyone else, but he also implies that she didn’t hate him straight away for her dismissal. In the previous chapters, her reaction is to accept the dismissal as a “just” decision. She works up her hatred by repeatedly telling herself it was his fault. It seems as though she lands on the right conclusion in the wrong way. She blames herself first, and only through gradually convincing herself does she start to blame Madeleine. He and his crap system are the ones to blame, but she comes to that conclusion in a roundabout way that feels like she still blames herself but is trying not to. Fantine has been a scapegoat for everyone up until now; Madeleine has become her scapegoat to avoid (incorrectly) blaming herself.

“If she passed the factory when the workers were at the door, she would force herself to laugh and sing.” She’s trying so hard to make them think they haven’t gotten to her, but it just makes it so much more obvious. The laughter and singing is the “wrong” reaction, and it makes everyone notice her even more, and judge her even harder. It’s just so sad because I can understand that behavior of trying so hard to act the opposite way of how you think people will expect you to, only it backfires and makes your true feelings all the more apparent, which gives even more fuel to the cruel people.

Fantine takes a lover out of spite, “a man she did not love.” There are a few things here that contrast with the grisettes of 1.3. This lover is someone Fantine does not love, her first relationship since losing Tholomyes, who she was in love with. The man is also a street musician, which reminds me of Favourite’s actor/choir boy. The difference being that Favourite’s boy had at least some connections through his father, and Fantine’s lover is only a street musician. Fantine takes this lover in for the same reason that she sings and laughs outside the factory: to try and show that she’s unaffected, which really only serves to do the opposite. She has this affair “with rage in her heart,” which seems to be the only emotion left for her for anyone besides Cosette (and maybe Marguerite).

“She worshiped Cosette.” My only comment here is that this is something that Valjean will later echo. Both worship and adore Cosette as a point of light, something to cling to and love and care for.

Okay maybe I’m missing something here, but Fantine can read but she can’t write? This is probably my “been good at reading/writing my whole life” privilege talking, but wouldn’t she be able to write if she could read? I suppose maybe it’s like how I can look at numbers and understand the numbers but I can’t do math for shit? I don’t know. That just caught my eye.

Fantine is starting to lose her inhibitions as she begins to lose control of everything in her life. She’s laughing and singing and running and jumping around outside in public, she’s acting loud and brash and odd. Her reactions to her misfortune and the terrible things that keep happening express the “wrong” emotion. It’s an attempt to cope, and a courageous one, but it’s drastically different from the quiet Fantine who barely spoke that we were introduced to.

“Two Napoleons!” grumbled a toothless old hag who stood by. “She’s the lucky one!”

This line really struck me. We’ve been tunnel-visioned on Fantine’s misery this whole time. Suddenly the focus pulls back a little bit and we get a little bit of perspective. Fantine is not at rock bottom yet. She could still go so much lower. To this toothless old woman, she’s lucky because she’s pretty and because her teeth have worth. Fantine is poor, and cold, and worried about her kid, and most of the town laugh at or scorn her, and yet this old woman still thinks she’s the lucky one of the two of them. It’s a much more subtle commentary on the levels of poverty and abjectness that exist. Once you’ve fallen through the cracks in society to the level of homelessness, to the level of selling your teeth and hair and body, to complete aloneness, anyone who has even a scrap more than you seems “lucky.” And Fantine’s not too far from that existence.

The conversation between Marguerite and Fantine about military fever is so weird. Is Marguerite just saying stuff? This dialogue sounds like a conversation between two people who have no idea what they’re talking about. It’s like those scenes in comedies where one person pretends to be super confident about something to impress the other even though both of them are completely wrong. Oh okay wait! I just did some googling and I’ve realized that neither of them know what they’re talking about because Thenardier did his bad spelling thing! “Miliary fever” is an old medical term for an infection that causes fevers and bumpy skin rashes. (Mozart’s death is attributed to it; it seems to have fallen out of use as it became easier to pinpoint certain illnesses.) I think this isn’t just Marguerite not knowing what she’s talking about. This is a misunderstanding due to Thenardier’s misspelling (whether deliberate or not, I don’t know) and neither Marguerite nor Fantine know enough to realize it.

ETA: Okay wow I’m keeping that whole “miliary fever” thought journey in just to record my thought process but I’ve just double-checked against the Hapgood translation and the original French, and the mistake isn’t with the Thenardiers at all! It’s entirely the fault of the translators. The original French says “miliare” and Hapgood has translated it as “miliary”; Fahnestock and MacAfee clearly did not notice that the French was “miliare” and not “militaire,” and neither did their editors.

“During the night Fantine had grown ten years older.” Off the top of my head, I can only think of three instances of not-old people being blatantly described as looking old. This description here, Valjean when he returns from Arras, and Eponine. There are probably more I’m missing, but the connecting factor between these three is severe, prolonged trauma. Trauma and a difficult life can prematurely age people (I always think of that Dorothea Lange photo of the migrant mother who was only 32 but looks 50) and Hugo uses this fact to bolster his descriptions of what they go through. But Fantine and Valjean both age almost suddenly; Eponine is already old-looking the first time we meet her as a character with dialogue. Fantine’s sudden aging is another level of departure from her old life. In Paris, she was the youngest of the group, and now she looks far older than she is.

“Actually, the Thenardiers had lied to get her to get the money. Cosette was not sick at all.” As readers, we know this. We’ve seen the Thenardiers lie over and over and we see Fantine sacrifice with no idea. But this one hits harder than the others. Partly, I think, because Hugo puts it so bluntly in a sentence that has its own paragraph. But also because this is the first sacrifice that is truly unalterable. Fantine’s hair can grow back. There may have eventually been some slim chance of a job opportunity or something coming up somehow, or an influx of things needing mending or something. But she cannot regain her teeth. This is also the first sacrifice that physically disfigures her in a visible way. She can hide her lack of hair under a cap, she can hide her lack of money by using and reusing things. She cannot hide her missing teeth.

