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mariequitecontrarie · 4 years ago

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Tickled

A Rumbelle Dark Castle Fic

Summary: When Belle first hears Rumplestiltskin laugh, she’s determined to make it happen again. A/N: My @rumbellechristmasinjuly present for @silwenworld. I’m so sorry this is late, friend. I tried to weave some references in to Polish culture and hope it makes you smile. This fic is basically two Dark Castle Dorks squabbling like old marrieds. On AO3

Rumplestiltskin laughed. It wasn't his usual twittering giggle or the short, falsetto snicker reserved for particularly irritating nobles who called upon his power. It was a low, rumbling laugh, deep and genuine. His sides shook and his eyes crinkled at the corners, the lines fanning out almost to his temples. Even the crimped mop of hair on his head quivered with amusement. As soon as Belle heard it, she wanted to make it happen again. The sound was so surprising that she almost dropped the heavy basket filled with bread balanced on her hip. She slid the rolls and baguettes to safety onto the kitchen counter and spun around to give him her full attention, waiting for more. But the laughter was gone, the sparkle in his gaze shuttered, and all traces of mirth wiped from his expression. And though the atmosphere in the kitchen had shifted, she couldn’t let the moment go by unmentioned.

“You laughed,” she said, astonished at the generous, happy sound. She could almost hear its faint, deep echo in the kitchen rafters.

“Stop gaping at me, woman, I did nothing of the sort.”

“Deny it all you like,” she said with a growing smile. “But I heard it.”

Rumplestiltskin affected a dramatic pose and waved his arms in his signature flourish. “I laugh all the time,” he said and punctuated the words with a maddening giggle. “You’ve never commented on it before.”

Belle crossed her arms. This had been different and they’d both known it. The panicked glaze in his eyes was proof enough. “You laugh in mockery or to protect yourself. Just now you sounded happy. Joyful.”

“What an impertinent caretaker you are.” He wagged a finger at her. “Did you trouble your father this much when you lived in his household? No, don’t bother answering. The hairs on my head are turning white even as we speak.”

Belle rolled her eyes. Rumplestiltskin was immortal and although he was somewhere in the neighborhood of 300 years old, he didn’t have a single grey hair that Belle could find. Besides, any grey hair he’d earned came long before her arrival.

“Always changing the subject.” She rewarded his discomfiture with a sassy grin, then sashayed to the other side of the kitchen behind the large island, putting a safe distance between them. Alongside her delight and triumph at hearing his laughter, there was a strange, unfamiliar sense of warmth overtaking her. Smoothing the skirt of her dress with damp palms, she watched a spider methodically weave its web into the corner of the kitchen wall while she thought up a task to soothe her jitters. She wasn’t sure why, but the sound of Rumplestiltskin’s laughter had made her pulse skitter and her breath quicken. And when he’d stood close, his breath fanning her face as he laughed, the sweet aroma of magic and straw had overwhelmed the yeasty fragrance of bread.

Closing her eyes, she tried to commit the sound to memory. A shiver chased up her spine. His laughter had been intoxicating. Primal and full of life.

Shaking herself out of her daydream, Belle opened her eyes. The nearness of her employer didn’t typically affect her this way. At any rate, dinner and dessert wouldn’t make themselves, so she needed to get back to work. She squatted down to peruse the cookbooks on the shelves beneath the countertops, searching out one filled with cake recipes. Something with peaches would do nicely. The village bakery usually delivered cakes for Rumplestilsktin’s tea with the bread, but today they were out. It was her own fault; the riveting story she’d been reading yesterday had so engrossed her that she forgot to place the usual order. Thankfully there was always plenty of bread.

Burned cakes, Rumplestiltskin often said, were tolerable. Burned bread, however, was an abomination.

“What are you doing?”

“Oh!” She stood up too quickly and narrowly escaped banging her head on the underside of the counter.

His voice had floated as though he was standing right behind her, but he was clear across the room, a wicked grin plastered across his face. One leather-clad hip leaned indolently against the molding of the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest.

She hated it when he tossed his voice. “Rumplestiltskin!” She stomped her foot. “Don’t you have a potion to mix or a nobleman to vex?” Raising an eyebrow, he snapped his fingers. A bialy from the top of the breadbasket floated across the kitchen island and into his outstretched hand. “What a peculiar little thing you are,” he said. And before she could respond, he disappeared in a poof of red smoke.

Belle peeked around the corners and opened the pantry door just in case he was still hiding. No sign of him. Her sigh of relief met the cool kitchen air in a puff of steam. Alone at last, she put the kettle on to boil water for tea.

Ordinarily, Rumplestiltskin’s grand exits were frustrating—most people couldn’t poof in and out of rooms and realms at will. He also had a distressing penchant for disappearing in the middle of an argument, and often right before she was going to make a point. Yelling into an empty room was both embarrassing and disconcerting. Today, however, his presence was an unwelcome distraction.

She needed a plan.

Something had amused him enough to inspire the most wonderful laughter she had ever heard, and Belle was determined to discover what it was. The kettle whistled and while she prepared some black orange peel tea, she mulled over the possible events that had led to his laughter. When the sweetness of oranges perfumed the room, she brought her cookbook and tea to the worktable and sat down on her usual stool.

