#edge of hope zine
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my illu for the @edgeofhopezine I did earlier this year! you can still buy some leftover zines and merch in their shop
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K-Sci Day Trip 2023 Newt forcibly takes Hermann for a birthday day out around Hong Kong, a year an a half before the end of the war.
This comic was made for the Edge of Hope a Pacific Rim 10 year anniversary fanbook :D
... You wouldn't believe how long I spent making sure the locations in this were as accurate as possible given that modern hong kong/ film hong kong are likely very different places...
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The Handwriting of God.
My illustration for the @edgeofhopezine , what an honor to be part of such a beautiful 10 year anniversary tribute to this great movie!!!!!!!!!!! And I even got to draw my favorite character!
#edge of hope zine#pacific rim#hermann gottlieb#illustration#guillermo del toro#more pacific rim for you all!!!!!!!!!!!! these two zines were such amazing projects#big congrats and thank you to everyone who worked on that zine btw what an incredible project#i'm still very happy with that drawing too#i really gave my all!#this was sold as a phone wallpaper too so feel free to use it that way!
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my comic I did for the @edgeofhopezine !!!!!! this was a super fun project to be a part of, and Iâm really happy with how this turned out ^^!
#kaiju#pacrim#pacific rim#Kaiju pacrim#Knifehead#knifehead pacrim#knifehead Kaiju#edge of hope zine#Whale fall#animal death#tw animal death#thalassophobia
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@edgeofhopezine Thanks!
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Sneak peeks of my @edgeofhopezine contributions! đđđ (Iâm not tweeting but these are also gonna be on Insta if anyone wants to share over there). Iâm really pleased with how these came out and I hope you think theyâre cool too!
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I am very pleased to share that I was part of the @edgeofhopezine charity zine as a guidebook artist!
Preorders are currently OPEN so please check it out in the link below!
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WORTH EVERY PENNY đ
Thank you @edgeofhopezine!
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The Pacific Rim charity zine @edgeofhopezine is available for preorder HERE at bigcartel! There are so many great goodies. I am featured in a few pages, so expect more previews through the month!
#pacrim#pacific rim#pac rim#mako mori#newton geiszler#hermann gottlieb#edge of hope#pacific rim fanart#fanart#zine
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Hello everybody and welcome to the official page for the Pacific Rim Anniversary zine- [From the Edge of Hope] Updates on our interest check will be posted here later this week so keep an eye out for that!
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ZINE PREVIEW COMIN IN HOT!!
@edgeofhopezine is now open for preorders!! There's been a lot of awesome work put into it so be sure to snag yourself a copy!!
Order here
#pacific rim#2023#fanart#character design#my art#illustration#newt geiszler#pacrim#from the edge of hope#zine
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If You Were Serious (Secret Admirer pt 7)
Okay, so there will be more than seven chapters. For now, please enjoy Steve on painkillers and creative mix tape shenanigans.
(The crossed out thing after the first "Dear" is the first line of an E.)
wc: 3226 / rated: T / set end of/after season 3 / also on ao3
Dear I
Dear Secret Amdirer,
Sorry, painkillers kicking in. I got pretty banged up in the mall, in the fire. Well, less the fire and more getting hit by stuff. Mall fell down. I have ribs and eye and nose, and concussion this time so I had to stay over at Robinâs because someone had to keep an eye on me sleeping and my parents are still out of town. Dustin said I won at upper body injury bingo but I didnât even know I was playing, that sounds like really a shitty game.Â
Anyway, I havenât been home so I donât know if you tried to call. If you did, donât worry!!! Iâm not mad. I donât not like you anymore just because youâre you. And this isnât the durg drugs talking because I read your letter first before they kicked in, but I have to write this ASAP so it can get to you faster.Â
You couldâve called back that night but if you needed some time to breathe I get it, itâs cool. And I kinda had a feeling after that you might be a guy? Like, shit, man, theyâd eat you alive in this town. Not me, I learned my lesson after Jonathan wrecked my face after I called him and his family some bad things. I deserved that. Kinda funny how the next year he stole my girlfriend and now I like you. If you could still be interested in somebody who used to be like that.Â
I know I like you because when you hung up I was really worried, you sounded like you were breathing really fast, maybe a panic attack? I have those after nightmares now. Robin too. (Donât worry, we bonded and sheâs like my sister now, she says weâre playdoh soulmates
âOh my god, I knew explaining who Plato was was a bad idea. Itâs platonic, Steve, not Play-Doh.â
âStop reading over my shoulder! ⊠How do you spell that?â
âP-L-A-T-O-N-I-C.â
âThanks Robbie.â
she says weâre playdoh soulmates platonic soulmates.) I was worried about you and thought maybe you might be a guy but, that wasnât as important as wanting you to be okay, you know? You still wrote me all those nice letters. Youâve made me feel really good about myself, why does it have to be different just because youâre not a girl? I canât tell you why Robin knows about this stuff but she says I might be bysix bisexual. Not sure why I need a big fancy word for it when I didnât have one for liking girls, I just know I care about you a lot and want you to like me.Â
And youâre not a coward, youâre very very brave. You reached out first, you went for what you wanted even when I didnât get it and tried to ask for too much too soon. And then you kept coming back to try again, even though I kept doing that. Thatâs so brave.Â
Iâm not feeling so awake anymore so Iâm going to stop and have Robin mail this for me. (No way am I going out dressed like this. Her dad wears grandpa shorts dude, itâs pretty bad.) Iâll write more when Iâm feeling better. Are you okay? Hope you werenât anywhere near the mall the other night. Thanks for the rainbow song I will look for it.