It’s interesting that we do not hear about Mme Victurnien here. Rather than the last chapter, this would be the one where Victurnien would be “winning.” The consequences of Victurnien’s actions have now permanently affected Fantine’s life. Except I think the reason we don’t see her here is that she wouldn’t face it. She can look out her window at Fantine walking down the street in distress with her beauty intact and feel satisfaction, but if she saw Fantine walking down the street, toothless and hairless, I don’t think she would feel satisfaction, because she wouldn’t be able to connect her actions to this Fantine. Feeling satisfaction towards this level of misery would require acknowledging her participation in causing it. It’s one thing for the townspeople to laugh at or gawk at her, but I think claiming responsibility for her condition is something else altogether that I’m not sure Mme Victurnien would do.

Fantine throwing her mirror out the window is a strange sort of contrast compared to Eponine’s reaction to a mirror. Fantine cannot face her descent. Eponine is already there, and her excitement at Marius’ mirror is a weird sort of distracted examination of herself. Fantine cannot bear to examine herself because unlike Eponine, she can remember what it was like before this. Tossing away the mirror is tossing away the thoughts of her past life and her past self; she can’t ever go back to that.

“The poor cannot go to the far end of their rooms or to the far end of their lives, except by continually bending more and more.”

God I don’t really even know what to say about this line except ouch. It’s just so poignant and intense. The older you get the harder it is to survive, to get up with each new stumble. And we can also take into account things like the cholera epidemic that will occur a few years later in the book, which mostly affected the poor. There’s so little access to any sort of help or assistance. And clearly Valjean’s few little systems of aid aren’t good enough. He may have set up a worker’s infirmary and a place for children or old workmen, but there doesn’t seem to be assistance for single, unsupported women, or the homeless and unemployed. They’re left to bend more and more under the weight of life.

“Her little rose bush dried up in the corner, forgotten.” I can’t help but read this as a parallel to the Thenardier’s treatment of Cosette. As Fantine falls apart and falls behind on her payments, Cosette is growing up which means the abuse from the Thenardiers has probably increased. It also feels like a weird sort of throwback to the spring/summertime imagery of beauty and chasteness and modesty from back in 1.3, which has now completely disappeared and dried up as Fantine loses her beauty, her modesty, and her coquetry.

I love the little detail about Fantine’s butter bell full of water and the frozen ice marks. It’s such a small detail but so evocative. It also feels like a metaphor for each of Fantine’s new hardships. Every time the butter pot freezes over, it leaves a ring of ice for a long time; each time Fantine encounters a new trauma, she hardens and becomes tougher. She keeps her dried up, long gone modesty and youth in one corner and the suffering that has hardened her in the other. On a side note, I’m wondering if there is actually butter in her butter bell or if she’s now using it only for water? I would imagine water only; butter seems like something that might be expensive. Also, would the building she’s living in have had indoor plumbing, or would she have gotten water from a well or a pump somewhere? My plumbing history knowledge is lacking.

Hugo describes Fantine’s torn and badly mended clothes. At this point she’s working as a seamstress, which means she’s at least proficient in the skills needed to sew and/or mend clothes in such a way that they stay together. This means that the repairs done for herself are likely careless and messy. I think this is partly an indication of how little time she has for herself--if she’s sewing for work for 17 hours a day, she has very little time to mend her own stuff, and definitely can’t afford better quality material--and partly an indication of the ways in which she is falling apart. She doesn’t bother mending her things properly, she goes out in dirty clothes. She doesn’t mend her stockings, she just stuffs them further down in her shoes. It seems she has only one or perhaps no good petticoats, which means she’s probably walking around in just a shift and a dress. Not only is her stuff threadbare and falling apart, she’s also probably freezing due to the lack of layers.

“A constant pain in her shoulder near the top of her left shoulder blade.” This makes me wonder if Fantine’s left-handed. If she’s sewing by hand, by candlelight, in a shitty rush chair, for seventeen hours a day, that is absolute murder on the back/shoulders/neck. Whenever I do hand-sewing I’m usually sat on the floor or my bed, and my back and upper shoulders tend to get sore if I get in the zone and I’m bent over the work for a long time. I don’t know about French dressmakers, but I know around that time the English were really big on very small, neat, almost invisible stitches. Which would hurt to do for seventeen hours a day by candlelight.

“She hated Father Madeleine profoundly, and she never complained.” The Hapgood translation of this line is better, I think. Still, I think it’s important that it’s pointed out that she never voices her opinions or her complaints. It’s only when Madeleine is in front of her that she announces them at all (despite not speaking directly to him then, either). She hates Valjean, she blames him, and yet obviously some part of her still thinks that she deserves it, or that her dismissal was right.

“She sewed seventeen hours a day, but a contractor who was using prison labor suddenly cut the price, and this reduced the day’s wages of free-laborers to nine sous.” Reading this book is always a lot because aside from the still-relevant general overarching commentary about society and poverty and mutual aid and goodness and all that, there are so many smaller details that are so painfully, strangely relevant to the present day. Even today there’s fear that employers will come up with a new policy or a new labor shortcut that means less income. Employers who pay their employees less because the workers get tipped, or outsourcing that causes layoffs. Prison labor, too (and behind that, the fact that prison labor doesn’t guarantee a job in a similar field after release if desired).

In the next two chapters, we jump ahead somewhere between a few weeks to a couple months. What happened to Marguerite in the interim? Hugo describes her as a “pious woman [...] of genuine devotion,” but I have this sad thought that maybe when Fantine made the decision to become a sex worker, Marguerite may have turned her back on her as well. As we’ve seen with Valjean, being poor but modest is Good, and being poor and desperate enough to do something improper and “immoral” is Bad. Despite Marguerite’s canonical generosity towards the poor, I wouldn’t be surprised if Fantine’s decision overstepped some moral boundaries of hers.

