#he sleeps in plant magic class. its not his fault that the garden beds have such soft dirt in them

[puppsworld]

just a lil fella who’s crazy uncle tried to kill the entire realm.  he does ballet on the weekends.

[ofgoldenblood]

Underneath the Apple Tree

Shadowhunters AU Ship: Jace x Alec

See tags for trigger warnings. Also, I listened to this a lot during writing, so if you want background music while reading: click here.

          Jace had always loved the apple tree the most. You could see it from almost every room on the east side of the house, its wide branches embracing the mansion like a gentle giant. It was the one living thing in the gardens that Mr. Lightwood had to look after the least and yet it was the first thing that came to Jace’s mind when he thought of their groundsman. The Lightwoods had always been there to look after the gardens surrounding Herondale Manor, just like the apple tree had always been there. To Jace life at the mansion was unthinkable without either one.

He loved everything about the apple tree. He loved its white blossoms in spring, its green leaves in summer, its delicious apples in fall and even its knobby naked branches in winter, that turned from black to white with the first snow every year. Countless memories hung in those branches, like forgotten fruit. Memories of a little blond boy who climbed too high and broke his arm when he fell, of three children - two siblings and their best friend - shaking the trunk with all their strength until an apple hit one of them on the head and they laughed until their stomachs hurt; memories of faded letters carved into dry bark and of promises whispered and carried away by the wind.

~ + ~ + ~ + ~

          Alec had been Jace’s friend for as long as he could remember. Despite belonging to different social classes they had grown up together and spent their whole lives in each other’s company. Life had been easier when they were children, no rules standing in their way that went beyond ‘don’t eat this’ or ‘don’t ruin your clothes playing in the dirt’. It hadn’t mattered that Jace was the son of a Lord and Alec the son of his servant. They had just been Jace and Alec.

Two boys who had played together, laughed together, learned how to read and write together. Two boys who had brought home an injured fox cub and insisted on keeping him as a pet during the winter, both hiding their tears when spring came and it was time to let him go. Two boys who had looked at the world with the same innocent eyes and believed that things would always be the same.

~ + ~ + ~ + ~

          They started treating them differently when Jace turned twelve - Alec was thirteen then - and he was given a private tutor. Mr. Starkweather was a strict but kind man, relentless and patient. Jace would have liked the lessons he taught him if they hadn’t taken up the time he’d used to play outside with Alec and Isabelle. Often Hodge would rebuke him for not paying attention but rather staring out the window, watching Alec walking around the garden, carrying tools for his father, planting flower bulbs or moving around carts filled with earth. The time for games seemed over and soon Jace began to yearn for a childhood that had ended too quickly.

Their friendship didn’t end but where they had spent time watching worms squirm around in the rain-damp earth or fought wars with their brave toy soldiers Jace was now reading books and practicing the piano while Alec learned everything there was to know about his father’s trade. One day Jace would be lord of the manor and Alec would be his groundsman. It was a game they had played as little children but a reality neither of them were prepared to live.

~ + ~ + ~ + ~

          They first kissed on the day Jace left to stay with his uncle in the city. It was only for two months; to see the capital and the world of business - and to learn how to be a proper gentleman. Sixty-one days, Alec told him, and Jace would never forget the way his hazel eyes shone in the early light of the sun, or the way his lips felt against his when he had stood up on the tip of his toes and claimed them as his. He’d smelled like rain and earth and something sweet. With fifteen Jace was too old to cry about leaving home, his mother said, but she did not know that it was not the house he would miss.

He kissed Alec sixty-two times when he returned, for every day he had missed him and one extra because he had never been good at math. Alec didn’t complain.

~ + ~ + ~ + ~ 

          The following summer they cleaned up the attic together. Jace’s mother did not like to see her son do a servant’s work, but she could see there was no stopping him. For days and days Jace and Alec looked through dusty old things, forgotten and abandoned, discarding many and keeping a few. To Jace those days were a blur of happiness and joy and kisses that tasted like dust and ancient wine (one of the things they kept).