Love SteveÂ
~
Once Eddie is done reading, he screams into his pillow for a different reason. Several, actually.Â
First, heâs been so sure for the past week or so that he would never hear from Steve ever again. The only reason heâd checked his mail today was because he should have another zine coming in soon. He didnât, but there was a yellow envelope with familiar, if slightly messier than usual handwriting on it. And inside that, stationary with colorful geometric shapes along the edges that Eddie now surmises is Robinâs.Â
Second, Steve isnât even writing to tell him to fuck off right to hell. Because yes, Eddie had heard the rumors about Steve calling Jonathan Byers a queer. The irony does send a seam of semi-hysterical laughter through his screams. Itâs fine. Itâs fine!
Third, Steve hasnât been avoiding his calls. He just hasnât been home. Heâs hurt, and it sounds like his head and torso took quite a beating. Eddie remembers seeing him around school both times after the other concussions and that had looked bad enough, and that had just been his face. This sounds worse.Â
Fourth, Steve is⊠still interested? Has talked to someone about this and might be bisexual?! Eddieâs never had anyone talk to someone else about him, has always been completely anonymous with a possible option of becoming a dirty little secret. And then the letter ends with âLove Steve.â Love? Love Steve?!
Fifth, Robin knows he sent Steve that ice cream. Eddie doesnât know what all âplatonic soulmatesâ entails, but what if she tells him? What if she already has?!
Sixth, despite being injured, and having panic attacks apparently, Steve is still asking if he is okay.Â
Seventh, beneath his name Steve had also doodled a lopsided happy face with what he can only guess is an ice pack balanced on top. Or⊠maybe itâs hair. Or some kind of hat.Â
Any of these would be enough to make his head spin on their own, but itâs all happening at once and he doesnât know what to do. So he screams into his pillow for a while longer, kicking his feet for good measure.Â
He wants to rush out and find Steve, wherever he is. Wants to call him, but doesnât know what he would say even if he did know the number to reach him right now. What he could say. Wants to wrap both arms around him and kiss his poor head better. Hell, if heâs turned Steve gay he doesnât just want, he deserves to make that guy the little spoon for the first time in his life probably and just. Hold him.Â
Except⊠heâs not sure heâs ready for face to face yet. He will be! Soon. Once all the emotions bubbling in his chest have settled a little. And after heâs pinched himself a few million more times just to make sure. But until thenâŠ
A thought occurs to him, and Eddie rolls over to frown consideringly up at the ceiling. Heâs sent Steve words to comfort and reassure him before, right? Maybe thereâs something else he can send, a different way of offering a part of himself to Steve until he works up the nerve to face him for real.Â
Itâs just going to take him a little time, and some recording equipment.Â
~
Dearest Steve,
I hope this address is still okay to write to you while you stay with your friend, but I donât know where she lives.Â
You have no ideaÂ
Holy shit man. Holy shit. Are you serious? No, strike that, youâve been nothing but genuine in these letters and I trust you, I do. Holy shit though. Itâs you. Clearly I never thought Iâd actually have a chance, from the way I approached this whole thing, so you must forgive me for how utterly poleaxed, completely flabbergasted, and genuinely gobsmacked I am.Â
And shit, Iâm still sorry for hanging up on you. That golden years lineâand this heavy secret of the most basic fact of who I am weighing on my shoulders, pressing down so hard I couldnât breathe. I wish Iâd just said something. But youâre right, I needed⊠space? And a push, to work up to writing the last letter I sent you. I got yours the day I put that in the mail, by the way, and that spun me even more because what if you read mine and took it all back?
But you didnât. You didnât, sweetheart. Iâm still reeling in the best possible way. Again, axed like a pole, flabbers gasted, and gob thoroughly smacked.
Enough about me. More than enough about me. Youâre concussed; I ought to wrap that gorgeous head of yours in bubble wrap and offer to fight all your battles henceforth, even against falling buildings. Iâm glad you have someone out there whoâs looking out for you though. I guess⊠youâve told Robin about some things? Maybe these letters? Which is absolutely fine, by the way. Itâs great! Fuck knows it wouldnât have occurred to me to explain what bisexuality is, since I hardly dared to dream so big and only swing the one way myself. Youâre an amazingly open-minded person by the way, Steve; I hope you know how rare that is, especially in a place like Hawkins. And Robin too, apparently. Please give her my highest regards, she is an angel among mortals and an inadvertent champion of this sad wet rag of a human being (me).Â
At any rate, wishing you the speediest of recoveries and I hope youâre already feeling at least a little better. My condolences on the grandpa shorts, although personally Iâm convinced you could wear a trash bag and still look like an Adonis.Â
Itâs taken me a little longer than Iâd like to send this because I made something for you. Enclosed is a tape with some of the songs from our call that you said you liked, played acoustically by yours truly. Rainbow In The Dark is one of them. You mentioned having nightmares, and whenever I had bad dreams as a kid my mom would play for me until I calmed down. Sheâd hum instead of doing the words, to make it more like a lullaby. I hope itâs at least a decent distraction, sweetheart.Â
Let me know if you like it? I can make one of your favorite songs too, just you let me know what they are. In the meantime, I remain, as alwaysâ
Your Secret Admirer
~
âYou should tell him that you know,â Robin whispers, at some point during the fourth night in a row theyâve ended up crashed on the same bed listening to the Anti-Panic Attack Metal Mix.Â
Her dad sleeps like the dead and her mom sleeps with earplugs in because he snores, so they get away with it, but Steve always insists on laying on top of the covers anyway. The friendship is still new, for all that theyâre trauma bonded, and he wants to make sure she knows heâs not getting any funny ideas, that he gets the whole lesbian thing, that even though heâs new to being into a dude heâs committed to it and not wishy-washy or greedy or whatever.