“But where is there a way to earn a hundred sous a day?” I’m a little stuck on this. Would she make this much money? I’m basing the following information off of Luc Sante’s The Other Paris, so the monetary info might be slightly different a for non-Parisian area. According to Sante, someone like Fantine, a poor woman working without a pimp or madame and not in a legal brothel, would basically be working for pocket change. 100 sous would equal about 5 francs. If her earnings are basically pocket change, I don’t think she’d make 5 francs a day. Just considering the fact that a loaf of bread might cost about 15 sous, which seems like pocket change, or even slightly more than pocket change. Fantine probably becomes a sex worker and finds herself in the exact same position that she was in before, not making any more money than she would have if she had continued to be a seamstress.

#les miserables #les miserables meta #brickclub #lm 1.5.10 #les mis #les mis meta

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whitewolfandthefox · 5 years ago

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12,and 14 for dialogue prompts with geralt and friend reader?

Dialogue 12: “I miss moments like this more than anything.”

Dialogue 14: “You were meant to be watching him!”

Warnings: fluff, pure fluff, see guys? I can be nice

Words: ~2.2k

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Summary: Geralt x friend!reader, Jaskier x friend!reader. Geralt and Jaskier stop by after Jaskier sustains an injury. Chaos ensues.

The Witcher and the Lute

“Thank you,” you murmured as you were handed a hot mug, Geralt groaning as he lowered himself into a chair next to you. You chuckled as you watched him, tucked into your own chair on your porch, covered in a blanket. You sighed as you returned your attention to the sky, watching the colours that spread across it as the sun rose. You loved mornings like this, seeing the dew glisten on the grass as it slowly dried, the sun rays glancing off of them, the fog slowly lifting as the sun chased it away.

“It’s nice to just sit and watch the sunrise,” Geralt glanced over at you. “I don’t get to do this much anymore, Jaskier is not a morning person.”

You giggled, “I like it every once in a while. The world is quiet and calm in the mornings, it’s a nice time to centre myself.” You rolled your head to look at him with a gentle smile. “I miss moments like this more than anything, just being able to spend the mornings with you.”

Geralt drew a hand down his face, looking weary. “I don’t.”

You had been woken last night by Geralt pounding on your door, dragging an injured Jaskier behind him. You had let them in without saying a word, working on Jaskier into the early hours of the morning. He was resting now, wrapped in blankets on your bed. He had taken a nasty fall and split his head open and the wound wouldn’t stop bleeding. Geralt had had to give him some of his blood clotting potion, which was toxic to humans in the long run. You had cleaned and stitched the wound and then spent hours fighting Jaskier’s fever down.

Now that he was sleeping peacefully, you and Geralt were resting on your porch with a hot drink. Your smile slowly slid off your face. “Yes, he really is clumsy, isn’t he. He’ll be ok though, Geralt. He’s just sleeping now.”

Geralt hummed in acknowledgement and the two of you fell quiet once more, the silence broken by the clucking of your chickens and the singing of the birds as they welcomed the start of a new day. A while later, once you had finished your drink, you set the mug aside and stood. You stretched, a groan leaving your lips as your joints popped, stiff from having sat either at Jaskier’s bedside or curled up in the chair for hours.

“I’m going to check on Jaskier quickly before I head into town. I used up the last of some of my herbs last night and I need them to make his next dose of medicine. I’ll take Charlie, but I’ll be a couple of hours yet. The markets should just be opening by the time I get there.” Folding the blanket, you set it on your chair. “I might just pick up his next dose while I’m there.”

Geralt grunted his acknowledgement, standing and making his way towards your stables. You knew he was going to saddle Charlie for you and make sure you had everything you needed for the short trip. Charlie was a bay horse that the Witcher had gifted to you, Roach had apparently been a female and pregnant when Geralt had gotten her. She gave birth in your stables and you had raised the foal by hand, Roach was always happy to see him when they came back. As for the name, well, Jaskier had chosen the name for the small horse, and no matter what you tried, it had stuck.

You refused to take payment from the Witcher for your services, even though he used them semi frequently. He had saved you from a monster several years back, and this was your way of repaying him. Geralt came by a couple of times a year, most often when he was injured, but you were glad to see him when he did. It sometimes got lonely, far away from the village as you were.

Checking on the bard, you smiled as you smoothed his hair away from his face, laying the back of your hand against his forehead. You frowned slightly, his temperature was still higher than you would have liked, but it was acceptable. You dipped a cloth into the bucket next to his bed before wringing it out and laying it on his forehead. Jaskier’s face relaxed further in his sleep at the touch of the cool cloth, a sigh escaping his lips.

Satisfied, you turned and left the house, seeing Geralt standing with Charlie fully saddled and waiting for you. The horse danced, throwing his head in anticipation of the journey ahead. You thanked Geralt as you mounted, taking the reins into your gloved hands.

“Keep an eye on him, Geralt, if you don’t mind. He may wake up soon and he will be disoriented from the medicines I gave him. Make sure he stays in bed and is resting, I don’t want his fever coming up anymore.” Geralt nodded in response and stepped back, allowing you to turn the horse’s head towards the village, watching until you turned a corner and were out of view.

**~*~*~*~**

Knowing you would be several hours until you were back, Geralt stuck his head inside to check on Jaskier before getting to work. He knew you wouldn’t take money as payment, but he could do some of your chores instead. Returning outside, he grabbed the ax sitting next to the woodpile and started splitting wood. After he finished that, he moved over to your chicken coop, fixing the hole that had been torn in it by a rogue coyote.