They’d been here together in the kitchen. He was pilfering a sweet snack, and she was accepting the bread delivery from the bakery. When she sidled by him with the bread basket, he laughed like he was hearing the finest tale in half a century.

Most people considered him a monster and would sooner relegate him to the pit of hell than care about what could possibly amuse the Dark One. But after almost a year of living at the Dark Castle in his service, Belle knew there was more to Rumplestiltskin than he revealed to the world.

Hadn’t he gifted her with a beautiful room overlooking the castle gardens and outfitted her with lovely and comfortable clothes in every shade of her favorite color blue? He encouraged her to correspond with her father and even allowed her to visit with a friend a time or two. He fussed over her when she worked too much and tucked her into bed with soup and tea when she was ill. And then there was the sumptuous tower library built just for her. It was her room alone and no one else was allowed inside without permission, he said. When he sought her out, the library and her bedroom were the two places he knocked and waited for her invitation before entering, even when the doors were wide open.

Rumplestiltskin was a dangerous person—she wasn’t oblivious. But beneath his otherworldly exterior and mystical trappings lurked a sad, melancholy man who had lost his son and faced more than two centuries of loneliness. From the scant handful of stories he had willingly shared, she knew the life he’d had before he met the darkness had been years of rejection and ridicule. Life, she suspected, had offered him precious few reasons to laugh.

While a future as an indentured servant wasn’t the life she would have chosen for herself, living with Rumplestiltskin wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, if she were forced to choose between Rumple and her father, it would be a hard choice to make. Besides, she was here and she had promised to stay forever. It gave her a sense of purpose to care for someone other than herself. Perhaps if she could offer him more reasons to laugh he wouldn’t be so distant, so angry. Maybe he wouldn’t always choose to hide behind a mask. Now, how could she get Rumplestiltskin to laugh again?

A commotion from the ornate cuckoo clock spurred her to action. With only two hours until supper, she needed to hurry. Off to the pantry she went in search of the flour and sugar for the cake.

xoxo After the supper dishes were cleared away, Belle watched carefully from her perch on the settee as Rumple picked up a slice of her freshly baked babka and sniffed. “It’s Wednesday. I thought there would be peach tarts.” The remark drifted down the long table in the center of the great hall, his tone carrying a hint of accusation. She decided against telling him she’d botched the bakery order. “There are peach preserves in this,” she said, hoping to mollify him. “And I made it myself.” Shrugging, he gulped the slice of cake in two bites. “Not the worst I’ve eaten.” Belle hid a smile. Coming from Rumplestiltskin, that was a compliment. He slurped sugar-laced tea from the cup she’d chipped on her first day of service in the castle and ate three more pieces of pastry from the tray. Belle edged forward in her seat, knocking a pillow to the floor when she shifted. Now perhaps he would laugh again. But although he hummed his appreciation for the food, there was no laughter. Disappointed, she scooped up the fallen pillow and hugged it to her middle. Perhaps she should have slipped up to his laboratory and taken some laughing potion to stir into the recipe. Surely such a thing existed. “Aren’t you having any?” he asked, then filled her cup with tea without waiting for an answer. He set two slices of cake on a plate and walked the length of the room to deliver them. When she accepted the plate, their sleeves brushed at the wrist. He backed away as though her clothes were on fire. Belle chewed her lip. It wasn’t like him to be so skittish. “Do I have germs or something?” “No more than usual.” His gaze shifted to the discarded novel on the floor and he settled in the wingback chair opposite the settee. He steepled his fingers. “You’re quiet today. What ails you? Plotting my demise?” “Nothing ails me.” She mustered her sweetest smile. “Everything is fine.” “Indeed?” He harrumphed. “Take a bite of your cake so I know you’ve not a mind to poison me.” “You’ve already eaten five pieces and you’re no worse for wear,” she pointed out, but she bit into the sweet cinnamon-laced confection to appease him anyway. It was good. She congratulated herself on her most successful baking venture thus far, since it seemed no one else was going to. “Touché,” he grunted. “Keep eating, please, so you don’t waste away and force me to send you home to your papa as a bag of bones. You barely touched your supper.” It was true she hadn’t had much appetite. She had been too busy watching him and wondering how she could inspire more of this afternoon’s beautiful laughter. She sank her teeth into a massive bite of cake and lifted her chin. “Why Rumplestiltskin,” she said after swallowing, “I didn’t know you cared.” He left the table in another poof of smoke and maniacal laughter. Not quite the reaction she was hoping for, but she could be stubborn as well. The game had only begun. xoxo

Over the next few weeks, Belle tried every technique she could think of to amuse Rumplestiltskin. Jokes, stories, a feather duster to tickle his sharp nose. She even traipsed through the great hall while he was spinning with a basket overflowing with bread, the same as she did the day she first heard his laughter. Jogging his memory of that day in the kitchen would surely work. But she was so focused on his reaction that she tripped over her own feet and dumped the basket on the floor. Rolls flew in every direction--onto the carpet, into the fire, and under the display cabinets filled with treasures from other lands. One piece of bread even landed on her head.