He fiddles with a loose string on the blanket for a minute before answering. âNo⊠I donât want to freak him out again. Itâs all going to be on his terms from here on out, no more pushing.â
âWell youâve got to do something. Come on Steve, Iâm invested now. Ask to meet him.â
He rolls his eyes. âWhat did I just say?âÂ
Immediately he gives an inward wince, because that came out bitchy. But Robin just snorts and murmurs âFine,â sounding amused rather than offended, so he relaxes.Â
They exist in silence for a while, side by side. Just close enough to not feel alone, drifting on the soft notes and low, rich hum. Itâs soothing.Â
âWhat if,â Robin starts, and ignores Steveâs huff. âWhat if you go somewhere you know he might show, and then give him the opportunity to talk to you?â
âOh yeah,â he scoffs, âlike what?â
âSummer house party.â Her whisper picks up a little in excitement as she warms to her own idea. âI bet we can find one thatâs coming up soon. Everyone knows that Munson sells, itâs one of those never invited but always welcome things. Then if he doesnât come to you, just buy some weed and see if he says anything.â
âNo,â Steve whispers back.Â
She rolls over to squint at him in the dark. âJust think about it, okay? You wouldnât be forcing him to do anything, just⊠providing an opportunity. Come on, Stevie-evie, this is my chance to see a gay love story go right.â
âVetoing that nickname.â With a sigh, he rolls onto his side too, facing her. âMy face still looks like raw hamburger meat, Robs. I have like zero charm right now.â
The swelling has gone down, at least to where he can open his eye again but the bruising remains spectacular. It looks like a sunset exploded across the side of his face, and not in a good way.Â
Robin rolls her eyes. âYouâre more than just your face, dingus. It wasnât your rugged jawline, sculpted cheekbones, or pimple-free forehead that wrote those letters, it was you. Steve.â
He goes to wrinkle his nose at the descriptions, but quickly remembers thatâs still a bad idea with a swallowed grunt. âPlease, never describe me again.â
âI make no promises. And anyway, if youâre willing to try makeup I think we could get most of it covered so no oneâll ever notice. Not at night, anyway.â
That gives him pause. He rolls onto his back again to think about it, staring up at the ceiling of Robinâs bedroom and tracing imaginary constellation lines between the glow in the dark stars she has up there. Beside him, he feels her settling on her back too without having to look.Â
Itâs not like when heâd found a little brother in Dustinâwho has visited pretty much every day during Steveâs convalescence, sometimes with Erica or Mike, Lucas, and Max in tow, spouting off things heâs read in books about the various still-healing injuries. As annoying as it is, Steve appreciates that the little dork took the time to study whatâs wrong with him enough to provide armchair diagnoses and give him advice about things that he already knows.Â
Robin is⊠more of a twin than a sister. (Which, yeah, twin sister, whatever. Thatâs not the point.) Theyâre on the same wavelength in a way heâs never experienced before, not with Tommy or Carol or even Nancy. The closest thing Steve has ever had to this was during basketball games, in the heat of a play where everyone on the team knew where everyone was and where theyâd be and how to work together as a unit, perfectly in sync. Only with Robin, itâs all the time. Sometimes they can even finish each otherâs sentencesâthough they try not to do that around her parents, in the interest of not wanting them to think theyâre a couple.Â
Theyâre more like a pair of bonded kittens at the pound, Robin says. Must be adopted together. (âOkay, but why canât we be dogs? Dogs are cooler.â âBecause, dingus, you have a one-hundred-and-twenty-seven step hair and skin routine and youâre incredibly aloof when you want to be. I could go either way, but youâre one hundred percent cat.â)
âMaybe,â he whispers finally.Â
Heâs not sure sheâs still awakeâheâs not sure heâs still awake, with the soothing music lulling him back to a calm he hadnât felt even before heâd gone to bed the first time. But he wants to think she hears it, just like he wants to think that heâll run into Eddie and find out what itâs like to hold his hand, maybe even kiss him, all in the same night. Heâs worn lip gloss, he can deal with a little makeup.Â
âMaybe Iâll go.â
~
Dear Secret Admirer,
Thank you for the tape, itâs perfect. It helps me get back to sleep because it feels like youâre there, watching over me. Like nothing bad can happen. Sometimes the nightmares still come back after but I think itâs getting better. It takes a while, you know? Last time, after the after Billy after my last concussion it took a while to stop having bad dreams. I guess the mind needs time to heal too, even if the stuff that happens to it isnât as ârealâ as breaking a nose or a rib. Who knew?