Chores completed, he brought Roach out of the stable and took her tack off, letting her roam as he worked on repairing her saddle and oiling the leather. That done, he moved on to grooming Roach herself, working the knots out of her mane and tail. He put Roach back into the stable before going inside, brushing himself off as he went. He called to the bard as he went, not wanting to surprise him if Jaskier was awake. Entering the room, he stopped short at the sight of the empty bed, blankets thrown to the ground.

“Fuck.”

**~*~*~*~**

You rode back into the clearing to find an odd sight waiting for you. Geralt was sitting in the middle of your lawn, banging on Jaskier’s lute as he loudly called the bard’s name, the combination of his rough voice and the off-tune music making a discordant sound that filled the small clearing. Dismounting, you tied Charlie to the hitching railing next to the stable before approaching the Witcher cautiously.

“Umm, Geralt?” The man in question jumped at your voice, obviously having been caught unawares. Your concern grew as you realized he hadn’t heard you approaching. “What are you doing?”

Halting his strumming, a sheepish look came over his face as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Erm, I may have, umm, misplaced the bard?”

You stared at him. “You what?”

“Heh, I don’t know… where Jaskier… is.” The Witcher spoke haltingly as you slowly pale, not liking the expression that was slowly appearing on your face.

“You don’t know where he is.”

“Ah, yeah, pretty much.”

You turned and marched towards the house as Geralt scrambled to his feet behind you. “Y/N?”

You whirled towards him, throwing your hands up in the air. “You were meant to be watching him! I left you with one job, Geralt, one job! Watch the bard! And you couldn’t handle that! Now I have to go find a sick Jaskier who has wandered off, and I have no idea where he would be.”

Turning back around, you continued towards the house to grab various healing supplies. As you went, you threw back over your shoulder, “Find him Geralt, or so help me, Melitle won’t be able to save you.”

You could hear the discordant sound of the Witcher and the lute started up again in the background, cursing to yourself under your breath as you went. You quickly searched the house, not finding the missing bard, before heading into the woods as Geralt continued playing in the clearing. You heard a cry of success as you returned to the clearing, the jarring sound of the lute continuing.

Exiting the trees, you allowed a small smile to form on your face as you saw Jaskier emerging from the trees, Geralt gently placing the lute on the ground as he strode towards the bard. A frown appeared on Jaskier’s face as he muttered something about needing to find his muse as he turned and walked back into the trees.

Geralt’s face turned frantic as the bard started to disappear, all but leaping back towards the instrument on the ground as he continued to play the lute. Jaskier turned back around again, coming further out of the trees, drawn by the sound of music. You snuck over to the bard, laughing as Geralt started backing towards the house, continuing to bang on the poor instrument. As you got closer, you could hear Jaskier muttering curses under his breath.

“That total sod, no idea how to play a lute properly. Should’ve done something about Valdo Marx when I got the chance, stupid talentless waste of a bard. No, not even a bard. Geralt, where did that djinn go? I need those wishes.”

Gently settling yourself underneath the bard’s arm, you took some of his weight as he continued to move towards the lute, and the house behind it. You got him settled in bed, handing him a potion to drink, promising to make Marx give him the lute once he drank it. As he drifted off to sleep again, you rounded on Geralt, narrowed eyes making the already pale man whither beneath your gaze.

You marched outside, not checking to make sure the Witcher was following, knowing that he would. You turned on him as you reached the centre of the clearing. “What the fuck, Geralt? Did you see what I meant? You left him alone and he got out!”

“Yes, but I also got him back.” The Witcher pointed out, hoping to calm you now that nothing bad had happened.

“Okay, but you also lost him in the first place! You wouldn’t have had to find him had you not lost him!” You threw your arms up, almost at your wit’s end with the stupidity of the pair. The dense idiot in front of you couldn’t figure out why you were mad in the first place. Sighing, you shook your head as you moved towards Charlie, intending to remove his saddle and rub the horse down before putting him back in the stable, done with Geralt’s antics.

As you were stripping the horse, you could feel Geralt approaching you. “I am sorry, Y/N. I didn’t mean to forget about him, I just wanted to get some chores done for you.”

Again you sighed as you leaned your head against the horse. You seemed to be doing that a lot because of these two. “I know, Geralt. I just worry when you two get hurt.”

You felt a hand on your arm, allowing yourself to be pulled against the hard chest next to you as Geralt wrapped you in a hug. “I do my best to keep us in one piece, you know that. And when I can’t, we trust you to put us back together.”

You wrapped your arms around his middle, leaning into him, allowing yourself to be soothed by his warmth and embrace. Remembering the scene you walked into, you started to giggle. You could feel Geralt pull back to look down at you, a confused expression on his face. “What’s so funny?”

“You, the lute, Jaskier.” You tried to get out, breathless as you dissolved into a full blown belly laugh, unable to speak in proper sentences. A sheepish grin crossed Geralt’s face as he realized what you were laughing about.

“Ah, I thought he would come for that. He never lets me touch that stupid thing, so I figured it would be the same even if he wasn’t entirely sure what was going on.” You could feel the vibrations against your cheek as he chuckled as well, happy now that he knew you weren’t mad at him and that Jaskier was safe.

You pulled back from him, wiping the tears of mirth from your eyes. “C’mon, you big lug, let’s go get dinner ready for when Jaskier wakes up again.”

The occasional chuckle left you as you walked, sensing Geralt catching up to you. “Thank you,” came the quiet sentence.

“Don’t mention it.” You swatted at him as you said this before falling silent. Your friendship had its ups and downs, but at the end of the day your small trio trusted each other without question. You would be sad when they left, but would look forward to the day they trundled back into your small yard once more.

**~*~*~*~**

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rebelbyrdie · 4 years ago

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Swan Queen Fic: The Looking Glass (1 of 3)

This is a story that I’ve had in my head for years. I have no time to fully flesh it out. I still think I would like to share it though. I lovingly call this bullshit writing because I do it between major projects to keep my brain going but it usually doesn’t amount to much.