Their efforts were rewarded with a place they could call their own; with a bed and a pile of books and a wall for pictures and photographs they liked. On many nights to follow they would sneak up to meet there, to get lost in their own little world and forget what was expected of them. The bed stood right underneath the window so that in the mornings all Jace had to do was lift his head and he could see the apple tree in the garden below. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Aside from Alec sleeping in his arms.

~ + ~ + ~ + ~

         When Jace turned 17 he was set to marry a girl he had never met. Her name was Clarissa and her hair had the color of rust. She was the daughter of a man of influence and power in the capital, and their union would be appropriate. The only person more upset about this arrangement than Jace himself was Alec.

Two nights Jace spent alone in the attic, waiting for his love in vain. On the third night he saw him outside by the apple tree. That night Jace gave away his family ring: dangling from a silver chain he put it around Alec’s neck. It is yours and no one else’s, he vowed. Like my heart, now and forever. They kissed, and Alec swore to kiss no other as long as he lived.

~ + ~ + ~ + ~

          As the wedding moved closer Jace became restless. He cried and refused but his parents insisted. No man or woman is truly free in this world; bound by duty and expectation we are but caged animals, his father said. Two nights before his coach to the city awaited, Jace begged Alec to meet him by the old bridge that crossed the river near the woods. It was the place where they had found their fox cub and where they had spent many summers trying to catch fish. A place of magic and freedom and innocence.

Run away with me, Jace pleaded. I’d rather die a beggar in your arms than live a life of wealth and never be allowed to kiss you again. And what reason had Alec to refuse? They agreed to meet a night from then, taking nothing but what they needed to live.

~ + ~ + ~ + ~

          But they had more than the stars and the moon to witness their encounter. Isabelle, woken by her brother’s disappearance had followed and overheard their whispers. In fear for her brother’s fate Isabelle ran to their mother, recounting what she’d heard. And the following night Alec would scream and cry and hit his hands against the door of his room until they bled, but it would not open.

And Jace would wait an hour, two, his hope slowly fading - until he heard footsteps on dry leaves. But it was not Alec who came to him. It was Max, the youngest, with the Herondale ring in his hand and news of Alec’s change of mind on his lips. Perhaps in another life, he recounted his mother’s words, disguised as his brother’s.

Heartbroken Jace stayed behind, praying the winter cold would take his life and with it his misery. But he was not so lucky, and in the morning it was time to go home and get on his coach. He did not look back at the house or the attic window, the brown leaves of the apple tree looking lifeless and still from the corners of his eyes.

~ + ~ + ~ + ~

         For weeks there were no news from home, yet Jace could not forget. More often than not he found himself wishing he could go back, back to the little room in the attic, to their books and their dreams and the warmth of Alec’s embrace. His marriage was one on the paper, no love lost between him and his wife. It was not her fault that she was bound to him, but he could not give her what he had given away a long time ago: his heart.

One day his parents arrived in the city, like refugees, bearing news of a dreadful sickness. Like a plague it had taken over the house, they said, leaving nothing but death in its wake. Never in his life had Jace felt greater fear and all warnings were ignored and all vows to Clarissa forgotten as he took his father’s horse and stormed back over icy roads to the home of his childhood.

Take what you must, o death, he thought, but please spare my love.

~ + ~ + ~ + ~

          The house had never been so quiet. Where once laughter and joy had prevailed only dread and loss were present now. With trembling hands and an aching heart Jace visited the stage of his childhood, the rooms that told the story of his life. One by one he found them. Mr. and Mrs. Lightwood, still and mute, as if they were sleeping. Isabelle, her black hair held in a loose braid, lips once red and full of life now white and silent. She was beautiful as ever, like Snow White preserved in her casket of glass. And little Max, his hand wrapped loosely around the wooden toy soldier Jace had given him for his birthday a lifetime ago. They all had died in their beds, trusting in the one who’d cared for them, who had brought them sweet smelling tea and promises of painless sleep. The one who could not forgive.

With an aching lump in his throat Jace stumbled through the graveyard he had once called home, yelling the one name he could remember in his horror, the one name that still mattered.

Alec. Alec. Alec.

