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lailoken · 5 years ago

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The Coblynau

“Under the general title of Coblynau I class the fairies which haunt the mines, quarries and under- ground regions of Wales, corresponding to the cabalistic Gnomes. The word coblyn has the double meaning of knocker or thumper and sprite or fiend; and may it not be the original of goblin? It is applied by Welsh miners to pigmy fairies which dwell in the mines, and point out, by a peculiar knocking or rapping, rich veins of ore. The faith is extended, in some parts, so as to cover the indication of subterranean treasures generally, in caves and secret places of the mountains. The coblynau are described as being about half a yard in height and very ugly to look upon, but extremely good- natured, and warm friends of the miner. Their dress is a grotesque imitation of the miner's garb, and they carry tiny hammers, picks and lamps.

They work busily, loading ore in buckets, flitting about the shafts, turning tiny windlasses, and pounding away like madmen, but really accomplishing nothing whatever. throw stones at the miners, when enraged at being lightly spoken of; but the stones are harmless. Nevertheless, all miners of a proper spirit refrain from provoking them, because their presence brings good luck. They have been known to

Miners are possibly no more superstitious than other men of equal intelligence; I have heard some of their number repel indignantly the idea that they are superstitious at all; but this would simply be to raise them above the level of our common humanity. There is testimony enough, besides, to support my own conclusions, which accredit a liberal share of credulity to the mining class. The Oswestry Advertiser, a short time ago, recorded the fact that, at Cefn, 'a woman is employed as messenger at one of the collieries, and as she commences her duty early each morning she meets great numbers of colliers going to their work. Some of them, we are gravely assured, consider it a bad omen to meet a woman first thing in the morning; and not having succeeded in deterring her from her work by other means, they waited upon the manager and declared that they should remain at home unless the woman was dismissed.' This was in 1874. In June, 1878, the South Wales Daily News recorded a superstition of the quarrymen at Penrhyn, where some thousands of men refused to work on Ascension Day. This refusal did not arise out of any reverential feeling, but from an old and wide-spread superstition, which has lingered in that district for years, that if work is continued on Ascension Day an accident will certainly follow. A few years ago the agents persuaded the men to break through the superstition, and there were accidents each year-a not unlikely occurrence, seeing the extent of works carried on, and the dangerous nature of the occupation of the men. This year, however, the men, one and all, refused to work.' dealing with considerable numbers of the mining class, and are quoted in this instance as being more significant than individual cases would be. Of these last I have encountered many. Yet I should be sorry if any reader were to conclude from all this that Welsh miners are not in the main intelligent, church-going, newspaper-reading men. so, I think, even beyond the common. Their superstitions, therefore, like those of the rest of us, must be judged as 'a thing apart,' not to be reconciled with intelligence and education, but co-existing with them. Absolute freedom from superstition can come only with a degree of scientific culture not yet reached by mortal man.

It can hardly be cause for wonder that the miner should be superstitious. His life is passed in a dark and gloomy region, fathoms below the earth's green surface, surrounded by walls on which dim lamps shed a fitful light. It is not surprising that imagination (and the Welsh imagination is peculiarly vivid) should conjure up the faces and forms of gnomes and coblynau, of phantoms and fairy men. When they hear the mysterious thumping which they know is not produced by any human being, and when in examining the place where the noise was heard they find there are really valuable indications of ore, the sturdiest incredulity must sometimes be shaken. Science points out that the noise may be produced by the action of water upon the loose stones in fissures and pot-holes of the mountain limestone, and does actually suggest the presence of metals.

In the days before a Priestley had caught and bottled that demon which exists in the shape of carbonic acid gas, when the miner was smitten dead by an invisible foe in the deep bowels of the earth it was natural his awe-struck companions should ascribe the mysterious blow to a supernatural enemy. When the workman was assailed suddenly by what we now call fire-damp, which hurled him and his companions right and left upon the dark rocks, scorching, burning, and killing, those who survived were not likely to question the existence of the mine fiend. Hence arose the superstition—now probably quite extinct—of basilisks in the mines, which destroyed with their terrible gaze. When the explanation came, that the thing which killed the miner was what he breathed, not what he saw; and when chemistry took the fire-damp from the domain of faerie, the basilisk and the fire fiend had not a leg to stand on. The explanation of the Knockers is more recent, and less palpable and convincing.

The Coblynau are always given the form of dwarfs, in the popular fancy; wherever seen or heard, they are believed to have escaped from the mines or the secret regions of the mountains. Their homes are hidden from mortal vision. When encountered, either in the mines or on the mountains, they have strayed from their special abodes, which are as spectral as themselves. There is at least one account extant of their secret territory having been revealed to mortal eyes. I find it in a quaint volume (of which I shall have more to say), printed at Newport, Monmouthshire, in 1813. It relates that one William Evans, of Hafodafel, while crossing the Beacon Mountain very early in the morning, passed a fairy coal mine, where fairies were busily at work. Some were cutting the coal, some carrying it to fill the sacks, some raising the loads upon the horses' backs, and so on; but all in the completest silence. He thought this 'a wonderful extra natural thing,' and was considerably impressed by it, for well he knew that there really was no coal mine at that place. He was a person of undoubted veracity,' and what is more, 'a great man in the world-above telling an untruth.'

That the Coblynau sometimes wandered far from home, the same chronicler testifies; but on these occasions they were taking a holiday. Egbert Williams, 'a pious young gentleman of Denbigh- shire, then at school,' was one day playing in a field called Cae Caled, in the parish of Bodfari, with three girls, one of whom was his sister. Near the stile beyond Lanelwyd House they saw a company of fifteen or sixteen coblynau engaged in dancing madly. They were in the middle of the field, about seventy yards from the spectators, and they danced something after the manner of Morris-dancers, but with a wildness and swiftness in their motions. They were clothed in red like British soldiers, and wore red handkerchiefs spotted with yellow wound round their heads. And a strange circumstance about them was that although they were almost as big as ordinary men, yet they had unmistakably the appearance of dwarfs, and one could call them nothing but dwarfs. Presently one of them left the company and ran towards the group near the stile, who were direfully scared thereby, and scrambled in great fright to go over the stile. Barbara Jones got over first, then her sister, and as Egbert Williams was helping his sister over they saw the coblyn close upon them, and barely got over when his hairy hand was laid on the stile. He stood leaning on it, gazing after them as they ran, with a grim copper-coloured countenance and a fierce look. The young people ran to Lanelwyd House and called the elders out, but though they hurried quickly to the field the dwarfs had already disappeared.

The counterparts of the Coblynau are found in most mining countries. In Germany, the Wichtlein (little Wights) are little old long-bearded men, about three-quarters of an ell high, which haunt the mines of the southern land. The Bohemians call the Wichtlein by the name of Haus-schmiedlein, little House-smiths, from their sometimes making a noise as if labouring hard at the anvil. They are not so popular as in Wales, however, as they predict misfortune or death. They announce the doom of a miner by knocking three times distinctly, and when any lesser evil is about to befall him they are heard digging, pounding, and imitating other kinds of work. In Germany also the kobolds are rather troublesome than otherwise, to the miners, taking pleasure in frustrating their objects, and rendering their toil unfruitful. Sometimes they are down- right malignant, especially if neglected or insulted, but sometimes also they are indulgent to individuals whom they take under their protection. ‘When a miner therefore hit upon a rich vein of ore, the inference commonly was not that he possessed more skill, industry, or even luck than his fellow-workmen, but that the spirits of the mine had directed him to the treasure.'

The intimate connection between mine fairies and the whole race of dwarfs is constantly met through- out the fairy mythology; and the connection of the dwarfs with the mountains is equally universal. God,' says the preface to the Heldenbuch, 'gave the dwarfs being, because the land and the mountains were altogether waste and uncultivated, and there was much store of silver and gold and precious stones and pearls still in the mountains.' From the most ancient times, and in the oldest countries, down to our own time and the new world of America, the traditions are the same. The old Norse belief which made the dwarfs the current machinery of the northern Sagas is echoed in the Catskill Mountains with the rolling of the thunder among the crags where Hendrik Hudson's dwarfs are playing ninepins.”