So this is a combination of several concepts, inspirations and tropes. It is Parallel Universe time! This is pretty raw writing. No editing. No beta.

The Looking Glass (Part 1 of 3)

Once Upon a Time, an Evil Queen was prepared to cast the darkest curse ever created. She had the spell in her hands and revenge in her heart. All magic comes with a price, though. For this queen and this curse, the price was too high. She could not cast her curse. She was not the only one who had desired the curse, though. The Dark One became enraged at her decision and betrayed his former apprentice to her greatest enemies.

“Regina.” Snow White stared at the chained and bound woman. “Your father and others-” Her eyes narrowed as she spoke, as if she hated even thinking about the people she spoke about. “-have begged for mercy on your behalf.”

Regina, disgraced queen and sorceress, was gagged but she held her head high, her shoulders were squared and her eyes were hot and angry. She met Snow’s eyes without flinching, daring her to do her worst. Gag or not, she would never beg.

“I will show you exactly the same amount of mercy that you showed my father and my people.” Snow White steepled her fingers under her chin. “Which is none.”

“Your Majesty, please!” Lord Henry, a rotund and care-worn man, tried to pull away from the knights that held him in place. “We will go home, never to return. As royalty banishment is the traditional penalty for-”

“Silence!” Snow White cut him off. Her words were ice cold and her mouth was set in a hard line. “Your groveling is pointless. My decision has been made.” She looked around the throne room, at the gathered crowd. “The Evil Queen’s punishment is not to die.”

Henry breathed out a sigh of relief and tried to reach for his daughter.

“Regina’s punishment is far worse then death. She shall live, forever-”

Regina’s head jerked back and her dark eyes went wide.

“-in the Eternal Tower.”

Henry went white. “No. Your Majesty, no!”

Snow smiled. It was wide, bright and predatory. “Take her to the mirror.”

The four knights who held Regina’s chains pulled her away. She didn’t fight them or shed a tear. She walked tall and proud, to her inescapable fate.

The Eternal Tower was a magical place, a magical spire from a dead kingdom. There were no doors and the single window had been bricked up. The only way in or out was via a magic mirror. She was dragged to the highest room of the castles tallest tower where that mirror waited for her.

The Dark One waited at the mirror, a smile on his glittering face.

“Hello Dearie.” He smirked. “So nice to see you again.”

Rumplestiltskin waved his hand over the mirror’s shining surface and it rippled like a quicksilver pool.

“The Eternal Tower is magical. While you are there you will not hunger, thirst or require sleep. It’s magics are ancient, arcane and far more powerful than yours. You won’t be able to cast the smallest spell there. You will be alone.”

He leaned closer and his smile widened grotesquely. It twisted his face and made him appear more monstrous than ever. “Forever.”

The knights unshackled her hands, feet and waist and pushed her into the mirror, hard. She fell through the portal and onto the hard stone floor of the Eternal Tower. She scrambled to her feet and ripped the gag out of her mouth. Regina glared at the Dark One.

“I’ll destroy you for this, Imp.”

“Shut up!” One of the armored men hit the mirror with his fist. “Or we’ll cover the damn mirror.” He held up a heavy damask clothe. The mirror, or more accurately the window that it was pointed at, was the only source of light in her prison. If the mirror was covered she would be cast into permanent darkness.

Regina stepped back from the mirror and looked around her new abode. She ignored the men as they left the room on the other side of the mirror and when she was alone, she finally screamed.

***

In a world with no Dark Curse, Princess Emma grew up in a glorious castle with two loving parents and was beloved by the kingdom. She was fair, intelligent and could wield true love magic. She grew in grace, strength and beauty every day.

The morning of her twentieth birthday dawned bright and early. Emma was already out of bed and sneaking out the window long before the servants awoke. She made her way across the castle’s roof and swung into the narrow window of a lesser used corridor.

She was sick and tired of being a princess. She hated the politics, etiquette and endless expectations. She wasn’t what her mother wanted her to be. She never would be. Her mother, Queen Snow, wanted a perfect princess. Emma was anything but. She was more comfortable in breeches and on horseback then she was in a dress and on the throne.

Not to mention the Balls. She hated the over-the-top Balls. She would be shown off like a horse at an auction for princes and kings to gawk at. Her parents had married for True Love. She had to marry to fill up the kingdom’s coffers.

She wandered the North wing’s long and empty corridors and started climbing a steep and narrow set of stairs. She didn’t recognize the tower, but the early morning light and shadows might be playing tricks on her. After what seemed like a million steps, Emma found herself at a door that she didn’t recognize.

“Unusual.” She muttered to herself. Even more unusual was that the door was locked with three huge iron padlocks.

Now Emma had to know what was behind the door. She leaned out the landing’s single window and smirked. There was another window less than three feet away, on the other side of the door. It was all to easy to pop out one window and into another, especially since her magic would protect her from any fall.

The room on the other side of the door was small and empty except for a tall gilded mirror.

“Lame.”

She was about to leave when something caught her eye. She did not see her reflection in the glass. She saw someone else. Somewhere else.

“What the hell?”

She walked closer to the glass.

“Who are you?”

The woman on the other side of the mirror jumped. She twisted around, away from her loom and stared right at Emma. Her dark eyes were wide and her lush mouth, accented by a scar, dropped open.

“Wh-” Her voice was raspy, like a door hinge that had rusted shut a long time ago finally moving again. “Who are you?”

***

“So it is Midwinter.” Emma sat in front of the mirror with her legs folded over each other. She was comfortable on the floor, inches away from the glass.