He never received an answer nor found another body. When he reached the attic his mind played cruel tricks on him, maddened by fear. There he was: Alec, as pale as his sister, a twig from the apple tree in his hands that stood in full flower, his eyes closed in a peaceful expression. A blink, a beat of his heart later and he was gone; nothing but an empty bed that held the happiest memories of Jace’s life between its dusty sheets with him in the room. And outside the window, the apple tree.

Jace had never seen an uglier, more horrific thing in his life.

It was a mockery, a cruel ridicule of something once pure and innocent. Jace ran, faster than he ever had, even though he knew it was too late. He fell and tripped, his knees covered in dirt and snow by the time he reached the tree. He felt no pain or cold as he wrapped his arms around his lover’s legs and pushed him up, as if that would bring the air back into his lungs or the life back into his body. He couldn’t hold him for long, his shoes slipping on the wet ground and his strength failing him fast. The world was blurring before his eyes; the image of Alec hanging in his beloved tree swimming away--- and Jace screamed.

He screamed until his lungs burned and his throat was sore.

~ + ~ + ~ + ~

          The ground was hard and frozen and by the time Jace had dug a hole deep enough his hands were bleeding. There were no flowers to adorn his lover’s grave, no letters to be buried with him and no words of love to be spoken. So many things were left unsaid between them but Alec couldn’t hear them where he was now, and Jace’s heart was too broken to believe his prayers would reach him. The small hill of black earth beneath the tree stood out sharp against the white snow around it, the only thing remaining from the story of the three little children who had shook the apple tree for its fruit, and the two lost boys who had found love in one another.

And like the others, Jace disappeared. His feet carried him away from the tree, away from Alec, away from the house. All he left behind was a trail of footprints that was quickly covered when the snow began to fall again. A trail that led through trees and bushes, all bare and dead now, down to a little bridge that spread across the icebound river.

And half-way across, the footprints ended.

[jotawakening-blog]

23 Fentuary, 5A 169: Today I Fucked Up

As soon as it’s light, I take advantage of the fact that the sea remains calm to get back to where I left Erjolf and bring him the Muspah tail.  Sure enough, he’s there waiting for me, or, more specifically, waiting for the trophy I’m bringing back.  Well, I show it to him, and he gets excited!  Rather than thank me, though, he asks me to keep this whole business on the down low, just in case the Fremennik elders find out that he didn’t score this trophy alone and make him do the rest of the trials in the usual manner.  Given how he sponged on me this entire time, I tell him I can make no promises.  

Well, he heads off to Rellekka to become a Fremennik, and I’m left trying to decide where I want to go next.  One thing I could do is check in with the natural historian, and tell him that the Muspah sighting was… not of an actual Muspah at all.  He’s disappointed by this, but I manage to fire up his excitement again by telling him where the Varrock museum might find that Muspah statue I unearthed in the desert.  Pleased, he gives me a spirit lamp he’s been keeping around.  I inhale… and am treated with brief flashes of visions of a craftsman at work.  Interesting.

Since I’m already here in the Fremennik Province, I get it into my mind that I might want to see if the ban on entering the city has been lifted yet.  So, I go through the mountainside tunnel and down to the river Kelda, and inquire about passage at the ferry dock.  The ferryman is most obliging, explaining to me that the Consortium’s travel ban has cost them a lot of business, so they decided to rescind it, and are even allowing humans to travel in and out of the city for free, to make up for lost custom!

The boatman starts up the paddlewheel on the boat and casts off.  Once we’re floating down the river, he tells me about the history of Keldagrim.  It’s been 500 years, he says, since the reign of King Alvis, known to history as the saviour of Keldagrim and the victim of his own inventions.  He explains: The King federated the city’s mining companies into a body called the Consortium, which was meant to serve the monarchy.  But in time, it was the monarchy that became subordinated to the Consortium.  Now, Keldagrim has no kings, and only the statue of King Alvis stands to remind its people of the old days, the dark days of monarchy.

The statue is right there on the approach to the city!  We would be passing it, but as we approach, the engine of the boat emits a disconcerting noise and the craft begins to veer erratically hither and thither.  And then the prow crashes into the statue and it falls into the water, shattering into fragments.  Well, shit.  What a start to my visit.