British Goblins

Wirt Sikes, 1880

#the fae #faerie folk #faerie faith #faerie #coblynau #british goblins #wirt sikes #welsh folklore

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lizziestudieshistory · 5 years ago

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Books of 2020 - Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte*

How do I review a book that has had such an impact on me? I am serious when I say I had a spiritual experience whilst reading this book. Every page changed the way I saw this novel and, eventually, reading it altered the way I’m going to look at both books and the world around me in the future. This is the hardest review I have had to write, so I hope I’ve done this masterpiece justice.

Wuthering Heights is a visceral, deeply emotive novel. It’s full of passion, power, and the supernatural. Every emotion and event is felt to the fullest extent, whether that is the cruelest act of violence or vicious hatred, to the deepest feelings of love and destructive desire. Nothing is felt half way. Bronte let her world run wild and untamed, much like the moors that permeate every sentence of her novel, and it is magnificent for it.

When I first began reading Wuthering Heights I was pleasantly surprised at how much I was enjoying it, everyone and their mother says it is a marmite book - and I was convinced I was going to be on the side that hated it. I usually am in these situations (I’ve even managed to loathe Jane Austen… Although, thinking about it, that should suggest I prefer books full of drama and passion rather than the gentle sophistication Austen writes about…) Anyway, by the time I reached that crucial eerie moment where Lockwood encounters the ghost of Catherine Earnshaw pleading to be let into Wuthering Heights, I was enraptured. Even though I took my time reading it, I couldn’t stop thinking about this novel; its themes; and the terrible, wonderful people that dominate its pages.

I really do understand where those who dislike Bronte’s masterpiece are coming from - it’s dark, gritty, melodramatic, cruel, violent, and hateful (and that’s just what comes from the top of my head!) No one in this book is particularly likeable and they live in a cycle of passion, hatred, vengeance, and self destruction. Even the landscape itself is bleak. However, for me, this was half its brilliance!

Emily Bronte is a master at creating despicable characters, who I loathe, and still making me care deeply about them. The best example has to be Heathcliff himself. Heathcliff is a monster: he’s vicious, violent, hateful, and vengeful. He’s enraged at everyone around him and wants to punish the world for what he thinks it has done to him. Yet, he is also full of passion and love - it’s an abhorrent, possessive, and destructive love, but nevertheless his adoration of Catherine is at the heart of this entire narrative. Despite everything he does, all the people he’s hurt; his outbursts of passion, love, and malevolence are the most powerful, real moments in the novel. Nothing else feels quite as tangible as Heathcliff and his intense emotionality - and it is because of this raw power that I managed to hate Heathcliff and love him for exactly the same reasons.

What really helped Bronte achieve this is the dual narrative not necessarily the two narrators Mr Lockwood and Nelly Dean, but the two distinct periods that narrative takes place in which have very different tones and events that match the characters and even ‘world’ they take place in. I see Wuthering Heights as a book split between the two Catherines - in the first half our attention is mainly fixed on Catherine Earnshaw (henceforward ‘Catherine’), her awful childhood, passionate love affair with Heathcliff, and her fateful choice to marry Edgar Linton. The second half is centred on Catherine Linton (‘Cathy’), her struggle to become a woman, and eventually breaking the cycle of hatred and destruction. Both halves felt incredibly different in their atmosphere and differed widely in how they presented the central characters that appeared throughout the entire book (mainly Heathcliff, Edgar Linton, and Nelly herself.)

In Catherine’s first half we see another world full of passion, wildness, and a “heathen” power - this is the half of the book that really fits how we view Wuthering Heights in popular culture. Everyone in this half takes on aspects of the moor, well everyone except the Lintons… Even Nelly becomes cruel, less refined, and socially acceptable as she conformed to the attitudes and behaviours of the Earnshaws, Wuthering Heights, and the wilderness around them. However, while this wildness, violence, and causal brutality is repulsive to the reader, it was also romantic, passionate, and almost desirable.The personality, tone, and deep emotionality of this part turns the narrative into a captivating, sensational, and intimate read. It is in this part of the book that the most powerful ‘romance’ quotes come from, such as the infamous line from Catherine ‘...he is more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made from, his and mine are the same…’ (p.99).

We have such a deep connection to everyone we read about, even though we don’t hear their voices because of Bronte’s narration choice, that I couldn’t help but fall head over heels for them. It is in this part of the book that I fell deeply in love with the wild, untamed, and otherworldly landscape of the moors which permeated every page of Catherine’s story. It felt spiritual, almost religious, in a way that hooked me in and refused to let me go, despite how awful these people, their lives, and their choices were! For brief moments I felt like a part of the narrative but was ultimately kept back - almost like a ghost myself, witnessing a world I could almost see but never quite touch or understand. It truly is a romance. Not in the modern sense with the romance genre, unlike the way Jane Eyre can still be considered a romance to modern readers. But it is a classical romance; Heathcliff and Catherine are lovers and they do have a love that can rival any other. However, it is a destructive, possessive love that brings ruin on themselves and everyone around them.

In comparison to this, in Cathy’s section of the narrative, the story becomes much more grounded in reality. Every action felt plausible in the most horrifying way as the events were centred on the abuse of the law, and the Christian morality and customs of the Lintons and Thrushcross Grange dominated Nelly’s narration and tone. This half shed the spirituality and unhealthy emotionality of the Earnshaw’s and introduced the ‘civilised’ world through Cathy, which had felt so out of place throughout Catherine’s story.

Through this shift, the romanticism of Heathcliff is truly lost. Instead of the compelling but dangerous byronic hero we came to view him as through Catherine’s passionate love, Heathcliff became a monster. As the heathen wilderness was alienated by civilised Chrisitan morality, we lost the romance of Heathcliff and were exposed to his harsh, desolate cruelty and vicious, hateful desire for revenge. Yet, Cathy and Thrushcross Granges’ “civilising” effect doesn’t actually moralise on the events of the past, as we might expect from a 19th century novel. The passionate, captivating romance of Heathcliff and Catherine is validated (if not condoned) by Bronte through her ghosts and the ultimate fate of her heroes. The destructive desires and emotionality of the first half of the novel are firmly removed from the gentle world it crept into, back to the desolate, unknowable realm of the moors and Wuthering Heights through the fates of Heathcliff and Catherine in the afterlife, however, she never truly condemned it or Catherine and Heathcliff’s actions.

We watch Lockwood as he leaves Wuthering Heights behind for good and visits the graves of Heathcliff, Catherine, and Edgar. He has been informed by Nelly that the wild romantics of the past have been ‘rewarded’ as Heathcliff and Catherine’s ghosts haunt the moors together for the rest of eternity. They have been reunited in death through the heathen afterlife. Neither are necessarily ‘at peace’ as a Chrisitan would believe, but they have been joined with the world they truly belonged to - the Yorkshire moors.

Bronte does demonstrate that the wild, untamed world died with Heathcliff - it has no place in the future. Hareton and Cathy turn their backs on the vicious cycle of love and destruction that their parents (except maybe Edgar? The poor guy really didn’t deserve all of this…) embodied and they leave Wuthering Heights for the refined respectability of Thrushcross Grange and Christian society. However, by joining Heathcliff and Catherine in death leaving them to wander the earth for eternity, Bronte acknowledges the existence of an otherworldly, supernatural sphere that belongs entirely to the unknown and desolate places of the earth. It is cut off from the rest of the world as society moves forward, but it still exists and can still be found in the uncultivated, natural landscapes of the earth.