Regina sat on her side with her knees drawn to her chest. She was braiding her long dark hair with fast and agile fingers. She loved listening to Emma. Not just because she was the only voice she’d heard in years either. The blonde was smart, funny, irreverent and she made Regina smile. She didn’t judge her as the Evil Queen or a prisoner. They were friends.

“And there is about four feet of snow on the ground.

“You should be wearing a cloak. That tower room must be freezing.” Regina was always worried about her. Emma was careless with her own safety, so bold and brazen. Too caught up in the moment to think ahead.

“I’m fine. I want to see your progress!”

Regina smiled and shook her head, amused. “Of course.” She stood and turned her mirror around a bit so Emma could see her loom.

The loom had been one of the only things in her prison. It was left over from the tower’s last resident. She had never learned how to weave as a child, as it had not been something that a queen needed to know. Since she’d had nothing but time, she had taught herself. It had been the one thing that kept her from going mad.

She spent endless hours weaving. She didn’t always know what the pattern was as she worked. The images often surprised her. Emma praised her work, and swore that it was the best she’d ever seen.

“I don’t know what it is yet. I’ve never seen anything like it. A town, I think. With a strange tower.”

She pulled the completed length up so Emma could see it.

“Wow! It is amazing! You’re amazing, Regina!”

No. Emma was the amazing one. Regina sat the almost-finished tapestry back to the side and went back to the mirror.

“If you could have anything for a Midwinter gift, what would it be?”

Regina raised a brow. Emma was already the best gift she’d ever received. She was sunshine personified. She reminded Regina of Daniel. When she was with Emma she could feel her long dead heart stir in her chest.

She didn’t dare say any of that, though. It was pointless, a fever dream. They could never be together, no matter how much she wanted to reach out and touch Emma. To hold her hand. To kiss her.

“An apple. My father planted a tree when I was born. I tended it for my entire life until-” She shook her head. “I want to taste an apple again.”

Emma nodded. “I want the tapestry you did last Spring. The one of the horses and sheep in the field. It reminds me of summer when I was a child. I like to think that the little girl and man are my father and me. Like you were standing right there painting a portrait.”

If she could give it to her, Regina would. She’d give anything and everything she wanted.

“Well, actually, that is just an excuse. To get the tapestry, I would have to meet you and that would be the real gift.”

Emma pressed her hand against the mirror. “I feel like you’re the only person that sees me.”

Regina pressed her hand to the mirror too and wished she could feel the heat of Emma’s palm against her own.

“You are the only person who sees me.”

Emma’s lips quirked into a small smile. “That makes me the luckiest woman in the world.”

Years past. Emma spent every minute she could with Regina. She ignored suitors and skipped out of Balls. She fought in tournaments, but never wore a token. She always fought for Regina, even if she couldn’t say so. When she was days away from turning twenty-five, everything changed.

Emma showed up for dinner, almost on time. There were various dignitaries in attendance tonight. She never paid attention to who. The faces changed but the boring political stuff always stayed the same. She sat down on her mother’s left, beside Red.

“And here is my daughter, Princess Emma.”

Snow’s voice sounded strained, angry. Emma knew that she had broken countless rules. She was late. She was wearing breeches. She had her sword on her belt. Her hair was tied in a sloppy braid. There was dust smeared on her shirt. Basically she was not fit for a royal dinner table.

“Your Highness.”

A guy, expensive clothes, an unfamiliar accent and gold circlet told Emma everything she needed to know. He was yet another prince trying to buy her hand in marriage. Great.

“I am Prince Killian of the Kingdom of-”

Emma drifted off, uninterested. She had heard it all before. He would go through his entire family history, and all his so-called achievements. Like all that was supposed to impress her.

She missed Regina. She would never bore her at dinner. She would also never try to buy her. Regina had been there and done that and it had destroyed her. She constantly worried about Emma being betrothed against her will.

It was hard to imagine Regina being here. Sitting as a Queen dealing with politics and stuff. Forced to sit and pretend she cared. Worse, forced to pretend to be happy as a forced-wife and faux-mother. Then again, compared to the tower, dinner didn’t seem so bad.

Red’s elbow dug into her ribs and Emma jerked her attention back to the Prince.

“Welcome, Prince Killian. I am pleased to meet you.”

She wasn’t.

“The pleasure is all mine. Our betrothal is a blessing on both us and our kingdoms.”

Wait. Emma’s head snapped to the side to look at her mother. What!

Snow nodded. “It is a wonderful match, dear. You will love Killian and live Happily Ever After.”

No.

Emma’s entire body burned fire hot and went ice cold simultaneously. She could feel screams coiling up in her chest. This could not happen.

“The wedding will be on your birthday. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Wonderful? Emma would rather die.

Red put a hand on her leg under the table. To comfort her? To hold her in place? To warn her to behave? Emma didn’t know. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Could barely think anything other than no.

She sat, silent, and somehow got through the dinner. Killian asked for a walk through the garden (escorted by their parents of course) but Emma declined. She was far too weary to walk. Her mother frowned but allowed it. Probably a reward for not flipping out at the table.

Emma ran right to Regina. She poured out her fears and wept her tears to the woman in the mirror. Regina pressed close to the glass. Her hands and cheek were flat against it.

“Don’t give in Emma.” Regina’s voice was sad and soft. It carried the weight of her past and experiences. Her regrets. Her love. “But don’t fight either. Run. Leave. Go. Leave Snow to her Empire. There are other kingdoms, other worlds. I’ve seen them. Weaved them into my tapestries. You can still have a life, happiness.”

Emma looked up and pressed her face against the mirror. “Not without you.�� She smacked the glass between them. “How can I be happy without you?”

Regina touched the glass where Emma rested. She traced the lines of her cheeks and forehead. “You will be happy, My Love.” She smiled despite the tears sliding down her cheeks. “We are together, you know. In one of those other worlds, there is a you and a me that are happy and free together.”