I really am serious, yeah. Even though Iâm me. Whatever that means. I donât really know what to do with myself or what I want right now. (Except you. Kind of cheesy, but maybe you like that about me? I guess itâs something I always tried to hide before because the guys wouldâve made fun of me, fuck knows Tommy did all of junior year, but I kind of like the idea that maybe you saw it anyway.) Once my face heals up me and Robin are going to try and get jobs together somewhere else because weâre cats that have to stick together or weâll get stressed out and claw all the furniture. Other than that I donât know what I want to do except leave Hawkins someday. But stick around to make sure itâs to see the kids graduate. Dustinâs starting high school in the fall, maybe you could keep an eye out for him? Curly hair, no collarbones, ego bigger than the whole state, total nerd but in a good way, even if heâs sometimes a butthead about it. He plays that game with dragons and those weird looking dice, do you know it? Him and his friends Mike and Lucas are kind of bully magnets. (Max is starting freshman year too but she can take care of herself in that department.) Theyâve all been pretty down after the mall and with Will and moving away and everything. Erica, Lucasâ little sister, I guess Iâm her âbabysitterâ now too, is still in middle school but I donât know if sheâd be glad or insulted if I waited around to see her graduate. She can take care of herself too. She and Dustin were with us for most of the Starcourt burning down and it was a lot, but kids are resilient. I donât think she gets nightmares, not that she would ever admit to anyone if she did even though in her own words âweâve bled together.â Sheâs getting into the nerdy dice game too and is planning her campaign for President of the USA as soon as she turns, what, 40? 50? Whatever age you have to be before you can do that. Iâll probably still be in a town like Hawkins with another lame retail job by then, but sheâs got my vote. Sheâd do a hell of a lot better job than Regan, thatâs for sure.Â
Is your mom My mom never sang to
Also, you are really good at guitar, man. I still think about your hands, I bet you have long fingers. Really⊠Whatâs a word for âgood with his fingersâ? I think about that sometimes. I donât really know what kind of stuff two guys can do together except the obvious but I think about that a lot. I want you to play me like your guitar. Iâd let you fight my battles too, at least until my ribs get back to normal and then we can both fight both of our battles. You know Iâd do that for you, right? If you ever need me. I really like these letters. I really like you.
Love, Steve
P.S. If you were serious about making me another tape (which you really donât have to, this was already going above and beyond), my favorite songs areâŠ
Tag list (and if you missed the earlier chapters check the "#secret admirer steddie" tag on my blog): @hotluncheddie @lawrencebshoggoth @sofadofax @tangerinesteve @steviewashere
@cryingglightningg @theresebelivett @sleepy-steve @rozzieroos @lunaraindrop
@just-my-latest-hyperfixation @wheneverfeasible @swimmingbirdrunningrock @yesdangerpls @matchingbatbites
@ihavekidneys @p0lybl4nkk @grtwdsmwhr @cheesedoctor @whalesharksart
@thetinymm @envyadams-vs-me @practicallybegging @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @dauntlessdiva
@nerdyglassescheeseychick @fuzzyduxk @chaosgremlinmunson @greatwerewolfbeliever @goosesister
@dolphincliffs @friendlyneighborhoodgaycousin @beckkthewreck @pitrsattabhaadmeinjao @kurofuckingshi16
@bookworm0690 @millseyes-world @live-laugh-love-dietrich @the-tenth-mus-e
#steddieweek2024#scoops words#secret admirer steddie#steddie#eddie munson#steve harrington#robin buckley#platonic stobin
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Doodle Zine!
Hi! I'm Stars ( @ilovedthestars ) and I like making zines.
I would like to invite anyone who is interested to participate in a fun and low-stakes collaborative zine project! We can't quite get the scissors-glue-and-photocopier vibe of a classic zine on Tumblr, but I'm hoping to make something that's as close as we can get over the internet.
There's something so fun and personal about doodles. They mostly exist on paper, and are rarely shown off to other people, but they can be so unique and individual. I always loved swapping doodles in friends' notebooks and having a little something from them in the corner of my homework. That's a vibe I'd like to bring to my little corner of the internet.
So! If you're interested, I would love for you to draw some doodles, take a photo, and send them to me via this form! I will compile the submissions into both a digital zine and a printable version (5.5x4.25" pamphlet format), and share them here on Tumblr when they're finished.
(The form requires a gmail sign-in, but I will not be able to see the email you use. If you don't have a gmail account to use, you can DM me on tumblr or discord to submit)
There is no selection process--I will be including every submission that I feasibly can. I would like to emphasize that this is not an art zine, it's a doodle zine! Here are some examples of what I'm talking about when I say "doodles." The point is to have fun together, and I will not be holding you to any sort of artistic standard, so please don't hold yourself to one.
This form will be accepting submissions for at least two weeks (until July 16th).
I will leave the form open longer if submissions come in slowly. If I get too many submissions for one zine, I will simply make more zines and turn it into a series. If I am absolutely overwhelmed with submissions, we'll see how far I get through them, but I will work approximately in order of submission until I run out of energy. I have no solid timeline beyond that--this is a fun summer project for me, and I'm trying not to turn it into homework. But I'm very excited about making this happen!
The (loose) guidelines for submissions are listed in the form, as well as below the cut, for your convenience. Feel free to follow this tumblr for updates, or send in questions via the askbox. Happy doodling!
Guidelines:
Doodle anything, as messy, scribbly, abstract, or silly as you want! This zine is about little moments of connection, not about artistic quality. Treat your page like the margins of your notebook during a long lecture (or doodle in the margins of your notebook during a long lecture and submit it!)