I’ve talked a lot about Heathcliff and Catherine, which is a trap everyone falls into because they are the heart and soul of this book whether you like them or not. However, there are many other characters in Wuthering Heights that I do genuinely love; for example, Edgar Linton. Poor Edgar is such a brilliant character because he really doesn’t feel like he belongs in this book. He is largely a victim of circumstance, he gets swept into the melodrama of Wuthering Heights mainly because he happened to live ‘next door’ to Catherine. He does love her but in a quiet, respectable fashion - he wants the best for her and to provide her with a life any Victorian (yes, I know this book is set before the Victorian period but it’s a VERY Victorian feeling novel) woman would want. He’s a good husband, a doting father, and, while he does make some frustrating choices, such as his initial disownment of Isabella, he is a genuinely lovely person. Edgar gets deliberately pushed to the side by both the narrative and reader because he isn’t as compelling, passionate, or emotional as Heathcliff. Heathcliff is outside the rule of society and is allowed to demonstrate his emotions as publicly as he wants; while Edgar, who is constrained by the rules and conventions of polite society, cannot. Nevertheless, Edgar is gentle and consistent in his affections. Catherine truly doesn’t deserve Edgar. Catherine and Heathcliff deserve each other. Edgar deserves a peaceful life with a woman who would love him as much as he could love her! (I didn’t expect to be declaring my love for Edgar Linton, but he has VERY SURPRISINGLY become my second favourite victorian ‘hero’ after Mr Thornton… Who would have thought it?! But let’s be honest, if you have to choose out of the men in this novel Edgar Linton is by far the best choice. This is the hill I choose to die on and you cannot change my mind!)

Then there were the younger characters… I really loved Catherine, Heathcliff, and Edgar, but I kind of hated Cathy, Hareton, and Linton! Okay, I did feel sorry for Hareton - he was the real victim of all this drama.

Cathy was a bitchy, spoilt brat. She was the ‘civilised’ version of her mother for the younger generation, but all she did was act like a child. This could be the effect of the two halves of the book I talked about above, but she had all the worst characteristics of her mother (wilful, argumentative, rebellious, a bully etc.) without any of her charm. She was largely the maker of her own misfortune (this doesn’t take any of the blame from Heathcliff and Linton though!) by not listening to the people around her when she had NO REASON to ignore them. Her father has doted on her for her entire life, and Nelly has always had her best interests at heart! Yet, Cathy decides to rebel against her two parental figures and listen to Heathcliff despite everyone in her life warning her not to... She’s her own worst enemy!

Cathy is also spitefully cruel to Hareton. I can deal with teenaged rebellion, we’ve all been there at some point! But mercilessly mocking someone for being illiterate and again for trying to learn how to read (just to please/impress you!) is completely unacceptable, particularly from someone who has had everything in their life handed to them. This isn’t the grand, melodramatic brutality of Heathcliff, or the neglect of Hindley, it’s pointless childish cruelty and what made it worse was she carried on doing it despite admitting it was wrong! Cathy was supposed to be the future, the way out of the cycle of abuse, neglect, and violence, but I hated her bullying Hareton over this. Cathy should have shown some compassion at discovering Hareton couldn’t read, by all means have her descend into violence whilst living at Wuthering Heights, but such a petty act just didn’t sit well with me considering what she was supposed to represent. I actually disliked this part of her behaviour so much that I hated the hopeful conclusion of the book resting on the prospect of a better future through Cathy marrying Hareton!

Then we get to Linton Heathcliff, the less said about him the better… He was a selfish, unbearable bastard, and I wish he’d died sooner. The nicest thing I can say about him is he was a victim of Heathcliff’s abuse and became rather pathetic towards the middle of his arc, however, he was so self absorbed in his own illness and frailty that I couldn’t feel sorry for him by the time he died (I may have even celebrated). He was the one character I hated without finding anything redeemable about him. I honestly don’t know what Cathy saw in him and would have been happy if he’d never existed, as I think everyone in the book would have been!

Overall, this book is phenomenal! It took my breath away with its atmosphere, and the characters will haunt me for a long time to come. I really wasn’t exaggerating when I said it has changed my life. It’s a stunning, brooding masterpiece and that I doubt will ever be beaten in my affections. A book doesn’t need to be palatable for me to enjoy it, nor do I need to like the characters to love them. Wuthering Heights is a perfect example of just such a book, it has captured both my mind and heart through its impassioned, visceral narrative and characters, whether they are used for good or ill. I have never read, and will never again experience a book like Wuthering Heights and for that I will always be in love with it (and Emily Bronte too… Emily, I take my bonnet off to you for having the guts to write this, as a woman, in the 1840s!)

*This is taken from my Goodreads review where usually only my friends see it so the tone is a bit different to what I usually write on here!

#books of 2020 #book review #reading #classic literature #victorian literature #emily bronte #wuthering heights #heathcliff #catherine earnshaw #edgar linton #long review #i really loved this book #it's my new favourite

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knamjooned · 5 years ago

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Magicae Foresta (3)

pairing: (forest)dragon!namjoon x (unpracticed)witch!reader

genre: magic/supernatural au, shifter au, fluff, angst, smut, soulmate au

chapter words: 2,029

chapter warnings: indirect mention of death

chapter rating: G

STORY SUMMARY: The magical world your grandmother told you about had always been real to you. Once she passed away, you find yourself honoring her memory by searching for the one magical creature she could never find.

CHAPTER SUMMARY: The leaders of the seven Shifter clans have a meeting, you find the Moongrove wolfpack led by Seokjin and Tulok, and Namjoon experiences odd feelings.

THREE

Namjoon entered the clearing after traveling for over two hours in the air. He had offered Jimin a ride in his sack, but the shifter had quickly turned him down, opting to use the unicorn’s magical powers to get them to the meeting area. Along with Jimin, Jungkook and Seokjin were brought by Taehyung. Hoseok had flown here on his own.

As soon as everyone had arrived, they shifted into human form, put on human clothes, and placed themselves around the small area. The seven leaders of the shifter clans looked at one another carefully. Yoongi sat on a tree branch, lounging lazily against the trunk, dark eyes watching as the others settled. Taehyung stood out among the trees with his blue hair and and a frilly blouse as he flicked his hands in the air and created a flower throne. Hoseok sat near him, and Taehyung happily made him another simple chair covered in flowers.

Jimin and Jungkook sat together surrounded colorful flora that didn’t grow in their woods, unused to be apart of the circle of leaders. Seokjin settled next to Namjoon, who had made simple chairs out of wood for them to sit on. When everyone was where they wanted to be in a circle, Yoongi gracefully made his way down the tree and completed the ring.

“It’s been a while,” Yoongi stated, sitting on the ground with crossed legs. “I heard the news of the Magic Mother’s journey to the Great One. Her guardianship of the woodlands has led all forest dwellers to thrive, to be happy.”

“I felt the magic threads dim for a long moment,” Taehyung murmured, unusually somber. He sighed and shook his head. “Miss Silvia was the purest of all.”

“Her successor has been found,” Seokjin stated.

“I’ve met her. Her name is ______, Miss Silvia’s granddaughter,” Hoseok interjected.

“A curious mind, a kind heart, and magical soul,” Jimin added.

“She has no experience with magic,” Jungkook recalled thoughtfully. He turned his gaze to Hoseok.

“No magic? How is she to be the guardian of the woodlands?” Yoongi asked, frowning.

“Namjoon,” Hoseok answered. Every pair of eyes turned to the dragon, who had been sitting calmly until his name was mentioned. Namjoon sat up straight, brows furrowed in confusion.

“Me? What does the Magic Mother’s successor have to do with me?”

“Does she want to take his magic?” Jungkook asked worriedly. Taehyung snorted from his throne, causing all eyes to turn from Namjoon to him.

“Of course not. She wants him to teach her.”

“How do you know?”

“Namjoon, how do you think? I felt it,” Taehyung explained, shrugging. Everyone thought quietly over the information that had just been passed around for a long moment.