No reaction from Rumplestiltskin. Not even a snigger at Belle's expense.

Sweeping up the mess took so long she got a cramp in her shoulder. The crumbs tangled in her hair had to be washed out. At least there would be plenty of stale crusts to feed the birds.

Turning to the vast Dark Castle library, she scoured the dust-choked shelves for entertaining comedies. Without question, one of these was bound to make Rumplestiltskin laugh uproariously. Each evening for a week she read to Rumplestiltskin by the light of the fire, producing book after book until her fingers had papercuts and even she wanted a break from words. She’d even gone so far as to translate the work of a Polish author from The Land Without Magic by the name of Elżbieta Cherezińska.

Rumplestiltskin had snorted a time or two and the ghost of a smile crossed his lips, but he didn’t laugh at a single story. On the seventh evening of reading, he ordered Belle to her bedroom with a pot of hot tea and a dram of whiskey to soothe her raw throat.

“That’s the fifth time you’ve coughed in an hour and your voice is starting to resemble a giant,” he’d said.

Too bewildered by being packed off to bed with Rumplestiltskin clucking at her like a mother hen, it didn’t occur to Belle to be insulted. Next, she tried concocting a potion for laughing. Yes, she should have tried this on the first day, she’d thought as the burgundy syrup bubbled on the stove. Magic helped Rumplestiltskin achieve his ends and there was no reason it couldn’t work for her. If only she hadn’t gone into the laundry room to wash Rumplestiltskin’s aprons. But she had, forgetting that the contents of the spell required complete concentration. Most of the potion boiled over leaving her without a key ingredient—whitehaven petal—and it wouldn’t become available again until the summer. Chagrined, Belle looked between the mess on the stove and the snowdrifts blowing against the window. Four months was too long to wait.

Hoping for the best, she scraped some of the sticky gooey liquid off the counter and stirred it into Rumple’s lunch.

Once consumed, his platter of beef and rice cabbage rolls produced so many ridiculous high-pitched giggles that Belle wanted to throw a five-armed candelabra at his head.

Hardly the sort of laughter Belle had been hoping to hear.

After a month of trying and failing, Belle was growing impatient. How many harebrained schemes could one caretaker enact for the sake of a simple laugh? Rumplestiltskin was not only unfazed by her efforts he seemed blithely unaware of them.

For someone so fond of claiming he wasn’t a man, he was terribly dense. Belle began to despair. If she ever hoped to hear his beautiful, rumbling laughter again, drastic measures were required.

xoxo

“Go on,” Belle urged, pushing open the heavy door to the great hall. The shaggy grey puppy scampered over to the square dais where Rumplestiltskin was spinning and whimpered a greeting. He dragged some golden stalks of straw onto the carpet covering the platform and began to chew. Belle hovered in the foyer, watching and listening. The young Polish Lowland Sheepdog’s hair hung into his sweet brown eyes and he had the sweetest little pink tongue Belle had ever seen on a dog. Even Rumplestiltskin wouldn’t be able to resist laughing at such a lively, intelligent ball of fluff.

Or so she thought. Absorbed by his spinning, a full ten minutes went by before Rumplestiltskin deigned to notice his new companion.

“Belle,” he called without looking away from the wheel, “some vile little creature has wandered into the hall. Come dispose of it.”

She burst into the hall and inserted herself between Rumplestiltskin and the puppy before he had the notion to transform the poor animal into a less-than-pleasant creature, like a skunk or a beetle. It seemed to be the fate of most who displeased the Dark One.

Belle’s skirts swished against Rumplestiltskin’s thigh as she elbowed her way into his space.

He rocked back on the three-legged stool’s hind leg, his feet in the air. Gripping the creaking wheel for support, he rebalanced, his boots hitting the dais with a decided thump.

“Don’t topple me in your excitement, woman. It’s only a dog.” The words were crisp, dismissive. He wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t even smiling. The twist of his lips was sour, his eyelids drooped in boredom. “I have work to do.” He glanced pointedly at the dust-covered shelves in the hall. “As do you.”

Belle shuffled backward, putting space between them, taking care not to pitch backward off the dais. He righted the stool and returned to spinning, but not before she noticed a slight tremble of his fingers.

Such large, strong capable-looking hands he had, those long, elegant fingers tapering into short black claws. Artist’s hands.

Heat filled her face while a lightning-quick shiver danced up her spine, and Belle quickly turned her attention to the puppy with an adoring coo. “Isn’t he darling? His name is Kacper. ”

At the sound of his name, Kacper barked his approval and stretched his scruffy neck, angling to be pet. Belle bent low to oblige, stroking his back and scratching his ears.

“Darling.” Rumplestiltskin’s sniff was aloof. “Not the word I would use.”

“And why not?” She straightened and brushed straw off her skirt. “What’s wrong with him?”

Together they watched the dog drag more bright yellow pieces of straw off the platform and onto the floor. After a minute of chewing and jumping in the little pile, he climbed into Rumplestiltkin’s gold-laden basket and fell asleep.

“There’s straw everywhere,” he complained. “You’ll go to the village to replace it, too. By sundown tomorrow.”

“Yes, master.” She dipped a saucy curtsy.