Your page of doodles will be 4.25 inches wide by 5.5 inches tall, or 1/4 of a sheet of letter-sized paper. Either work at this size or be okay with me cropping to fit the dimensions!
Use whatever drawing tools you like, but know that light pencil might not show up well.
Lined paper is fine. So is paper with stuff printed or written on it that you have doodled over/around (as long as there are no identifying/sensitive details, like the name of a school or workplace).
Sign your page somewhere with whatever name or username you're comfortable with! Or indicate below that you chose to submit anonymously.
Take a photo! It doesn't have to be a great photo, but a decent photo will make it easier for me to edit. Try to have brightish light, no direct shadows on the paper, and a mostly straight-on angle. Leave the edges of the paper within the photo, no need to crop. I'll take care of the rest!
If there are any issues with your submission (like a photo I can't use) I will contact you and give you the chance to resubmit, so no worries.
Most importantly, have fun :)
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AND HERE WE ARE! My project for the gw2 'zine!
Featuring Baruhn, reflecting on his life so far, the challenges, the small sparks of joy, the horrors, loss and gain.
For clarification's sake; I did in fact plan to depict every stage of Baruhn's life, but uuh. File was already too big.
Might do a series of short comics (graphic novels?) though, because i fking love storytelling.
Let's look at my idiotic level of detail a bit, eh?
[Long Text Ahead]
Baruhn's story begins in the Plains of Ashford. An unsuccessful attempt to stem the tide of Ascalonian Ghosts leads to the demise of many year-long allies. Dozens of brave soldiers gave their life for a mere week of peace until the ghosts reformed. They always do. Soldiers don't.
Shaken in his faith in the Legions, the first seeds of doubt arise.
Until finally he found someone to trust with his pain. In a tavern at the edge of the Black Citadel, he gets to know this odd fellow, who is continuosly follow by the faint smell of sulfur. Although Baruhn knew where that path led, the warmth radiating from the old veteran in front of him was not only a physical, but an emotional one.
With the Three Legions busy with their internal quarrels, fighting over an empty promise, Baruhn took the first steps down a previously thought to be dark path.
Surprisingly, die Flame Legion was welcoming, their fires offered light and guidance, the embers igniting the skies like stars. Surely this was better than the cold metal over the Black Citadel.
Baruhn took to learning first, handling the small flames with ease after years of throwing fireballs at ghostly shapes. Then, he figured out how to teach, and that is where the real magic comes from. Nurturing a flame, protecting it from harsh winds, adding a bit of kindling and coal here and there. He even taught the more elusive ways of magic that wield smoke and ash.
Baruhn knew about the war, the countless lifes lost on the other side of the fence. But those were humans, and here he was among family.
That is, until he met Molly.
After a small recon mission that was assured not to be much of a hurdle, Baruhn found himself alone in a forest. The small fires he conjured for light and warmth only drew in the nearby villagers. Those with pitchforks and torches, with crude swords and a thirst for blood. He couldn't really bring himself to hate them, this was war after all. But at what cost are these battles to be won?
Trying to escape the villagers was a futile attempt. He sank to the ground, his own hot blood dousing the little flames beneath his weary head.
For some reason - maybe hope, maybe resignation - he forced open his heavy eyes, only to discover his wounds cleaned and bandaged with fragile white cloth. A small human girl, of all things in this damned forest, tried to help. Even in his weakened state, even with just one hand, Baruhn could have easily grabbed her and cracked her skull. But the only thing he did was listen. He listened to the ramblings of the small human, going on and on about faries made of leaves and gnomes of stone. She called him "bear".
When the villagers came, they saw the girl at his side. That was all it took for them to turn on her. She was to be executed like that beast that now slowly stepped in front of her. For the first time, Baruhn spoke to the girl. "close your eyes."
Fire roared, not red, not orange. not a warm, welcoming fire. Not one that belongs in a hearth, that thrives in the arms of a family. This was so much worse. This was years of inner conflict, of doubt, of closing his eyes on the other side of the fence. For the first time in his life, this was the only thing that he wanted to do, protect the little insignificant human behind him. Fire roared, and it burned wood and it burned flesh.
Baruhn picked up the little girl, she held tight to his horns, nestled in his mane. He ran for hours, years of military training finally useful. The little girl, Molly, lost her mother years ago. She burned in the fires of a war she tried to escape. "And your father? What about your family?", he asked between deep breaths. Molly was quiet for a while, then whispered, her voice barely audible, "My father burned today."
They stayed together, for quite a while. He protected her, and she, with her head full of stories, and a book full of dreams, protected him.
Things came, things went. Baruhn rejoined the High Legions, acting as a spy for Ash, keeping an eye on Iron and Blood.
Baruhn ultimately took on his role as Novice, then Archivist, then Commander. He helped during the struggles against Scarlet. A small flame here and there, some shrouding smoke, a well timed lightning strike. It was other people that finally defeated Scarlet, but he was always in the background, with all the small things at just the right time.
Mordremoth came, but with him new allies.
It was but a small tangent in the grand scheme of things. Watching the fragile sapling while waging war on the jungle itself.
Their relation was something more than friendship, something else than love. They were there for each other when they needed to be. Be it only to keep a flame burning or to banish the voices to the back of the head again, they walked the same path for a long time.