“You were near her, what else did you feel?” Seokjin asked.

“Well, it was brief. She noticed me as soon as I stumbled upon her. I was in my natural form,” he added. “As soon as she realized there was a unicorn near, I left.”

“You’re avoiding the question, Tae,” Yoongi said in a low, almost threatening voice. As much as he considered these men to be his brothers, his mate was more important to him. If there was any darkness in this woman, then she could be dangerous to all.

“I can’t say much, because of the vision I had, along with the traits I gathered from her.” Taehyung gazed at each of the men as they stared at him, waiting. Hoseok began to tap his foot impatiently as Taehyung stretched the moment. Finally, Taehyung smirked. “Like I said, the Great One has decided I am not to share my visions. But, I will share the other information.”

Even the new members of this circle took Taehyung’s visions and commune with the Great one to heart. As a unicorn, most likely the last just like the forest dragon, he was to be respected. Unlike Namjoon, Taehyung enjoyed the attention it granted him much more than the dragon did.

“Tae, just tell us, don’t be over-dramatic,” Jimin murmured, a soft smile on his lips, holding back a laugh. Taehyung winked at him and grinned.

“Okay, okay. Appreciation, cleverness, duty, focus, honor, respect, trust… all good things. I did see a few things that could be considered negative.”

“That isn’t good,” Jungkook murmured to Jimin, who nodded and bit his lip.

“It could be worse,” Taehyung pointed out. “I saw regret, compulsion, pride….”

“What about magical abilities?” Namjoon interjected, which surprised the others. He wasn’t one to speak up unless it was important. Taehyung raised an eyebrow, a twinkle in his eyes. Namjoon narrowed his eyes at his friend, but didn’t ask anything more.

“Ah, what you think the granddaughter of the Magic Mother would have. Plant growth, water manipulation, animal communication, weather manipulation. Pretty much what Namjoon would know about.”

“And?” Namjoon asked softly.

“And there are things you will discover once you begin teaching her.” Taehyung turned his eyes from Namjoon, waving away the conversation. “Now, Yoongi, is there any news you and Sarah would like to share?”

“Sometimes I hate your abilities,” Yoongi mumbled, holding back a grin. “We are expecting. Our cubs should be arriving in a few days.”

Seokjin and Tulok are caring and intelligent alphas. Tulok is from another forest, and them finding each other was a miracle in itself. Maybe they will tell me the story of what brought them together, but it’s not my place to ask. I appreciate the Moongrove Pack allowing an old lady to attend the union celebration between two young members.

You saw the creatures slinking through the trees as you made your way over the worn path. Flashes of gray, black, and white appeared between the tree trunks. You stopped and stood still, listening to the sounds of the forest. The rustling of the leaves caught your ear, your eyes slowly moving toward the sound. A large gray wolf came confidently out of the shadows, head held high as they stared at you with a curious gaze. You turned slowly to fully face the wolf, wondering if this was part of the pack your grandmother had mentioned in her journal.

“I’m _____. I am looking for the Moongrove Pack.”

The wolf stared for a moment longer, then nodded. It walked toward you, causing you to hold your breath, not sure what this meant. Walking past you, the wolf looked over their shoulder and gestured with their large head to follow them. They slid into the trees and you followed, breathing much easier knowing it seemed friendly enough.

The wolf moved slowly than they usually would, you assumed, because it kept looking over it’s shoulder and stopping for a moment for you to catch up. You wondered if it was bothered by stopping often, but nothing was hinted at as you continued to follow. You walked half an hour, climbing up and over fallen tree trunks and moss covered rocks. You noticed you were going uphill, the slope gradual. The wolf stopped for a moment as you jumped off a particularly large trunk that was lying on the barely there path, then stepped into a small clearing.

You followed and your mouth opened in awe. Unlike Hoseok’s clearing with just flowers and trees, this one contained a small group of tent-like structures surrounding a community fire. Ten adults milled about around the fire or moving around the area doing different things, along four wolves of varying sizes. Six children played in an open area behind the structures with four wolf cubs, kicking a soccer ball around.

While you were taking this all in, the wolf had disappeared. When you realized it, you suddenly felt out of place. This tiny community was going about your business, and you were just walking in here without anything to offer. You felt a strong presence coming near you, and you turned toward the nearest tent to see a tall, broad-shouldered man walking toward you. Another man was accompanying him, walking in step on his side.

“______. Welcome to the heart of the Moongrove Pack territory. I’m Seokjin.” He kept his eyes on your as he bowed his head politely. He gestured to the man at his side. “This is Tulok, my mate. He was the wolf who led you to us.”

“Ah,” you answered, bowing your own head toward them. Of course it was one of the alpha’s of the pack, no one else would lead you here so quickly. The wolves must trust you, which was an exciting thing, considering how long it took usually. “Thank you for allowing me to come. My grandmother wrote about you and your pack in her journals.”

“Miss Silvia was of pure heart, and I can feel her blood in you,” Tulok said quietly. Seokjin took his hand and nodded toward you. By that time, the members of the community had noticed and started to walk toward you, wolves and humans alike.

“Are all of you shifters?”

“Yes,” Seokjin answered with a smile. “Come, let us introduce you to our large family.”

As soon as he returned to his home, Namjoon knew someone had been investigating around his barrier. Frowning, he walked the perimeter, picking up on the scent of the intruder. He also felt the uncultivated power left in their wake. It took a moment to recognize it, as he hadn’t been in direct contact, but it was very similar to the Magic Mother. When the knowledge you had been here while he was gone hit him, Namjoon’s heart beat quickly.

His mind filled with the need to find you, to talk to you, to just be near you. Overwhelmed, Namjoon gasped and stumbled to the porch, sitting on the step hard. He took deep breaths, confused by his reaction. He felt restless, the idea of bringing you here, keeping you here, overtaking any other thought.

“What’s happening?” he murmured to himself, closing his eyes as he focused his breathing. He purposefully cleared his mind, making himself concentrate on the sounds of the forest surrounding him. He heard the birds chirping, speaking to one another, and the leaves rustling as a deer wandered by unseen. After three full minutes of meditation, Namjoon seemed to get his emotions under control. “Taehyung would know,” he told himself.

Immediately, he shed his clothes, put them in the ever present sack, and shifted into his huge dragon form. He lifted off and headed toward one of the densest areas, where creatures like Taehyung would likely be. When he arrived, Taehyung was in a small area in human form, sitting on a throne of flowers and sparkles at a table with a few fairies and a leprechaun, which Namjoon had only seen one other time. Taehyung and the other creatures didn’t flinch, sipping their tea casually as Namjoon appeared, shifted, and dressed quickly.

“I feel like I just saw you moments ago,” Taehyung teased, putting down the delicate teacup. He turned to his guests. “I enjoyed tea time with you, my friends, but it seems my magical abilities are needed. Another time?” The fairies and leprechaun agreed and disappeared quickly into the thick trees. Taehyung turned to Namjoon in his chair and crossed his legs at the knee, patiently waiting.

“Something happened to me, and I’m not sure what it is. I was hoping you’d have some kind of information.”

“Dizzy, overwhelmed, thoughts of _____?” Taehyung propped an elbow on the arm of the throne and placed his chin in his palm. He smirked. Namjoon frowned, then narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“What do you know?” he asked slowly. He disliked not knowing what was happening to him. It had helped him survive this long without too much trouble, knowing what was happening and what could happen. Taehyung must have sensed the dragon’s patience quickly wearing thin, a rare but frightening thing, as he sat up and turned his smirk into seriousness.

“What you felt,” he stated slowly. He stopped and took a deep breath, looking away in hesitation for a moment. Taehyung turned his gaze back to Namjoon, who crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows. “What you felt was the link connecting to your mate.”