The wheel came to a squeaking halt and Rumplestiltskin’s eyes flashed, warning Belle she was treading on dangerous ground. “Where did this hell dog come from anyway?”

“He was in the side yard chasing butterflies while I was hanging sheets on the line.” The memory of the butterfly landing on the pup’s nose while he barked and pawed at them made her giggle.

As usual, she was the only one laughing.

“Most likely a trap sent by one of my enemies,” he mused. “Perhaps Maleficent or King George.” He frowned as he reached around the puppy for more straw into the wheel. “Too tame to be Regina. Subtlety isn’t that one’s strong suit.”

The dog snuggled deeper into the basket and let out a whiffling snore. “Yes, he looks absolutely terrifying,” Belle supplied. “Ha! This from the one who lectures everyone who will listen about judging a book by its cover.” Sarcasm hung in the air like thunderclouds before a storm. “If you recall, dearie, the last time you found a beast in the yard, it was one of those devil hounds Cruella de Vil is so fond of. Like a fool, you followed it. And like an even bigger fool, I found myself bargaining for your life at midnight on Demon’s Bluff.”

Belle chewed her lip. He wasn’t wrong. The dalmatian puppy she followed had been sweet, but as judgments went, it hadn’t been her finest hour. “I did thank you profusely for saving me. What did you need that ridiculous magic gauntlet for, anyway?”

“We’ll never know now, will we?” He pouted.

“Come now,” she said, trying to tease him out of his rising temper. Thus far, the puppy was proving to be her worst idea yet for making Rumplestiltskin laugh. All she wanted at this point was a bit of credit for trying. “Why not admit you would be lost without me?”

“Indeed.” The stool pushed back with an angry scrape and he shot to his feet, stalking out from behind the spinning wheel. “Where in all the realms would I find a housekeeper who reads all the day, allows the kettle to run dry whilst I wait hours for my tea, and creates more messes than she cleans?”

A slap across the face couldn’t have hurt worse. Every failing he’d listed was true. No, she wasn’t the best caretaker, but what she lacked in capability and efficiency she tried to make up for in spontaneity and heart. She cared about him, the cantankerous bastard, which was more than could be said of most people. It was sobering to realize she cared so deeply for someone who seemed to think so little of her.

Stung by the criticism, she approached the platform and bent down to scoop up the sleeping pup.

Rumplestiltskin stepped down off the platform. They stood in the middle of the hall glowering at each other, she cradling the slumbering dog, and he rubbing nothingness between his fingers. The picture of awkwardness and pent-up frustration.

Why, she wondered, searching his cold, closed-off face, was she so determined to amuse a man who was so determined not to laugh? Was it a game? A challenge? Her stubborn nature? Belle didn’t know the answer, but she was fed up with trying.

There was no doubt in her mind now--he was purposely withholding his laughter for no other reason than meanness.

Tears threatened, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of breaking down. “If that’s the way you feel,” she said.

“Aye, that’s the way I feel.”

“Fine!”

Sounding as exasperated as she felt, he threw up his hands. Startled, Belle stumbled, the slight weight of the puppy overbalancing her. She tipped forward, falling headlong into Rumplestiltskin.

Forgetting about the sleeping puppy in her arms, she grabbed Rumplestiltskin around the waist, her fingers scrabbling for purchase, her head bumping against his chest.

With the first touch of her hands, he started to laugh. A great, guffawing, booming laugh so deep and loud it shook the rafters of the Dark Castle.

He caught her with one arm, the puppy with the other, pulling her up and drawing her close so they were pressed together from chest to toe. Her hands bracketed his waist, his leather and silk clothing soft and supple against her palms.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, the mystery finally solved. “You’re ticklish.”

“Rubbish,” he scoffed. “I’m simply giving in to your considerable efforts.”

“You can’t fabricate true, honest laughter,” she said.

To prove it, she wiggled her fingers against his sides once more. She was rewarded with more genuine laughter. Not a single trill or exaggerated snicker in earshot. To her amazement, the puppy slept through all the commotion, curled snug inside Rumplestitskin’s vest.

Who knew that one clumsy move was all it took to make him laugh again? Belle was so happy she could have twirled pirouettes the length of the great hall. But that would have required letting go of Rumplestiltskin. And she wasn’t doing that anytime soon.

She splayed her hands over his waist, and as she explored the contours of his torso she found his belly wonderfully soft and rounded beneath her fingers. He laughed again, his sides jiggling, and the sweet depth of it drew her deeper until she was swimming in the warmth of the sound.

Closing her eyes, she brushed the backs of her fingers along his hip, savoring each ripple of laughter and vibration of his body. She could have touched and tickled and listened to him all day.

“Enough now, Belle.” His tone was rough, vocal cords gravely from overuse. Moving the puppy to rest in the hollow of his shoulder, he gripped her hands and clasped them between his. His grip was firm but not unkind, and those beautiful hands she had studied so often were warmer and softer than she imagined.

Something more than mere humor glinted in his eyes, a tension between them that pushed the boundaries of their current arrangement. Friendship, attraction. The air in the hall was thick with both. And Belle realized that through these silly antics, she had more than an employer in Rumplestiltskin. She had a friend.