Tarir, the Egg. Aurene. A new flame entrusted to him, his to nurture, his to raise. A gamble, again. What if that little flame would some day devour the world? But Baruhn did, what he could do best. Teach.
Darker times came. Caudecus and the White Mantle. The raid on the Mursaat's prison. Then facing the last Mursaat himself.
Balthazar came, and in his wake a new kind of fire. A war, similar to the ones Baruhn had seen before, but still different. A war without a cause, war for war's sake. War against nature, against the world, like a child lashing out when there were none to help them up. Maybe Balthazar's flames were not too different from his.
After the festering swamp that Joko was, came the mountain, Kralkatorrik. Death was not a hindrance anymore, not for the Commander and his dragon. The story went as the story goes.
When it came to face the frost, the whispers, Jormag. Everything fell apart. Jormag pried into the deepest, darkest corners of Baruhn's life, dragged every doubt, small as it may have been, into the light. In the ice, every truth was warped, encased in whispers, in lies. It suffocated any hope and planted even darker seeds than anyone thought possible.
It was the spirit of the Raven that aided Baruhn. Even the black feathers of its wings were shimmering like rainbows in the moonlight.
A small piece stayed with him, just a fragment. Nevermore.
After that, the stars themselves. Astralaria.
So many stories that make a life, so many pieces. Every encounter, every step along the way is another fragment of the whole. People are made of other people, that is what it means to be alive.
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Every Fold a Wish
This is my piece from the Marco Zine, not related to Spooktober, I promise! For the rest of the fics--and even artwork!--just click the link provided above!
Also, I swear I didn't mean for it to be so sad--the original plan was goofy shenanigans and maybe ending with Marco trying to throttle Thatch when he cracks a joke about his little paper cranes but then...
well, this happened!
Oh, and here's a link to the fic specific artwork for it by @luna-orix, it's a wonderful take on the Big Scene in lovely color and style!
Word Count: 2,757
Under much pressure, Marco would have to confess this all started a very long time ago.
Back when he was still a deckhand sorting through musty maps littered with ink blots that barely passed as navigation tools. Their contents were downright illegible at best, but did well enough as teaching tools for what not to do. Over time, as they were passed from hand to unsteady hand, the parchment became worn. Rips becoming tears and holes until the only thing keeping them in one piece was hopes and dreams.
What to do with such a well loved piece of parchment?
Tossing them seemed almost an insult. And making them into paper again, while an interesting task, was usually not worth the effort. The ink bleeding and dying the usable parts darker and darker. Until it was good for little else but tissues. Marco had done it a few times just for something to do between tasks. The paper drying in the press able to be left for hours if needed. And he did hold a fondness for the old parchment made new again. But it was still not terribly useful. The ink needed to be even darker, or chalk but it smeared something terrible at the slightest touch.
In all fairness, he didnât start with the worst off pieces.
A kind, older nurse with weathered hands and a gentle smile showing him the way. Every crisp fold building up to a new, enchanting shape. Even money could be manipulated. A cute way to leave a tip, if he was so wanting. And something to do with his hands.
And he kept doing it too. Starting with his clumsy, childish fingers. Baby fat clinging to his digits as he used his bitten nails to scrape the edges clean. Until they started to even out, habit and hard work turning them into slender, calloused tools of his trade. A little treat for himself as he learned the medical trade. It was good, to know that his hands could create even if he could not heal the hurts in others. A small comfort for himself after his patients fell asleep holding his hand, yearning to not be alone with their sickness.
He got some flak for it over the years. Always teasing remarks about how cute he was being. Little flowers and fortune tellers a popular demand when a particularly mischievous brother or sister was bedbound. And Marco would sigh. Teasingly remarking on their ungrateful attitudes even as he was plied with gifts of decorative paper for his little hobby.
They decorated his office shelves. Tucked in corners and atop the spines of medical texts. Peeking behind picture frames or marching along the windowsill of Oyajiâs room. A cavalcade of shapes in a rainbow of colors and prints. Every so often one would be found covered in layers of dust somewhere forgotten and returned to him with a wide grin. Laughter echoing down the halls as Marco racked his brain to remember when he made it.
Officially, he had no favorite paper craft. No beloved origami he had mastered over the years. Just as he had no favorite sibling.
But, if his family had the wherewithal to gather every one of his little treasures from over the years and fill up a room or four with them, there would certainly be an obvious contender.
Starting with the very first one he made with a crooked wing, crumpled lightly from the very hand that had taught him so long ago.
âI saved this one for last, boyo. Hope is⊠so dangerous to have on the high seas. Without it, youâll never truly live. But too much and youâll be too drunk to survive. And this little fella? This is what heâs all about, in a way. They say a thousand paper cranes, each folded with love and care, can grant you a single wish.â She whispered to him softly, guiding his hands over the worn map of some distant island lost to time. âMake as many as you want, itâs important to remember what it means to liveâto wish. But never forget the work that goes into them. Wishingâwantingâthatâs not even half the journey. Admitting you want something bad enough to dream is but the first step. After that, you still need to fold the paper. And fold it over and over again until itâs fit to fly. And then? And then, little Marco, you need to do it again. Until you have a flock a thousand strong. It canât be done in a single day. Most wonât have the patience to do it in a lifetime. But one little crane at a timeâŠâ
She never finished that sentence.