“I would give anything to be with you.” Emma was crying now too. “Anything.”

Regina shook her head. “I would never curse you like this. To this tower.”

Emma sighed. “Sometimes I wish you had cast that damn curse. Anything, anywhere, has to be better then this.”

They lay on either side of their mirror, together but forever apart. They would have stayed that way all night. Forever if they could.

Emma jerked up. “Someones coming!” She could hear the heavy locks being turned. There was no time to escape. The tower’s door swung open, rusted hinges squeaked and groaned from years of neglect.

“Emma!” Snow White stood at the door. Rumplestiltskin stood at her right shoulder. Prince Killian at her left.

“Mom!”

Snow looked at the mirror. “Regina!”

Both Emma and Regina got to their feet.

“How could you do this?” Snow glared at the mirror. “When Rumplestiltskin told me I didn’t believe it. Couldn’t! You’ve corrupted my daughter! Right under my nose!”

Emma launched at her mother, fists swinging.

“Don’t you dare!”

Her father came in and grabbed Emma, held her back.

“She hasn’t corrupted me!” Emma jutted her chin out. “I love her! I will not marry him.” She pointed at Killian. “Or any man you sell me to. I love her!”

Snow looked from her daughter to the mirror.

The reflection showed Regina, The Evil Queen, on her knees.

“Please. Snow. Please. Don’t do this to her. It will destroy her. Don’t do to Emma what my mother did to me. Don’t make her marry. Let her love. You got your Charming. Let her find love.”

“You? You think this is your escape? Your great revenge? No! I won’t let you destroy Emma like you did my father and our kingdom.” She turned to one of the guards.

“Break it.”

Emma screamed and fought, she was too late, though. By the time she escaped her father’s grasp, the magic mirror lay shattered on the stone floor and Regina was cast into eternal darkness.

#fanfic #wip #swanqueen

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angstymdzsthoughts · 5 years ago

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Ignorance is a bliss

Imagine if “come to gusu with me” ends up with wwx passed out of exhaustion before he could reject the offer. Lwj did brought him to gusu and under the jurisdiction of the elders, after wwx is nursed back to health, his demonic cultivation must be sealed and he must received say maybe 15 lashes as punishment for straying off the righteous path before were sent to seclusion with lwj so that wwx will finally be ‘cleansed’. Wwx wasnt happy ofc but what he could do with his powers are sealed away? Now , 5 strokes of discipline whip may cause a cultivator bedridden for months, how about to a non cultivator ? It must affect them severely so that is why discipline whip can never be used to a non cultivator. Lwj was forced to a house arrest guarded by three disciples due to him trying to (forcefully) persuade the elders to not hurt wwx. Lwj never thought that the elders were so hell bent on punishing wwx , where he promised wwx that gusu will be his safe haven (oh lwj, ignorance is a bliss).

The elders of Lan assumed that wwx’s core is still intact but maybe diminished due to demotic cultivation. So they still proceeded with the punishment. But halfway through the session, wwx lose consciousness and healers were called to heal him so that they could finish the punishment.However, upon trying to heal him , the healers discovered that wwx does not have a golden core. Lxc was horrified and ultimately barked an order to bring wwx to the sect’s infirmary to put him to rest. Glaring at lqr and the elders , he told them if wwx did not survive the ordeal , they would have become a murderer.

Lwj was devastated on the state wwx in. Wwx had a bad fever due to infection despite how hard the healers were trying to use medication. Bandages were changed thrice a day to ensure the infection does not spread to other parts of body. Wwx never gained consciousness for 3 months. He was delirious in fever as his health rapidly declining over the days. Healers concluded that wwx may not he able to perform his daily routine without help as the whip has cause major backlash on his physical and mental health.

After a discussion, the lans decided to finally informed the jiang sects of the situation wwx was in. JC was on his way when wwx woke up. Wwx was in confusion and struggling to get out of his bed. Lxc and lwj had to restrain him to ensure he doesn’t hurt himself. The last thing wwx remembered that his back and legs were excruciating painful and people in white robes are the cause of it.Paranoia settles in him causing wwx to be on alert every second and never utter a single word after waking up, not even to lwj. For wwx, lwj has brought him to gusu because he hated wwx so much that he let those people hurt him. He was betrayed.

Although he was reluctant at first, he forced himself to eat to regained his strength and escape this hell. When the jc arrives at gusu with a group of disciples , lxc and the elders met them at the entrance leaving lwj and wwx alone at the room. Wwx for the first time spoke to lwj, requesting for a new change of robe. “I just dont want anyone to see me in this dirty robe” . Lwj acquiesced.

When lwj came back with new set of fresh robes and a basin of hot water , wwx was gone. Due to the envoy from Jiang sect , the entrance was not guarded as usual and wwx miraculously managed to flee gusu. Wwx put his guard up even he has successfully escape and ran to the most secluded part of Caiyi town. After resting for few hours and after the adrenaline was gone ,wwx realised that he was severely injured and crippled. His left leg cannot be bend without causing painful jolt like feeling. Him running all the way from gusu to caiyi with a bleeding back and hurting leg was indeed a miracle. Now , if walking was painful , then running was courting death. With careful planning using his survival skills and experience , wwx continues his painstaking slow journey and enters a forest , opposite direction of gusu and lotus pier. Wwx was last seen by a fruit vendor of Caiyi Town ; limping away without a trace.

Lwj without a doubt used an inquiry to find wwx , but wwx was an ambitious lad. Wwx somehow managed to create a talisman that can hide his presence even to spirits. Jc has issued posters all over the place , in hopes that someone might give an intel for him to find his brother but to no avail , no one has a clue of where wwx has been gone to. Wwx - like a ghost , has disappeared . JYL and JXZ was also at deeps end, unable to trace her missing brother. Other major sects also keep an eye for wwx, though the Lan clan has claimed that wwx’s demonic cultivation was sealed and was severly injured, who knows what can that young man do ?