It gets worse, though: the moment we dock, a squad of Black Guards in gold-trimmed armour runs up and places us under arrest.  I am separated from the ferryman and dragged to the guard’s headquarters, where its Commander, Veldaban, interrogates me.  Or, rather, he wants a chat.  See, it turns out I’m not actually under arrest: the statue was due for replacement anyway, and besides, it’s the ferryman’s damn fault for losing control of his boat.  Still, he says, it would be good if I helped in the effort to recreate the sculpture, working as the assistant to Blasidar, Keldagrim’s finest sculptor.  His workshop is on the eastern side of the Kelda.  I reply that I’d be more than happy to help, which pleases Veldaban.

Before I go off to explore the city, I hang around the Black Guard HQ for a bit, even stealing a few words with the Supreme Commander, a black-bearded dwarf named Bisi.  I ask him about his relationship to Veldaban, and he explains that, while Veldaban commands the Black Guard in Keldagrim (by far the largest command), he oversees all the Black Guard regiments all over the dwarven realm.  For instance, Commander Lawgof is of equal rank to Veldaban, and subordinate to Bisi.  Aha, that makes sense.  I ask Bisi whether he’s heard any news around the city.  Of course, he says, the biggest and latest news is the collapse of the statue, but he can’t shake the impression that it’s somehow connected to the other disturbances that have taken place around here recently. The ones that led to the city’s closure.  Hm, if there’s anything to that theory, perhaps I shall find out as I work to rebuild the statue.

For now, though, I have a city to explore!  Keldagrim is a marvel to behold, a city the size of Varrock built free-standing in a massive, vaulted cavern.  The buildings are dour, squat affairs of grey stone reinforced with metal that exude solidity, and the streets are brightly lit with lantern-light.  A remarkable place, but very, very dwarven.  Even the heights of the storeys in the buildings are all wrong, my head bumping almost up against the ceiling of most of them.

I begin my tour of the city by walking about the western side.  The first building that captures my attention is a small armour-shop run by Saro, who stocks it with high-quality wares— even adamantium, which is rare in human lands except by special order from the Grand Exchange.  It would seem he’s working on something even better, a system of lightweight metal plates meant to increase the durability of armour, but all he’s got now is prototypes, and they’re extremely expensive.

The building next door is something of a dwarven stereotype: an inn called the King’s Axe, serving up dwarven stout to dwarves in search of the good stuff.  I don’t know whether it’s the time of day (do dwarves living underground follow a day-night sleep cycle?) but it’s pretty empty right now.  Still, I have a glass of dwarven stout along with a fun-loving dwarf named Gauss.  After I’ve finished my pint, I go looking for the innkeeper to inquire about lodgings.  He offers me a room, and lets slip there’s a gnomish delegation staying at the inn right now, come to negotiate with a cartel known as the Red Axe.  I’m in pretty good stead with the gnomes, so I decide to have a chat with them.  They are pretty aloof and standoffish, more so than most gnomes, though I figure they may be some of Glough’s flunkies.  After talking to them for a while, though, I get the feeling that there’s something more sinister going on: I ask both gnomes I meet where they’re from, just casually, and they give me two different answers!  The official story is that they’re from the Grand Tree, getting much-needed supplies of an unspecified nature, but the junior of the two delegates tells me they’re from Tree Gnome Village and is instantly corrected by her superior.  I don’t know what to make of it, and can’t think of any way to press them into telling me the truth, so I move on.

Along the street to the south-east, I stop by a stonemason’s workshop to see whether he would consider selling stone to a human interested in furnishing her house.  He tells me he sees no problem with that, and walks me through the varieties of stone he’s selling, from common limestone to vastly expensive magic stones.