She sighed, leaning against the pillows of her bed as Marco finished his first little bird in the palm of her hand. His own cradling the bird between their palms and she squeezed gently. Bending the worn paper a little in the cramped space.
Then she let go.
And Marco hadnât stopped making them since.
Even as he gained his devil fruit. Grew from a boy to a man. They were his little indulgence, the fuzzy memory of a weathered hand clasped in his, paper crinkling between them never far from his mind. It hurt in a good way. A way that his fruit never gave him. A sense of release. A long sigh after a hard day. Sea breeze wrapping around his bare ankles in the hot sun. Endless blue before him with heavy storm clouds littering the horizon behind him.
His office door slammed open.
A boisterous voice practically singing out as Thatch sauntered into his office with a hot meal. It was late. Later than Marco realized. The bubbly, cool fire running thick in his veins. Heâd been pushing it as of late, Marco acknowledged reluctantly.
âI come, Oâ Great One! With the gift of food~!â Thatch sang, squinting into the dim candlelight of Marcoâs office. Free hand hovering ominously over the light switch.
âDo it and Iâll kick you into the sea.â Marco warned. His fruit offering little reprieve from eye strain at this point. Bigger fish to fry, he supposed.
Thatch pouted, nudging the paperwork on his desk aside. Rather than setting down the food, Thatch instead placed his ass there. Wafting about the food Marco still couldnât quite identify temptingly.
âCâmon, Coco! Youâve been in here for hours! Itâs time to eat up and get some rest!â Thatch huffed.
âStop calling me that.â Marco was ignored, as usual. The nickname a little rare but typically whipped out when Thatch thought he was being an idiot about himself.
âWhat could possibly be more important than enjoying some good food and even better shut eye? Câmon, Iâll even give you breakfast in bed! Doesnât that sound scrum-didily-upmtious? This handsome man personally serving you up a hot plate of food in the morning?â
Marco imaginedânot Thatch âhandsomelyâ serving anythingâbut sputtering as seawater ruined his hair. The woeful cries for mercy as he drowned, just a little while, he swears Namur. He deserves it!
Familiar with Thatchâs everything by this point, Marco doubted many would argue that Thatch didnât deserve just a little waterboarding.
As a treat.
âSounds like my sleep paralysis demon talking.â Marco drawled, fixing Thatch with a dry stare.
Thatch arched back as though struck, his dramatics nearly sending the food and himself to the floor.
âMy own brother! After all the hard work I put into this? Every ounce of love I put into it?â Thatch emphasized, finally lowering the plate enough for Marco to see it was flayed sea king, glazed with honeyed pineapple and served with stuffed potatoes, a hot roll, and a slice of upside-down pineapple cake. A cup of what could be anything from tea to booze to wash it down with.
It looked fucking good. But just for being obnoxious, Marco rolled his eyes.
âGross.â
That earned him a sharp gasp and playful tears as Thatch attempted to clamber into his lap for apology cuddles. Pressing obnoxious kisses to his face like Thatch was trying to console him from some terrible tragedy that had occurred.
âG-Get the hell off of me, you ass!â Marco sputtered, reeling back as Thatch smashed Marcoâs face into his chest with petulant cries of forlorn love.
ââOh, my poor, stalwart brother! Youâve worked so hard and canât even accept crumbs of affection! It doesnât make you any less of a man to cuddle!â Thatch reassured him as any protest was muffled into his shirt. âI promise I wonât think any l-LEâES--! SHIT! ACK! M-MARCOâNO!â
Marco dug his fingers into Thatchâs unprotected sides, trapping his idiot brother in place for the deserved payback.
âMarco, yes!â
Thatch wriggled fiercely, yelping with every poke and prod as they laughed, eventually knocking back the chair and ending it with Marco wheezing under Thatchâs weight.
Finally, Marco shoved Thatch off into the floor, face aching from the smile they both shared.
âUgh! Fine! Iâll eat and go to bed, you prick!â Marco huffed, Thatch still giggling beside him.
âGreat! Iâll be sure to deliver breakfast to you, as promised~!â Thatch tittered cheekily, dodging the swipe of Marcoâs hand.
âThe fuck you will!â his fingertips grazing the fabric of Thatchâs sleeves. Still warm with laughter and affection.
Thatch was cold now.
Somehow colder than Marcoâs veins as he desperately lifted up the other man into his arms. So much heavier than before, faint breaths wheezing with blood on his lips. Cool blue fire danced over his pale face, sinking in deep with a desperation Marco hadnât felt in a long time. Hands slick with blood, skin blossoming with feathers and scales. Teetering between bird and man so violently his words were more akin to bird cries.
There were hands pulling him away. Trying to tug his trembling body from curling over Thatchâs cooling corpse. Hot, burning hands ripping him away.
A large hand, firm and steady. A rock in the ocean that beached him with such violence.
A deep, rumbling voice.
âWeâve got it from here, my son. Weâll save him, my boy. Come back to me. Come back to us. We love you.â Those words followed him into the dark. The world shaking as his lungs rattled with sobs.
âWe love youâŠâ
There was a beeping.
That was all Marco could think about.
All he could handle.
His hands were wrong. Almost incandescent. The bones vague shadows flickering in gossamer blue light. Gold licking his fingertips as he stroked⊠something. Lips stiff. Twisting with difficulty out of the pointed beak they were trying to form. Every ragged breath licking across his tongue with a heady weight to it.