Timeskip to 13 years later, JL LJY and LSZ (assuming that the siege never happened, but lwj adopted a-yuan as per requested by wq and wn to ensure he was raised at a proper & healthy background and the wen remnants survived and disperse for safety) was attacked at goddess temple only to be saved by a mystery crippled guy with mask (JL: a non cultivator nonetheless!) (LJY: what an amazing talent ! Only using talisman to beat the statue!). The teenagers were awestruck with the masked man’s skill, that they wanted to thanked him with a meal and few drinks but was rejected and the man leaves.

JL who never accepts no for an answers suggest to secretly follows the man so that they can send drinks or some offering for him to his house instead. Ljy and Lsz tagged along as they were curious of their saviour after all. A non cultivator cannot detect presence like a cultivator do, so the man was unaware that he was tailed. Upon arriving an old shack with a small potato farm , the man limped and sat with a grunt. Taking off his mask , he took a bottle of water and consumed a few concoction of medicine before coughing. The teenagers was surprised on the living condition of their saviour. JL however upon seeing the face of the man, went wide eyes.

“That man, he was in the poster my jiujiu used to issue around LP . My A-niang talks about him a lot,” looking over his other two confused companions. “I can never forget that face. The face that always make my mother cry upon looking at his picture and frown at his name. He is my missing big uncle , Wei Wuxian of Jiang Sect.”

“Ah i heard about him. Apparently our Elders punished him until he was missing his golden core , i think? Or is it the other way around?” Ljy spoke. “But i think the limping was the consequences from our Sects’ punishment. That time , Lan sect and Jiang Sect almost broke the treaty. I heard Madame Jiang managed to convinced your uncle to stop”.

They saw the man plowing a part of his potato field ,who occasionally stopped due to his heavy cough and resume his work. “Wwx , he is the person my father has been looking for the past 13 years. I need to let him know” Lsz finally spoke, smiling.

“Oh my potatoes , I hope you grew up fat and yummy for this master over here! I need more money , or i wont be able to buy medicine. You dont want me to die yet are you~” sang wwx. The 3 looked at each other and finally decides to leave for their respective inn, bringing a joyous news for their leaders.

Next day, both JC and lwj accompanied by the 3 went to wwx’s house. Both heartbroken on the state of the old shack . Knocking the wooden door and clearly listening on the voice mumbling from inside “who the hell would come here early in the morning at middle of a forest”, jc and lwj was shocked on the physical appearance of their missing person. Sunken cheeks and dark eyes as indication of fatigue , limping , voice hoarse from sickness and the obvious whipping scars marring from behind his neck to under the ragged clothes , jc couldnt help but to greet wwx with a hug , holding him so gentle in fear that wwx would break with the slightest of strength. Wwx frozen in shock couldnt hug back but made eye contact with lwj. “Weiying, please forgive me that I couldn’t protect you. I am very sorry.” After 13 years of internal pain and agony , wwx for the first time shed his tears . “I forgive you , so you all should leave me alone. I am a burden. Im no longer a cultivator , but a crippled man with not much time to left. I am nothing but a burden. Please” sobbed wwx.

“Idiot. Give us a chance to take care of you. A-jie misses you so much, every day and night. You haven’t met your nephew , Jing Ling . Don’t you want to eat her soup? And about your health, i can call WenQing to help you. She is still the best doctor alive. Come back with us , okay ? And no one will hurt you. “ jc.

Wwx was shocked to hear wq was still alive and her name was spoken by jc without an ounce of hatred. What have been happening for the past few years he have been isolating himself ? With shaking hands , he grabbed jc’s robe and nodded. He made another eye contact with lwj and could see how sincere he is from his eyes. Maybe , all this time , the fact that lwj hates me and sending me to my demise was all a misunderstanding?

“I am no more a cultivator.”

“It’s fine , WeiYing”

“I cannot contribute to Jiang sect anymore.”

“Who cares about that, idiot?”

“I’m going to be a burden !!! I cant even walk properly. My health is deteriorating”

“WeiYing, if tired , I can carry. Let me take care of you when sick”

“Lan Zhan, i dont want to go to gusu”

“We can go anywhere other than Gusu.”

“I wont let you take a single step to that damn place , no offence Second Young master Lan”

“None taken.”

———

(Alternate ending)

Wwx was still unconscious and attacked by a high fever due to infection in his wound. Numerous method has been used to mitigate the after effect of the whip , but to no avail. Infection starts to spread to his legs, and wwx was delirious and moaning in his sleep due to pain. The severity of the wound caused both of his legs to sepsis and the healers has no other way than to amputate the legs to make sure that the infection will not spread internally.

After the surgery of removing wwx’s legs , the infection are able to be minimised but still needs to be monitored. Still, wwx has no signs of waking up. Lwj was loyal to his side , taking care of changing the bandages . Every night , lwj had a nightmare of the reaction of wwx waking up with no legs . One particular nightmare that haunts him the most is weiying took out his own life out of despair. Lwj couldnt sleep for two nights watching over wwx after that nightmare occurs.

After 6 days, lqr visited the room and berates lwj for neglecting his duty as a student of Lan sect. Lwj angrily talks back, and was taken to kneel in the hall for one day. When he came back , no one was watching wwx. He came back with pure silence from wwx .Where there should a ragged breathing from wwx , it was only silence. Wwx’s usually pale lips was ashen. Bandaged chest that should be heaving was still. Wwx finally succumbed to his injuries after 11 days of fighting and lwj (again) was not by his side. His sect (again) are the cause of pain for his beloved ones and has taken everything from him.

—-

Wow took this one hour and a half. This is my second time posting here. 😋 enjoy?

-b

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