On the same street is one of the entrances to the former royal palace, a grand hall that dominates the skyline and straddles the river.  On this side, there are the gardens (a rather shabby affair by surface standards, with only a few fly-eating cave plants and an unkempt soil-bed), where I run into an uncommonly tall dwarf named Tombar (not really the talkative sort, though) and Rind, the palace gardener, who talks to me about the intricacies of growing anything so deep beneath the mountains.  I ask him where the dwarves get their food supply, and he tells me they can grow a bit here, but most of Keldagrim’s food comes from trade via the mine cart tracks that run deep beneath the earth to various outposts.  In the Era of Kings, though, technology was more primitive, and the food situation was worse, but the dwarves never considered abandoning the underground.  I ask him why that was, and he replies that food shortages were preferable to being in the thick of the God Wars.  This state of affairs continued well into the Fourth Age, and only after King Alvis’ glorious victory over the mountain trolls did the dwarves send scouts to the surface to check on the situation.

On the northern side of the west bank, I find a bank, staffed by dwarves but fully connected to the Bank of Gielinor network.  Quite convenient!  Further on, I make a few more stops.  For instance, there’s a store selling quality weapons that even has runite longswords in stock: quite remarkable given the rarity of the metal.  I also pop into some private dwellings to ask the locals what the gossip around town is.  It doesn’t go too well.  Some, like a certain Dromund, tell me to get out, and others, like a quarrelling dwarven couple, are too absorbed in their own quibbles to spare me any time.  Fortunately, there’s a library nearby, and the librarian, Hugi (the name means ‘personification of thought’ in Dwarven) is pleased to have someone to talk to.  I ask him about the collection, and he says it’s been accumulated over centuries, from the Era of Kings, to the Rise of the Consortium, to the present day, the Era of Prosperity.  I glance through the books, but find nothing so exciting that I would put aside my exploration of the city to ensconce myself with it, so I make small talk with a human researcher— the first human I’ve seen in the city besides myself— then continue on my way.

Rather than visit the palace, which I expect will take a long time, I decide to cross over to the east bank via a bridge just upriver and look for the stonemason’s workshop.  On the banks of the Kelda, I notice a section of the cavern wall that positively gleams with rare ores.  I try to take a closer look, but a dwarf stops me, saying I’m trespassing on public property.  Okay, fair enough: access to all that ore would have been too good to be true.

East Keldagrim is a bit of a different world from the west bank.  The buildings here are smaller, shabbier, working-class.  There is no public street-lighting, only lanterns hung from houses, and even the street is a bit of a foreign concept.  Right by the bridge is a dock where I run into that damned ferryman and his boat.  I give him a piece of my mind about his shoddy piloting, but he doesn’t seem fazed; he just caustically reminds me that I got my money’s worth for the journey.  Grr.

I don’t know if it’s just my imagination, but the locals around here seem to be friendlier than the well-heeled lot over in West Keldagrim.  There’s this one dwarf, Karl, for instance, who’s not angry at me for knocking on his door, but listens raptly to my firsthand account of the collapse of the statue and my subsequent arrest.  Then, to the north of his place, there’s a shop selling kebabs, whose owner complains to me about some particularly drunken dwarves who live in the area.  In fact, I run into one of them soon afterwards: as I’m passing by his house, he throws an empty bottle in my direction!  I barge in to confront him, but see that he’s drunk well past the point of throwing the bottle maliciously: he’s hallucinating about dwarf-eating kebabs that have arrived to invade the city!  Oh dear, I hope he will be all right.

On the far eastern edge of the city are the actual slums, little dwellings carved straight out of the rock, interspersed with some actual buildings.  In one of the buildings, I find a dwarf selling decorative armguards, but he won’t sell to me, because apparently they’re not the right look for my arms (I don’t have forearms the size of a tree branch!).  Oh well, should probably have seen that coming.  Behind his house is a small coal mine where some of the locals from the cave-homes make their living.  They say I can mine there as long as I don’t draw too much attention to myself.  Alright, good to know.  

The colourful sociological observations don’t end there.  One of the locals is a dwarven male wreathed in smoke, who looks completely out of it.  Is he doing some kind of drugs, I wonder?  There’s also the mostly-deaf owner of a pickaxe shop, who sells remarkable-quality wares (even runite picks) but is burdened by his son, who is supposed to be helping him run the business but is actually kind of a layabout.  I also encounter a dwarf who’s wallowing in self-pity because after ninety years mining, all he’s got is a small house on the east bank.  I would tell him to count his blessings— it doesn’t seem like too bad a life— but I doubt he’ll listen, so I leave him be.