#hyunglinenetwork #bangtanhq #btswriterscollective #btsguild #namjoon x reader #m: namjoon #t: fic #fic: namjoon #fic: magicae foresta

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roxannarambles · 7 years ago

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heath/legault drabble - flowers

They had left the ground covered in blood. Blood spilled from allies, from enemies, and from former friends they were now forced to turn against. The bodies of the fallen were scattered, twisted and broken in the dirt.

Bern once meant home to him. After this, he doubted it ever could again.

After the battle, there was no time to even pause. They were hunted people in the middle of a hostile land, and so they marched; exhausted, battered, bruised and bloodied. The injured were treated on the road as best as they were able. They did not even stop to take meals, instead opting for a few stolen gulps of water from a canteen.

Seeking to avoid all major towns and pass through undetected, their journey took them over wide, uncultivated fields in the Bern lowlands that bordered some of the smaller villages. The soil was acidic and dry, but great swaths of hardy, low-growing shrubs absolutely coated the landscape. The shrubs were dotted with hundreds of tiny little lavender flowers, which turned the fields a hazy purple, the air hanging thick with a sweet, gentle scent.

Legault gazed out across it all in a bit of a daze, thinking it seemed incredibly jarring and bizarre to be surrounded by such pleasantness after the sort of day they'd had. Every time he closed his eyes, he could still see the fields of dust and death, but when he opened his eyes-- just the peaceful lull of spring and all these flowers.

Heaths, his mind supplied. They were walking through Bern's heathlands. Legault glanced to his left, at the stony-faced wyvern rider some paces behind him that was leading his mount by its reins.

For a moment, Legault considered slowing his pace to let the man catch up and then making some comment to him about his namesake, but he decided against it. The wyvern rider looked as though he was worn down to the very quick. Legault hadn't been the only one today who was forced to turn weapons on former colleagues and friends.

He felt a pang of empathy, wishing he could do more. To let him know that in the very least, he understood that sort of pain. But every time he had reached out to Heath, the man had only drawn back. He doubted that would change now. So Legault turned his sights back to the purple fields, simply giving a small sigh.

It was a mercy when they finally stopped for the day. Even though they'd planned to continue marching in a few short hours, any sort of rest was met with open arms.

Legault spent the time pushing through the crowd around their supply caravans, accepting the rations that were doled out and eating stale bread and chipped beef. It wasn't enjoyable by any stretch of the imagination, but his neglected body was still grateful for the nourishment. He felt a lot better afterward, eventually heading away from the noisy group around the supply wagons and wandering sort of aimlessly past the few tents that had been put up. They were still in the middle of the heathlands, and sometimes a drunken bumblebee would bump past his face, on an urgent mission of pollination.

On the outer edges of their makeshift camp, he spotted Heath, back propped against a support beam for one of the tents, arms crossed and tucked tight about himself. He was dozing in the shade the tent cast, his face relaxed and finally free from the harsh strain it had been under all day.

Legault couldn't help but obey the compulsion to draw closer, and soon he was standing over the man, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest, a little errant green strand of hair fluttering slightly under his breath. He just looked so different this way. It wasn't just that he finally looked peaceful for a change; Legault could notice the very soft creases around his mouth and eyes that denoted smile lines.

Heath was a man who smiled frequently, once. Laughed, even. Legault wondered what that had been like.

He suddenly realized how heavy his limbs felt. The weight of the day was catching up to him, and watching Heath dozing in the shade was making him feel tired himself.

He knew the man would be irritated if he woke and found him there, but Legault plunked down on the ground in the shade beside Heath anyway. Absent-mindedly, his fingers fiddled with a sprig of flowers from one of the nearby bushes. He gazed off into nothingness for a while in contemplation, before eventually bringing his focus back to the little flowers in his hand. He glanced to Heath and smiled a little at a silly, random notion.

Because Legault became so absorbed in his new activity for quite some time, almost slipping into a meditative state, he was startled when a voice eventually interrupted him.

"Legault? Come on, you're just sitting there?"

He glanced up-- it was the Ostian spy, Matthew, dragging along a crate far too large for someone of his strength. The man let the crate sink down and he frowned, adding,

"What . . . what are you doing?"

Legault shrugged a little, admiring his own handiwork. He pulled another piece off of the nearby bush and plucked another tiny heath blossom off, carefully sticking it into Heath's hair. It joined the many others, the wyvern rider's hair filled with dozens of the little purple flowers at that point.

"Decorating the cranky wyvern man?"

Matthew didn't look too amused.

"Uh-huh. So why am I working my butt off like some chump while you're just picking daisies?"

"They're not daisies, Matthew. And you'd have to tell me that."

His new companion sat down heavily on the crate he'd been dragging.

"Good question. I guess it's break time."

"There you go."

Legault picked another flower and nestled it into one of Heath's white locks of hair, then repeated the procedure. Matthew watched for about a minute before speaking again.

"Seriously, though, don't you have anything better to do? We leave in just a little while."

"Shh. You're going to wake him."

"Oh, Matthew, there you are! Hector's been looking for you."

Matthew looked on in horror as Serra approached, her pigtails bouncing as she bounded up.

"What? I've been gone for like two minutes. This isn't fair. I want a break."

"Hi, Legault! Don't complain to me, Matthew. I'm just the messenger. I wouldn't even need to run around all about looking for you if you were doing your job."

Matthew glared.

"Oh, I'm sorry, who's the one dragging around crates full of anvils? Yeah, that would be me!"

Legault winced at their volume.

"You guys--"

It was already too late, though; Heath stirred in his sleep and blinked awake, looking in a foggy confusion at the people gathered around him. Everyone was silent a moment and Heath frowned.

"What . . . why is everyone looking at me."

Serra giggled.

"Looking very nice, Heath."

Matthew hopped to his feet.

"Uhh, we were just leaving. Serra, help me with this."

"What?! These hands are for healing, not lifting!!"

Matthew waved at her.

"These hands aren't for lifting either! Just get one corner, ok?"

Serra made a sound of disgust, but she bent and gave a half-hearted attempt at grabbing a corner of the crate.

"I can't believe you're making a lady lift, Matthew!"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm a horrible person. You're not even lifting anything. Put your back into it."

The pair made for a terribly noisy and slow exit, half-dragging, half-carrying the crate away, Serra complaining bitterly all the while. For a little while, Legault and Heath just watched them go; at some point, Heath stretched against the tent pole he was propped against. He spoke in a voice still a little roughed with sleep.

"So why are you still here?"

Legault smiled languidly at him, not put off by the man's usual acerbic nature.

"I ask myself that every day."

Heath grunted, looking annoyed, but before he could say anything else rude, he was interrupted by a yawn. It sort of deflated the effectiveness of the scowl he then aimed at Legault.

His sleep-tousled hair being completely filled with little purple flowers removed a lot of the scowl's effectiveness too, of course. Legault smirked.

"Now, there's no need to be cross with me. I tried to get them to be quiet, you know. I know the value of letting a fellow sleep."

Heath seemed to process this and his irritated look softened just a little. He rubbed his face and mumbled tiredly,

"Do you know how long until we move again?"

One of the tiny flowers was jarred loose from Heath's motion and it drifted gently down in front of him to the ground. He blinked at it. Legault answered,

"About an hour, I believe. I could wake you when it's time, if you'd like."

Heath shook his head.

"No, I won't be--"

He paused as a tiny shower of flowers went flying from his hair. Puzzled, he reached up and brushed at his head.

"Aw, wait, you're going to ruin it!"

Heath brushed more of the flowers out and glanced to Legault, confused.

"Ruin what? What did you do to me?"

"At least-- here, admire it a little before you destroy it, hmm?"

He took the shield resting on the ground that Heath normally wore at his side, flipped it over to its underside, and handed it to Heath.

Heath peered at his reflection in the metal and said shrilly,

"Legault! Wh-why?!"

Legault opened his mouth to answer the man glaring at him, but then he just sighed. He smiled a little, though his eyes were melancholy. After a contemplative moment, he finally answered.