There was something in his hands, Marco knew.
It was⊠thick. A little tepid. Some give until stiff scaffolding within protested. Thin threads slipping beneath a strange, upper layer. A steady, weak thrum beneath his touch.
His eyes burned. He wanted to rip into it, whatever it was. Until it was hot and thrashing and aliveâ
But a keen slipped from his lips as a rhythmic beeping finally registered properly.
He was at someoneâs bedside.
Again.
He was a little deckhand tending to a dying nurse.
No.
He was a man at a bedside.
A friend?
A brother?
He loved them fiercely. Whoever they were.
Marco wanted whoever it was to wake up already. Tease him for losing control like this. Obnoxiously cry about the display of affection that was cutting into Marcoâs chest. Turning his lungs to ribbons. Hooking into the arteries of his heart until every thump made him ache for release.
There was a blanket over his shoulders, Marco realized.
How long had he been here? He shifted in the chair and heard paper crinkle.
Fresh, patterned sheets. Traditional ocean waves with little fish peeking here and there. Tiny boats fighting even, arching waves. All in soft blues that transitioned to richer hues, imbuing the artwork with depth and emotion.
It was instinct to reach for the paper. But the weight of a whole person stopped him. Marco looked.
Both his hands were grasping a limp wrist with a faint pulse.
Letting go felt like ripping away his flesh. Piece by piece.
Fold it over and over again.
Marcoâs hands were steady despite everything. And it felt like betrayal.
He shouldnât be able to do anything right now.
Not even breathe.
But his heart kept going. Lungs expanding with the scent of cold antiseptic.
The paper was smooth. Flawless despite the neglect heâd shown it for⊠however long heâd been sitting atâŠ
Here.
Without it, youâll never truly live.
She meant this, didnât she? His family?
Even without a smooth surface, Marcoâs hands knew the way. Folding and pinching the edges clean.
No, Marco remembered.
She meant dreams. She meant hope.
Marco knew, deep down, that eventually there would always be a goodbye at the end of their stories. Said or avoided like the plague.
But he expected itâŠ
Marco never wanted to expect it.
Heâd rather drown than look forward at a time heâd say goodbye with any one of his precious family members.
The little crane perched between his fingers. Perfect after years of practice.
Marco choked up as he placed it in Thatchâs hand. Gently curling those limp fingers around itâs delicate shape. Calloused hands cradling the bird in a loose cage.
Marco retreated. Shuffling into his dark room. No one stopped him, their gazed burning his hunched shoulders.
In the bottom desk drawer, so rarely opened it almost got stuck, was a single item.
A lopsided paper crane with a bent wing. Stained with faded ink and weathered with age.
Like he was scooping up a live bird, Marco lifted it to his chest. Careful even as he collapsed to the floor.
He cried. Wept like heâd been cut in two with sea stone. Tears gushing out instead of blood. His fire, confused at the agony he was experiencing, danced in the air. Casting dizzying shadows across the space battered with open sobs.
Marco couldnât breathe. Couldnât fill his lungs enough between his cries that ached down to his bones and the fire filling his lips with faux heat.
Everything hurt.
Nothing could heal.
He was a little boy again in his fatherâs arms. Weeping and certain he was dying from grief. Every wail a benediction. A plea against the inevitable. What was already past.
A wish burning in his veins even as shame filled him.
Death was natural. A long sigh at the end of a hard day.
But Marco wanted to hold his breath until he burst. Stop in the middle of a hurricane just to keep feeling the rain.
Parchment protested in his grasp and Marco shot up like heâd been burned.
Opening his palms to find the paper crane bent even further. Flickers of light cast across the ragged edges of inkâno?
Burns.
The bird was smoldering. Fueled by the open air of his shaking hands, it burst into golden fire. Marco wailed, shaken and confused as it lit up. Flying into the air with a trail of burning embers. Dancing in an unseen wind until, before Marcoâs blurry eyes, it was gone. As though it was Thatchâs vivre card.
Time stopped. Stuttering as his heel stamped into the ground.
His shoulder nearly slamming into someone.
A door bashing into a wall.
That damn beeping so like Thatch. Annoying and reassuring in its consistent presence.
Nurses crowded Thatchâs bed, arguing over each other as familiar hair rose over them. Wide eyes looking around, face flush with warmth again.
He smiled, that crooked, familiar smile that tugged Marcoâs lips into a similar shape.
âHey, Coco, look! I got a little hospital buddy!â Thatch crowed, voice a soft rasp as he gently held up a small, blue paper crane. Gold catching the light as fire flickered over itâs wingspan. Every cresting wave lined with unnatural color that had not been there before. It seemed as alive as Thatch.
Thatch let out a creaking rush of air as Marco hugged him. Body awkwardly half in his lap as he buried his face into Thatchâs neck. Careful and weak, Thatch curled his arms around Marcoâs chest. He smelled of antiseptic, sea salt, and spice.
The storm was behind them now, but there was still time for rain. One breath after another.
Little paper cranes littered across a pirate ship.
Every fold a wish.
Every step hope.
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â DOTNOMICON: GRIMOIRE OF WONDERS! RELEASE!!! â
This zine is a digital magic book featuring 85 artists and writers from all over the world. Potions, spells, guides... everything you'll need for your experiments is here! But please don't try them out, it may be dangerous~
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