“Are you still angry with me, Rumple?” she ventured.

Those dark, fathomless eyes widened a bit at the shortened use of his name, but he didn’t object to the nickname.

“Try as I might, I cannot stay angry with you.” His voice was husky, the sweet thread of laughter still weaving through it. There was no trace of his usual artifice or pageantry.

“So that day in the kitchen?” she prompted, filled with wonder at all of today’s surprises and revelations.

“Aye, it was your touch that made me laugh.” He ducked his head, trying and failing to hide his reddened cheeks behind his shaggy curtain of hair. “ When you were lugging that basket of bread against your hip, you brushed against my waist. It was so innocent and you had no idea you’d done it. I’d forgotten what it felt like to be tickled and to laugh. I haven’t really laughed since…”

“Your son.” He was still holding her hands between his and she loosened his fingers to brush her thumb against the back of his hand. “I’m so sorry, Rumple. I never meant to dredge up a painful memory, to cause you hurt.”

“You didn’t. You made me laugh, Belle. You. Not fancy cakes or translating outlandish books or this little beast.” He patted Kacper’s head. “You brought light and kindness and laughter into this dull, dark place.”

“All that time I spent trying to figure out what would make you laugh.” Bells shook her head at herself. “Those crazy schemes. I felt like…”

“Me?”

Now it was her turn to laugh. Rumplestiltskin was nothing if not persistent. And he certainly excelled at patience. “A little,” she admitted. “But it was worth it.”

“Don’t you dare tell anyone about this,” he warned.

“Or what?” She blinked at him. “You’ll turn me into a toad?”

“Becoming predictable, am I?” He sneered, but it was without malice.

“You? Never.”

Releasing her hands, he stepped back onto the platform and settled down behind the spinning wheel. He carefully removed the dog from his shoulder and placed him into the basket of straw. “Kacper can stay here. For now. But you’ll need to find him a bed. This beastie can’t disrupt my work forever.”

“I understand, Rumplestiltskin.”

“Hmmm.” He began to spin and Belle watched for a moment as he easily slipped into that faraway place where he created and made plans, losing himself in the cadence of the wheel. “I’ll take my tea now.”

The words were said so softly, she heard them more in her mind than from his lips.

“Right away, Rumplestiltskin,” she whispered.

The faint smile on his face was the only indication that he’d heard her assent.

As she ambled down the corridor toward the kitchen feeling lighter than she had in weeks, the faint rumble of laughter drifted along with her. Belle wrapped her arms around herself to embrace the sound, her lips spreading in a smile of pure happiness. It was a beginning.

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#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #rumbelle christmas in july #rcij 2020 #dark castle rumbelle #tickling #silwenworld #mqc writes

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auroraawrites · 5 years ago

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what would have been (cedric diggory x reader)

gif not mine! all credit goes to @ronweaslley

requested by anon: can you please do a cedric diggory oneshot? like angst. basically like show your relationship progression if that makes sense? like when he shows you off to everyone, etc. until he dies, and you cope by like wearing his jumper GAH I WANT TO CRY THANJ U

warnings: major angst ahead! involves discussions about death, loss, and grieving.

author’s note: i’d recently been rereading the hp series and full out cried reading cedric’s parts like all the ways through the last task of the tournament. anyways, the italics means its a flashback memory ♥ enjoy

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perched at the edge of your seat, you stared out nervously into the abyss of darkened green that was the third task of the tri-wizarding tournament. it had been exactly an hour since the last of the champions had scurried into the maze, and the nervous anticipation of their audience hung thickly in the air. red sparks had gone off twice already, returning a devilish looking fleur and an unconscious victor to the jeering crowd. you should’ve felt relieved that hogwarts champions were the only two left now, but the pure desperation for cedric to be the one that brang it home was all you could pray for.

rolling your eyes, you couldn’t help the smile that slipped over your features at the sight of the tall, brown haired boy that stood leaning against the hallway across from the charms classroom. spotting your familiar figure amongst the group of students leaving the classroom, he weaved his way through the crowd to stand in front of you, a goofy grin plastered across his face.

you weren’t quite used to being friends with the champion of hogwarts just yet. you had only met him this year after stumbling upon him one night at the library, feverishly pouring over some books that you had also required for an assignment. the pair of you usually only talked in the comforts of the library, but here he was, standing only a few feet in front of you.

“cedric,” you acknowledged him with a nod and made to move past him, only for him to step in front of your path again.