"You just looked so content. I wished it could last, I suppose."

The wyvern rider continued to look at him, but all of his irritation seemed to slowly bleed out. Legault watched the man's eyes, which seemed to glaze over in thought. He couldn't tell what he was thinking, quite honestly. Virtually everything about Heath was still a mystery to him.

Then the man's hand shot out and grabbed Legault's wrist. Legault winced, automatically twisting his wrist and preparing to pull him off, but stopped short when he saw Heath wasn't snarling angrily.

He was just . . . staring at him. His expression was unreadable.

Legault swallowed, staring back, confused.

Then Heath tugged Legault's wrist, gently, pulling him closer. It wasn't by much-- a few inches at most-- but it felt much, much closer. A dizzy little charge looped up Legault's spine. He was so preoccupied with Heath's eyes that it took him a moment to notice the man had used his other hand to pluck a little sprig of flowers from the bushes they were sitting upon.

Heath slowly reached over and tucked the sprig lightly behind Legault's ear.

Then he released Legault's wrist and leaned back against the tent support beam, crossing his arms and settling in again as if ready to return to his napping.

"You're one weird guy," the man murmured, looking sidelong at him. A gentle smile played at the corners of his lips.

Legault honestly took a moment to process what had just happened.

Then he smiled, this time not a sad smile; rather, a silly little thing that started out small and spread into a wide, dumb grin that lit his entire face.

Heath slipped his eyes back shut and chuckled quietly.

It was a lovely sound.

#fe7 #fire emblem #heath #legault #heath/legault #mystuff #heath/legault fic #fanfic

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hermandeweese-blog · 7 years ago

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readbookywooks · 8 years ago