Further south, the character of the district turns from residential to industrial, with a number of important enterprises all located close to one another.  There’s the lava flow mine, for instance, which is off-limits to humans but provides geothermal power for the mine cart network, so is of crucial importance to the functioning of the city.  Then there’s a brewery, which advertises its alcohol by way of a drunken dwarf who walks around with a placard: apparently this is the only job he could get after being fired by the Red Axe for… not showing up to work in uniform one time too many, the brewer believes?  Anyway, their profit margins are low, so they pay him in beer.  I ask the woman at the bar if I can use the brewing facilities for my own purposes, and she tells me to go  ahead: her husband Blandebir will charge me an appropriate amount for the yeast.  I have it in mind to brew some cider, and unless I take another trip to Morytania (which, actually, I well might) this would be a decent place to do it.  But for cider, I’ll need apples, and I don’t have enough right now to make any.  What else?  Oh, the brewery has a cat, but it’s big and mean and even when I speak to it in cat through my amulet, it just glowers at me.

South of the brewery is the rail yard, a sprawling tangle of mine cart tracks that spreads its tentacles to all corners of the dwarven realm.  The main trunk line goes all the way to the Grand Exchange in Varrock, with a through stop at the Ice Mountain mines.  I ask a conductor how much it would cost for me to travel by mine cart and learn that it is free for humans: another part of the city’s bid to get business booming again.  Very useful stuff, though I still have a statue I’m duty-bound to rebuild before I feel I can leave.

Right by the rail yard, I notice a large factory building of some kind.  The foreman outside isn’t very communicative, but he lets me know that this building houses the blast furnace, which the Consortium has opened up to all and sundry (even non-dwarves, which he’s displeased about) so that it can secure the manpower needed to run it.  Since no one is stopping me from going inside, I head in and try my luck talking to the dwarves inside to find out more.  The shop floor workers aren’t much help, but I finally manage to convince a foreman to talk to me.  He tells me that the blast furnace is the pinnacle of dwarven metallurgy, cutting in half the amount of coal needed to refine ore.  The downside is that it takes a five-man crew to get the thing going, and since management refuses to pay workers anything (they argue it’s a privilege even to be working on this technological marvel!) the furnace runs idle a lot of the time and requires human volunteers at all others.  I question the logic of this business strategy, but hey, if it works for these guy, who am I to question it.

A few other dwarves are hanging around the blast furnace to support operations.  One of them is an ore merchant, who sells large quantities of ore of various kinds (nothing rarer than mithril, though) to smiths who didn’t bring, or cannot procure their own; the other, meanwhile, is a quartermaster for the Black Guard, who buys top-quality armour from smiths who can’t be bothered to market the wares they produce here.  Since the furnace isn’t running right now, though, his stock is all empty.  Well, there’s nothing really for me to do here, so I go out again and look for that sculptor.

I find his shop right by the eastern entrance to the Consortium palace.  Blasidar is a middle-aged dwarf with a greying beard who greets me with courtesy, but no special warmth— but that’s only to be expected from the dwarves, really.  I tell him why I’m visiting him and ask whether there’s anything I can help with as far as rebuilding the statue goes.  Blasidar thinks for a bit, then tells me he’s already got an assistant and a model, but could use an errand girl.  I tell him to go on.  He explains that his brief was to rebuild the statue exactly as it was, but, the dwarves not having much of a painting tradition, there exists no visual record of it.  So, we’ll have to make do and produce a plausible facsimile using ornate, but probably ahistorical clothes.  Specifically, he wants me to find a pair of boots, the fanciest I can find; robes in the royal style; and King Alvis’ axe, which is said to still survive.  He has no idea where in Keldagrim I can find these items, but wishes me best of luck anyway in finding them.

That’s… more of a challenge than I expected.  But I shall try to make some headway tomorrow (or at least, after I’ve had what would be a full night’s sleep above-ground).  I’ll begin at the King’s Axe (I’ve a feeling the inn I’m staying in has that name for a reason) and move on to the Consortium palace: if there’s one place that’s bound to have rich dwarves and fancy clothes, it’s there.