“y/n” he said, the smile still etched onto his lips. “i was wondering if you’d like to accompany me to the yule ball?” a pair of ravenclaw girls passed by them, muffled giggles echoing down the now nearly deserted hall. “as my date, i mean.” he hastened, a slight flush creeping up his neck.

failing to stifle the smile that had now returned to your features, you cast a shy look up at him and nodded, “i’d love to.”

his grin was blinding as he escorted you down to your next lesson.

eyes flicking over the entrance again, your heart suddenly leaped at the sight of the yellow jersey that had appeared at the mouth of the maze. standing with the rest of the crowd, your cry of triumph had just erupted from your lips when you noticed the peculiar state of cedric’s arrival. for he wasn’t alone at the entrance, the unmistakable red jersey of harry potter gleaming beside him. harry who looked like he was shouting, stood crouched over cedric’s body, the look of fear and agony unmistakable even across the pitch. and cedric. cedric who had not moved since his arrival, lay perfectly still beneath harry.

a horrible image of cedric being attacked by an unknown monster flashed through your mind as you stood with shaky legs and followed the crowd of students down to meet the champions. your heart thundered in your ears, pushing through the forming crowd with a growing desperation. cedric couldn’t be that badly hurt could he? but it was the sight of mrs. diggory’s horror struck features that made you stop in your tracks.

ignoring the growing dread within you, you followed her line of sight to cedric. cedric, who lay pale and unmoving against the grass. cedric who’s lifeless eyes stared blankly up at the darkened sky. cedric, who was unmistakably, dead.

nervously pulling at the bodice of your gown, you looked around the empty dorm room, trying to calm yourself before you dared step out into the ravenclaw common room, where you knew cedric diggory stood waiting for you. finally deciding that there was nothing left for you to do but leave, you stepped out cautiously on to the balcony that overlooked the main area of the common room, a blush overtaking you as you spotted cedric down below.

a look of pure wonder and surprise greeted you as you made your way down the staircase to stand in front of him. dressed handsomely in a dark dress robe himself, your breath caught in your throat as you stared up at him, unsure of what to say or do.

before you could so much as utter a small apology for being late, he lifted your hand in his own and pressing a small kiss upon you knuckles, his eyes never leaving your face, “you look... stunning,” he finished in a low voice. a strange pang rushed down your navel at the sound of his voice.

“you clean up pretty well, diggory,” the words were just barely above a whisper. “shall we get going?”

taking your hand, he wrapped your arm around the crook of his elbow and walked you through the halls of the castle, the stream of conversation between the two of you never wavering. arriving at the entrance to the great hall, you noticed that you two were the last to arrive. mcgonagall shot them a stern look but continued on in her attempt to arrange the champions into a line. it suddenly occurred to you that you were about to announce your relationship with cedric to the whole school and a sliver of nervousness pooled in your stomach. as if reading your mind, he gave your arm a reassuring squeeze as you followed behind the rest of the couples into the great hall.

at the cue of the starting note, he turned at took your hand softly in his, leaning down to whisper a remark about mcgonagall dress robes into your ear as you passed. the giggle that escaped your lips loosened the worries that had coiled in your stomach. following his lead, cedric led you through the dance floor and you both waltzed gracefully around the hall, eyes only for each other.

time had slowed down around you. your fellow students moved past you in slow motion as they jostled past, trying to get a better look. in the distance, you could hear harry shouting, his words coming into sudden focus as the world regained its normal pace again, “he’s back! voldemort! he’s back! he killed cedric!”

knees buckling beneath you, you sank to the ground, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. this wasn’t happening right now. no, it was a dream. this was all a terrible dream. but, as the pitch slowly cleared and you could see the sobbing figures of mr. and mrs. diggory again, you knew that no dark depth of your mind could have ever come up with something like this.

---

days passed in plastic smiles and reassurances to the people that kept asking if you were alright. you wished they would stop asking. how were you supposed to respond?

time seemed meaningless to you as day passed into night and back again. you barely left your bed, lying there staring up at the ceiling, a hollow emptiness in your chest. you hadn’t cried. hadn’t thrown a fit of rage. hardly even spoken a word since that night. you knew that your friends were getting worried but you didn’t care. nothing felt real anymore.

twas the night before the second task and you stood in dumbledore’s office, your hand gripped tightly in hermione granger’s. dumbledore had just explained the premises of the task and after assuring the consent of all the ‘hostages’ as he called them, you watched somewhat ruefully as a potion was making its way down the very short line, soon being pressed into your own hand.

mustering up all your courage, you popped open the bottle cap and gulped down the sweet tasting liquid in one go. the effects were immediate. as the world slowly faded around you, you quickly wished cedric the best of luck in your head and promptly fell into a deep sleep.

---

your head broke the surface of the icy water with a large gasp. wiping the water out of your eyes, you caught sight of cedric’s equally drenched and laughing face beside you and you couldn’t help but copy his actions, your own laugh breathy as you both made your way towards the shore.

cedric had been the first to make it back to shore and the cheers from the hogwarts crowd for it were deafening. helping you out of the water, the pair were promptly bundled up in warm blankets by a muttering mrs. pomfrey. sharing a smile, you sat huddled next to him on the log, listening earnestly as he explained how he had rescued you from the murky depths of the lake. he looked so proud and triumphant. leaning forward before you lost your new found courage, you pressed a quick kiss on his cheek and sat back with a blush.

having not expected it, cedric sat in shock for a moment before turning to you and returning your earlier peck with a deep, passionate kiss of his own. you could hear the crowd around you crowing at the sight. laughing a little as you pulled back, you returned your head to the crook of his shoulder and stared out into the lake, waiting for the rest of the champions to arrive.