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Gold Mines

THIS was the visit of Mitya of which Grushenka had spoken to Rakitin with such horror. She was just then expecting the "message," and was much relieved that Mitya had not been to see her that day or the day before. She hoped that "please God he won't come till I'm gone away," and he suddenly burst in on her. The rest we know already. To get him off her hands she suggested at once that he should walk with her to Samsonov's, where she said she absolutely must go "to settle his accounts," and when Mitya accompanied her at once, she said good-bye to him at the gate, making him promise to come at twelve o'clock to take her home again. Mitya, too, was delighted at this arrangement. If she was sitting at Samsonov's she could not be going to Fyodor Pavlovitch's, "if only she's not lying," he added at once. But he thought she was not lying from what he saw. He was that sort of jealous man who, in the absence of the beloved woman, at once invents all sorts of awful fancies of what may be happening to her, and how she may be betraying him, but, when shaken, heartbroken, convinced of her faithlessness, he runs back to her, at the first glance at her face, her gay, laughing, affectionate face, he revives at once, lays aside all suspicion and with joyful shame abuses himself for his jealousy. After leaving Grushenka at the gate he rushed home. Oh, he had so much still to do that day! But a load had been lifted from his heart, anyway. "Now I must only make haste and find out from Smerdyakov whether anything happened there last night, whether, by any chance, she went to Fyodor Pavlovitch; ough!" floated through his mind. Before he had time to reach his lodging, jealousy had surged up again in his restless heart. Jealousy! "Othello was not jealous, he was trustful," observed Pushkin. And that remark alone is enough to show the deep insight of our great poet. Othello's soul was shattered and his whole outlook clouded simply because his ideal was destroyed. But Othello did not begin hiding, spying, peeping. He was trustful, on the contrary. He had to be led up, pushed on, excited with great difficulty before he could entertain the idea of deceit. The truly jealous man is not like that. It is impossible to picture to oneself the shame and moral degradation to which the jealous man can descend without a qualm of conscience. And yet it's not as though the jealous were all vulgar and base souls. On the contrary, a man of lofty feelings, whose love is pure and full of self-sacrifice, may yet hide under tables, bribe the vilest people, and be familiar with the lowest ignominy of spying and eavesdropping. Othello was incapable of making up his mind to faithlessness- not incapable of forgiving it, but of making up his mind to it - though his soul was as innocent and free from malice as a babe's. It is not so with the really jealous man. It is hard to imagine what some jealous men can make up their mind to and overlook, and what they can forgive! The jealous are the readiest of all to forgive, and all women know it. The jealous man can forgive extraordinarily quickly (though, of course, after a violent scene), and he is able to forgive infidelity almost conclusively proved, the very kisses and embraces he has seen, if only he can somehow be convinced that it has all been "for the last time," and that his rival will vanish from that day forward, will depart to the ends of the earth, or that he himself will carry her away somewhere, where that dreaded rival will not get near her. Of course the reconciliation is only for an hour. For, even if the rival did disappear next day, he would invent another one and would be jealous of him. And one might wonder what there was in a love that had to be so watched over, what a love could be worth that needed such strenuous guarding. But that the jealous will never understand. And yet among them are men of noble hearts. It is remarkable, too, that those very men of noble hearts, standing hidden in some cupboard, listening and spying, never feel the stings of conscience at that moment, anyway, though they understand clearly enough with their "noble hearts" the shameful depths to which they have voluntarily sunk. At the sight of Grushenka, Mitya's jealousy vanished, and, for an instant he became trustful and generous, and positively despised himself for his evil feelings. But it only proved that, in his love for the woman, there was an element of something far higher than he himself imagined, that it was not only a sensual passion, not only the "curve of her body," of which he had talked to Alyosha. But, as soon as Grushenka had gone, Mitya began to suspect her of all the low cunning of faithlessness, and he felt no sting of conscience at it. And so jealousy surged up in him again. He had, in any case, to make haste. The first thing to be done was to get hold of at least a small, temporary loan of money. The nine roubles had almost all gone on his expedition. And, as we all know, one can't take a step without money. But he had thought over in the cart where he could get a loan. He had a brace of fine duelling pistols in a case, which he had not pawned till then because he prized them above all his possessions. In the Metropolis tavern he had some time since made acquaintance with a young official and had learnt that this very opulent bachelor was passionately fond of weapons. He used to buy pistols, revolvers, daggers, hang them on his wall and show them to acquaintances. He prided himself on them, and was quite a specialist on the mechanism of the revolver. Mitya, without stopping to think, went straight to him, and offered to pawn his pistols to him for ten roubles. The official, delighted, began trying to persuade him to sell them outright. But Mitya would not consent, so the young man gave him ten roubles, protesting that nothing would induce him to take interest. They parted friends. Mitya was in haste; he rushed towards Fyodor Pavlovitch's by the back way, to his arbour, to get hold of Smerdyakov as soon as possible. In this way the fact was established that three or four hours before a certain event, of which I shall speak later on, Mitya had not a farthing, and pawned for ten roubles a possession he valued, though, three hours later, he was in possession of thousands.... But I am anticipating. From Marya Kondratyevna (the woman living near Fyodor Pavlovitch's) he learned the very disturbing fact of Smerdyakov's illness. He heard the story of his fall in the cellar, his fit, the doctor's visit, Fyodor Pavlovitch's anxiety; he heard with interest, too, that his brother Ivan had set off that morning for Moscow. "Then he must have driven through Volovya before me," thought Dmitri, but he was terribly distressed about Smerdyakov. "What will happen now? Who'll keep watch for me? Who'll bring me word?" he thought. He began greedily questioning the women whether they had seen anything the evening before. They quite understood what he was trying to find out, and completely reassured him. No one had been there. Ivan Fyodorovitch had been there that night; everything had been perfectly as usual. Mitya grew thoughtful. He would certainly have to keep watch to-day, but where? Here or at Samsonov's gate? He decided that he must be on the lookout both here and there, and meanwhile... meanwhile... The difficulty was that he had to carry out the new plan that he had made on the journey back. He was sure of its success, but he must not delay acting upon it. Mitya resolved to sacrifice an hour to it: "In an hour I shall know everything, I shall settle everything, and then, then, then, first of all to Samsonov's. I'll inquire whether Grushenka's there and instantly be back here again, stay till eleven, and then to Samsonov's again to bring her home." This was what he decided. He flew home, washed, combed his hair, brushed his clothes, dressed, and went to Madame Hohlakov's. Alas! he had built his hopes on her. He had resolved to borrow three thousand from that lady. And what was more, he felt suddenly convinced that she would not refuse to lend it to him. It may be wondered why, if he felt so certain, he had not gone to her at first, one of his own sort, so to speak, instead of to Samsonov, a man he did not know, who was not of his own class, and to whom he hardly knew how to speak. But the fact was that he had never known Madame Hohlakov well, and had seen nothing of her for the last month, and that he knew she could not endure him. She had detested him from the first because he was engaged to Katerina Ivanovna, while she had, for some reason, suddenly conceived the desire that Katerina Ivanovna should throw him over, and marry the "charming, chivalrously refined Ivan, who had such excellent manners." Mitya's manners she detested. Mitya positively laughed at her, and had once said about her that she was just as lively and at her ease as she was uncultivated. But that morning in the cart a brilliant idea had struck him: "If she is so anxious I should not marry Katerina Ivanovna" (and he knew she was positively hysterical upon the subject) "why should she refuse me now that three thousand, just to enable me to leave Katya and get away from her for ever. These spoilt fine ladies, if they set their hearts on anything, will spare no expense to satisfy their caprice. Besides, she's so rich," Mitya argued. As for his "plan" it was just the same as before; it consisted of the offer of his rights to Tchermashnya - but not with a commercial object, as it had been with Samsonov, not trying to allure the lady with the possibility of making a profit of six or seven thousand - but simply as a security for the debt. As he worked out this new idea, Mitya was enchanted with it, but so it always was with him in all his undertakings, in all his sudden decisions. He gave himself up to every new idea with passionate enthusiasm. Yet, when he mounted the steps of Madame Hohlakov's house he felt a shiver of fear run down his spine. At that moment he saw fully, as a mathematical certainty, that this was his last hope, that if this broke down, nothing else was left him in the world but to "rob and murder someone for the three thousand." It was half-past seven when he rang at the bell. At first fortune seemed to smile upon him. As soon as he was announced he was received with extraordinary rapidity. "As though she were waiting for me," thought Mitya, and as soon as he had been led to the drawing-room, the lady of the house herself ran in, and declared at once that she was expecting him. "I was expecting you! I was expecting you! Though I'd no reason to suppose you would come to see me, as you will admit yourself. Yet, I did expect you. You may marvel at my instinct, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, but I was convinced all the morning that you would come." "That is certainly wonderful, madam," observed Mitya, sitting down limply, "but I have come to you on a matter of great importance.... On a matter of supreme importance for me, that is, madam... for me alone... and I hasten - " "I know you've come on most important business. Dmitri Fyodorovitch; it's not a case of presentiment, no reactionary harking back to the miraculous (have you heard about Father Zossima?). This is a case of mathematics: you couldn't help coming, after all that has passed with Katerina Ivanovna; you couldn't, you couldn't, that's a mathematical certainty." "The realism of actual life, madam, that's what it is. But allow me to explain-" "Realism indeed, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. I'm all for realism now. I've seen too much of miracles. You've heard that Father Zossima is dead?" "No, madam, it's the first time I've heard of it." Mitya was a little surprised. The image of Alyosha rose to his mind. "Last night, and only imagine-" "Madam," said Mitya, "I can imagine nothing except that I'm in a desperate position, and that if you don't help me, everything will come to grief, and I first of all. Excuse me for the triviality of the expression, but I'm in a fever-" "I know, I know that you're in a fever. You could hardly fail to be, and whatever you may say to me, I know beforehand. I have long been thinking over your destiny, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, I am watching over it and studying it.... Oh, believe me, I'm an experienced doctor of the soul, Dmitri Fyodorovitch." "Madam, if you are an experienced doctor, I'm certainly an experienced patient," said Mitya, with an effort to be polite, "and I feel that if you are watching over my destiny in this way, you will come to my help in my ruin, and so allow me, at least to explain to you the plan with which I have ventured to come to you... and what I am hoping of you.... I have come, madam-" "Don't explain it. It's of secondary importance. But as for help, you're not the first I have helped, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. You have most likely heard of my cousin, Madame Belmesov. Her husband was ruined, 'had come to grief,' as you characteristically express it, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. I recommended him to take to horse-breeding, and now he's doing well. Have you any idea of horse-breeding, Dmitri Fyodorovitch?" "Not the faintest, madam; ah, madam, not the faintest!" cried Mitya, in nervous impatience, positively starting from his seat. "I simply implore you, madam, to listen to me. Only give