“y/n,” a soft voice interrupted the quiet that filled the dormitory. turning, you managed a slight curve of your lips as greeting for padma patil, “it’s cedric’s memorial feast tonight.” she whispered, as if afraid that if she spoke any louder, she might break you.

memorial feast. it was cedric’s memorial feast tonight. nodding, you slowly rose from your lying position. “i’ll be down in a minute.” your voice was hoarse after not being in use for so long. padma left the room and you were once again alone. slowly moving out of bed, you moved towards the trunk of clothes that sat at the foot of your bed.

pulling it open, your heart gave a painful jerk as you caught sight of the yellow sweater that lay, folded neatly atop it. fingers shaking, you pulled the wool sweater out of the trunk. it was as if the sight of it had brought out the rush of emotion you had been trying to bury these past few days. tears streamed down your cheek as you traced around the hufflepuff badge with shaky fingers and great, racketing sobs echoed through the empty room for the next half hour as you sat, the sweater clutched to your chest. you hadn’t even managed a proper goodbye to him. and now he was gone.

#harry potter #harry potter x reader #harry potter oneshot #harry potter imagine #cedric diggory #cedric diggory x reader #cedric diggory oneshot #cedric diggory imagine #request #oneshots #angst #imagine

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bokumonoexchange · 4 years ago

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Family Traditions

Hey there, @beck-a-leck! I was super glad to see you’d be interested in some good old Hector & Colin interaction. I adore those two and I adored the opportunity to write them. I also lurked on your AO3 to get a better idea for what you might like, and I saw you had an interest in some Hector/Holly stuff, sooooo…I threw in a bit of Potential there as little a treat. Please enjoy! Sorry for the late!

>>Read the story on ao3<< or go under the cut!!

Another splash, and Hector half rose from his lawn chair, ready to dive into the river to save his drowning son.

“I’m all right!” Colin assured him, high-pitched words tumbling over each other. “I just—I just lost the fish again, Pa.”

Hector sank back down, huffing in disapproval to mask his concern. He went back to whittling, as if he hadn’t, for an awful moment, worried another family member had been swept out of his life. “Gotta stand your ground, son.”

“I—I know!” Colin insisted. “These fish keep takin’ my bait. Pa, you reckon they’re hungrier than us?”

These last few seasons, the Westown river had been flowing cleaner and livelier than it had since—since Colin was born. Hector figured the fish were eating better than ever. He shook his head, even though Colin, still plonked by the riverbank, wasn’t looking his way. “You don’t have the bait on right. That’s all.”

“I’m no good at this. I can’t do anythin’ right at all.”

Here he goes.

“Takes time to master a craft,” Hector grunted before the tears crackling in Colin’s voice could spill. “Takes patience.”

Silence from the riverbank. Cicadas rasped in the trees above them, hidden away in thick, dark leaves. Sunlight lasted longer these days, but dinnertime never changed its hour. And Hector’s stomach was starting to gnaw itself at the edges. He tried to remind himself of his own patience, too.

“Pa,” Colin started to say. Hector grunted for him to continue, scraping his whittling knife along the thin strip of wood. “Did you have to…take time with yer whittlin’? For me and my appliqués?”

“Yep,” Hector said. He set aside the finished barbeque skewer and reached for the next strip of wood.

“Does that make whittlin’ those skewers easy now?”

“Yep.”

More silence. Sure didn’t sound like any fishing was getting done over there.

“Won’t have much use for these here skewers if ya don’t catch us somethin’ to skewer,” Hector reminded him, and with a squeak of dismay, Colin rebaited his line.

Their family barbeque was shaping up to be a good one, if Colin ever managed to get his rear in gear and catch them at least one hefty-sized fish. There was nothing like the clean summer taste of roasted carp, his ma’s macaroni salad, and coleslaw from Frank’s last spring cabbage crop. Marco said he might make it down, but Hector knew his hip had been hurting from last night’s rain. Frank had canceled, too, since one of his ewes was due for a new lamb and he was worried, as her last birth had been a rough one.

But the menu was still shaping up right fine, and if their yearly barbeque was just going to be him, his ma, and his son? Well, Hector couldn’t complain at all.

“Having fun out here?”

Hector only just managed to stamp down on his alarm. Good thing, too: this whittling knife had a taste for careless fingers. Holly, the other farmer, stood smiling above him. Apparently, she had decided to make use of the good summer weather: a fishing rod was slung over one shoulder and a fishing pail tight in her grip.

“Holly,” he greeted her. Holly’s smile grew, like he’d shown more enthusiasm than he had. She turned towards the river, shading her eyes against the glaring sunset even under her wide-brimmed hat.

“You’re not out there with him?” she asked, pointing to Colin. Hector huffed and shaved a piece of bark a little too roughly.

“Gotta learn how to do things on his own.”

“Oh, I—I didn’t mean to be rude,” Holly hurried to say. Hector glanced up again, surprised to see an embarrassed flush dusting her cheeks. “He’s a smart kid!”

Huh. Why in the world would she be feeling awkward about that? Hector furrowed his brows, which only served to make Holly fidget more. The hard-cut bark shaving drifted off his corduroy pants and onto his boot, and—oh. In the echoes of his memory, his voice had sounded defensive…

“Didn’t mean to be rude myself,” Hector half-apologized. “Good of you to be concerned for him, farmer.”