me two minutes of free speech that I may just explain to you everything, the whole plan with which I have come. Besides, I am short of time. I'm in a fearful hurry," Mitya cried hysterically, feeling that she was just going to begin talking again, and hoping to cut her short. "I have come in despair... in the last gasp of despair, to beg you to lend me the sum of three thousand, a loan, but on safe, most safe security, madam, with the most trustworthy guarantees! Only let me explain-" "You must tell me all that afterwards, afterwards!" Madame Hohlakov with a gesture demanded silence in her turn, "and whatever you may tell me, I know it all beforehand; I've told you so already. You ask for a certain sum, for three thousand, but I can give you more, immeasurably more; I will save you, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, but you must listen to me." Mitya started from his seat again. "Madam, will you really be so good!" he cried, with strong feeling. "Good God, you've saved me! You have saved a man from a violent death, from a bullet.... My eternal gratitude "I will give you more, infinitely more than three thousand!" cried Madame Hohlakov, looking with a radiant smile at Mitya's ecstasy. "Infinitely? But I don't need so much. I only need that fatal three thousand, and on my part I can give security for that sum with infinite gratitude, and I propose a plan which-" "Enough, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, it's said and done." Madame Hohlakov cut him short, with the modest triumph of beneficence. "I have promised to save you, and I will save you. I will save you as I did Belmesov. What do you think of the gold mines, Dmitri Fyodorovitch?" "Of the gold mines, madam? I have never thought anything about them." "But I have thought of them for you. Thought of them over and over again. I have been watching you for the last month. I've watched you a hundred times as you've walked past, saying to myself: That's a man of energy who ought to be at the gold mines. I've studied your gait and come to the conclusion: that's a man who would find gold." "From my gait, madam?" said Mitya, smiling. "Yes, from your gait. You surely don't deny that character can be told from the gait, Dmitri Fyodorovitch? Science supports the idea. I'm all for science and realism now. After all this business with Father Zossima, which has so upset me, from this very day I'm a realist and I want to devote myself to practical usefulness. I'm cured. 'Enough!' as Turgeney says." "But madam, the three thousand you so generously promised to lend me-" "It is yours, Dmitri Fyodorovitch," Madame Hohlakov cut in at once. "The money is as good as in your pocket, not three thousand, but three million, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, in less than no time. I'll make you a present of the idea: you shall find gold mines, make millions, return and become a leading man, and wake us up and lead us to better things. Are we to leave it all to the Jews? You will found institutions and enterprises of all sorts. You will help the poor, and they will bless you. This is the age of railways, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. You'll become famous and indispensable to the Department of Finance, which is so badly off at present. The depreciation of the rouble keeps me awake at night, Dmitri Fyodorovitch; people don't know that side of me-" "Madam, madam! Dmitri interrupted with an uneasy presentiment. "I shall indeed, perhaps, follow your advice, your wise advice, madam.... I shall perhaps set off... to the gold mines.... I'll come and see you again about it... many times, indeed... but now, that three thousand you so generously... oh, that would set me free, and if you could to-day... you see, I haven't a minute, a minute to lose to-day-" "Enough, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, enough!" Madame Hohlakov interrupted emphatically. "The question is, will you go to the gold mines or not; have you quite made up your mind? Answer yes or no." "I will go, madam, afterwards.... I'll go where you like... but now-" "Wait!" cried Madame Hohlakov. And jumping up and running to a handsome bureau with numerous little drawers, she began pulling out one drawer after another, looking for something with desperate haste. "The three thousand," thought Mitya, his heart almost stopping, "and at the instant... without any papers or formalities... that's doing things in gentlemanly style! She's a splendid woman, if only she didn't talk so much!" "Here!" cried Madame Hohlakov, running back joyfully to Mitya, "here is what I was looking for!" It was a tiny silver ikon on a cord, such as is sometimes worn next the skin with a cross. "This is from Kiev, Dmitri Fyodorovitch," she went on reverently, "from the relics of the Holy Martyr, Varvara. Let me put it on your neck myself, and with it dedicate you to a new life, to a new career." And she actually put the cord round his neck, and began arranging it. In extreme embarrassment, Mitya bent down and helped her, and at last he got it under his neck-tie and collar through his shirt to his chest. "Now you can set off," Madame Hohlakov pronounced, sitting down triumphantly in her place again. "Madam, I am so touched. I don't know how to thank you, indeed... for such kindness, but... If only you knew how precious time is to me.... That sum of money, for which I shall be indebted to your generosity... Oh, madam, since you are so kind, so touchingly generous to me," Mitya exclaimed impulsively, "then let me reveal to you... though, of course, you've known it a long time... that I love somebody here.... I have been false to Katya... Katerina Ivanovna I should say.... Oh, I've behaved inhumanly, dishonourably to her, but I fell in love here with another woman... a woman whom you, madam, perhaps, despise, for you know everything already, but whom I cannot leave on any account, and therefore that three thousand now-" "Leave everything, Dmitri Fyodorovitch," Madame Hohlakov interrupted in the most decisive tone. "Leave everything, especially women. Gold mines are your goal, and there's no place for women there. Afterwards, when you come back rich and famous, you will find the girl of your heart in the highest society. That will be a modern girl, a girl of education and advanced ideas. By that time the dawning woman question will have gained ground, and the new woman will have appeared." "Madam, that's not the point, not at all.... Mitya clasped his hands in entreaty. "Yes it is, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, just what you need; the very thing you're yearning for, though you don't realise it yourself. I am not at all opposed to the present woman movement, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. The development of woman, and even the political emancipation of woman in the near future - that's my ideal. I've a daughter myself, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, people don't know that side of me. I wrote a letter to the author, Shtchedrin, on that subject. He has taught me so much, so much about the vocation of woman. So last year I sent him an anonymous letter of two lines: 'I kiss and embrace you, my teacher, for the modern woman. Persevere.' And I signed myself, 'A Mother.' I thought of signing myself 'A contemporary Mother,' and hesitated, but I stuck to the simple 'Mother'; there's more moral beauty in that, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. And the word 'contemporary' might have reminded him of The Contemporary - a painful recollection owing to the censorship.... Good Heavens, what is the matter!" "Madam!" cried Mitya, jumping up at last, clasping his hands before her in helpless entreaty. "You will make me weep if you delay what you have so generously-" "Oh, do weep, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, do weep! That's a noble feeling... such a path lies open before you! Tears will ease your heart, and later on you will return rejoicing. You will hasten to me from Siberia on purpose to share your joy with me-" "But allow me, too!" Mitya cried suddenly. "For the last time I entreat you, tell me, can I have the sum you promised me to-day, if not, when may I come for it?" "What sum, Dmitri Fyodorovitch?" "The three thousand you promised me... that you so generously-" "Three thousand? Roubles? Oh, no, I haven't got three thousand," Madame Hohlakov announced with serene amazement. Mitya was stupefied. "Why, you said just now you said... you said it was as good as in my hands-" "Oh, no, you misunderstood me, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. In that case you misunderstood me. I was talking of the gold mines. It's true I promised you more, infinitely more than three thousand, I remember it all now, but I was referring to the gold mines." "But the money? The three thousand?" Mitya exclaimed, awkwardly. "Oh, if you meant money, I haven't any. I haven't a penny, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. I'm quarrelling with my steward about it, and I've just borrowed five hundred roubles from Miusov, myself. No, no, I've no money. And, do you know, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, if I had, I wouldn't give it to you. In the first place I never lend money. Lending money means losing friends. And I wouldn't give it to you particularly. I wouldn't give it you, because I like you and want to save you, for all you need is the gold mines, the gold mines, the gold mines!" "Oh, the devil!" roared Mitya, and with all his might brought his fist down on the table. "Aie! Aie!" cried Madame Hohlakov, alarmed, and she flew to the other end of the drawing-room. Mitya spat on the ground, and strode rapidly out of the room, out of the house, into the street, into the darkness! He walked like one possessed, and beating himself on the breast, on the spot where he had struck himself two days previously, before Alyosha, the last time he saw him in the dark, on the road. What those blows upon his breast signified, on that spot, and what he meant by it - that was, for the time, a secret which was known to no one in the world, and had not been told even to Alyosha. But that secret meant for him more than disgrace; it meant ruin, suicide. So he had determined, if he did not get hold of the three thousand that would pay his debt to Katerina Ivanovna, and so remove from his breast, from that spot on his breast, the shame he carried upon it, that weighed on his conscience. All this will be fully explained to the reader later on, but now that his last hope had vanished, this man, so strong in appearance, burst out crying like a little child a few steps from the Hohlakovs' house. He walked on, and not knowing what he was doing, wiped away his tears with his fist. In this way he reached the square, and suddenly became aware that he had stumbled against something. He heard a piercing wail from an old woman whom he had almost knocked down. "Good Lord, you've nearly killed me! Why don't you look where you're going, scapegrace?" "Why, it's you!" cried Mitya, recognising the old woman in the dark. It was the old servant who waited on Samsonov, whom Mitya had particularly noticed the day before. "And who are you, my good sir?" said the old woman in quite a different voice. "I don't know you in the dark." "You live at Kuzma Kuzmitch's. You're the servant there?" "Just so, sir, I was only running out to Prohoritch's... But I don't know you now." "Tell me, my good woman, is Agrafena Alexandrovna there now?" said Mitya, beside himself with suspense. "I saw her to the house some time ago." "She has been there, sir. She stayed a little while, and went off again." "What? Went away?" cried Mitya. "When did she go?" "Why, as soon as she came. She only stayed a minute. She only told Kuzma Kuzmitch a tale that made him laugh, and then she ran away." "You're lying, damn you!" roared Mitya. "Aie! Aie!" shrieked the old woman, but Mitya had vanished. He ran with all his might to the house where Grushenka lived. At the moment he reached it, Grushenka was on her way to Mokroe. It was not more than a quarter of an hour after her departure. Fenya was sitting with her grandmother, the old cook, Matryona, in the kitchen when "the captain" ran in. Fenya uttered a piercing shriek on seeing him. "You scream?" roared Mitya, "where is she?" But without giving the terror-stricken Fenya time to utter a word, he fell all of a heap at her feet. "Fenya, for Christ's sake, tell me, where is she?" "I don't know. Dmitri Fyodorovitch, my dear, I don't know. You may kill me but I can't tell you." Fenya swore and protested. "You went out with her yourself not long ago-" "She came back!" "Indeed she didn't. By God I swear she didn't come back." "You're lying!" shouted Mitya. "From your terror I know where she is." He rushed away. Fenya in her fright was glad she had got off so easily. But she knew very well that it was only that he was in such haste, or she might not have fared so well. But as he ran, he surprised both Fenya and old Matryona by an unexpected action. On the table stood a brass mortar, with a pestle in it, a small brass pestle, not much more than six inches long. Mitya already had opened the door with one hand when, with the other, he snatched up the pestle, and thrust it in his side-pocket. "Oh Lord! He's going to murder someone!" cried Fenya, flinging up her hands.

#BrothersKaramazov

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