“It’s Holly by now, isn’t it?” she smiled again, and when he only grunted, she seemed to take that as an excellent excuse to plop herself on a log next to the freshly-dug firepit. And she didn’t seem to need to say anything more than that. No comments on the weather. No mention of the unused fishing gear in her hands. No chit-chat of nothing.

Instead, they sat in silence. No, not silence: the cicadas still sang their cacophonous melody; the river still gurgled; Colin still sighed every time a splashing fish broke free. Even the rhythmic scraping of his whittling knife on wood felt like it could say more about this fine summer air than Hector could put into words.

“Sorry I ain’t much of a conversationalist,” Hector did finally feel the need to say. Now it was Holly’s turn to jerk from her peaceful perch on the log.

“Sure you are,” she said with enough conviction Hector wanted to believe her. “You just say what needs telling, that’s all.”

True enough, but now Hector had no idea what to say to that. Better to keep an eye on Colin now anyway; he’d finished plenty of skewers for the barbeque he hoped still would happen. Hector set them all down and tucked his whittling knife back in his belt. As his eyes drifted towards his son, tugging on another splashing line like he was saving a dog from a well, movement in Holly’s general vicinity proved her eyes were doing the same.

Just in time, too: with a whoop of triumph, Colin yanked his first prize from the water. “Look, Pa!” he yelled, whirling around with it still on the hook, not in the pail.

“Colin, ya gotta—”

Colin caught sight of Holly’s proud gaze, and of course, all that jubilance fizzled out of him, replaced by that paralyzing timidity that he wasn’t yet managing to break. He fumbled with the line, with the hook, with the bait, and the fish leapt back into the safety of its watery home once more.

“Colin.”

Hector never could figure out how to make his sighs more of an exhale than a growl.

Colin sniffed. “Pa…Pa, Miz…Miz Holly, I…I c-can’t, I didn’t mean no—”

“You did really great, Colin!” Holly interrupted him with so much gentleness the glistening shine left Colin’s huge, miserable eyes. “You almost had it.”

“Yeah, yeah, almost…” Colin repeated. But right away, his lip trembled. “B-but I couldn’t right manage—”

“That just means you’ll get it next time! Come on then. Can I help out?” Holly was already rising from the log almost before Colin started nodding. She picked up her rod and pail again and joined him by the riverbank, telling him in soft tones how he didn’t have the bait on right. Softer and more patiently than Hector had managed. Colin kept nodding along with each of her instructions, wrapping his line finally the correct way and letting her fix his stance. Holly kept him steady, hands on his back just brushing his shoulders. Distant enough Hector doubted Colin could feel it. Close enough she could catch him if he stumbled.

Hector only realized he’d been staring at them far too long when Holly glanced over her shoulder, fixing him with a goofy smile and a merry little wave. And of course his immediate response was to scowl and look away. Right away, he wished he could turn back and make some sort of apologetic acknowledgement back, maybe even a hand raised of his own, but Holly had her back turned to him and was helping Colin slowly, slowly reel what seemed like a promising catch from the far end of the river.

It was safe now to scowl in private, then. Hector busied himself with collecting stones for the firepit so he couldn’t dwell on any lingering embarrassment.

Colin squeaked something incomprehensible from this distance. “Good work, Colin, you almost have it,” Holly’s lilting response drifted over even to where Hector was rustling about for proper-sized rocks. A smile, a true smile twitched on Hector’s lips, when Colin exclaimed something back, no longer timid or ashamed.

Westown had been a far lonelier place before Holly had shown up, especially in this part of town. It wasn’t just Holly who’d moved in, sure: plenty of new faces had rolled on in, too, either on vacation or to set up new shops. Hector tossed the rocks towards the firepit and began arranging them in a neat, orderly circle. A splash, two cheers, and rapid-fire chitchat alerted him of Colin’s very first catch.

Still. For all Westown’s new liveliness—and Tsuyukusa and Lulukoko, so he’d heard—Hector knows this town’s all the better for having Farmer Holly in it now. It just wouldn’t be the same without her, without all these new fresh crops, these new fresh friends from far-flung faces, these new fresh emotions shining on his son’s face Hector had never seen blossom so quickly.

It’d do Colin some good to hear that, he reckoned. Holly too, of course. But because Hector’s mouth was too hungry to be capable of politeness or praise, what came out instead was, “Y’all gonna be done soon, or do we gotta roast up nothin’ but macaroni?”

“Um,” Colin called back, but he cut off his own excuses with another excited cry and began reeling in another fish. Holly stepped back even more, letting Colin claim a fully independent victory over nature. She tucked her hair behind her ear under her hat and smiled so big at Hector he froze in place.

“Probably just one more,” she said while Colin’s defeated foe joined the last in the pail. “He tempted two big old beauties! Plenty of good stuff on them, I’d say.”

Hector grumbled and mumbled and fiddled with the kindling until she went back to watch Colin’s confidence grow. Just within his earshot, the tell-tell screech of the screen door announced his ma’s approach.

“What’s takin’ y’all so long?” she huffed in lieu of greeting. Hector prepared to defend himself and his son, but before he could formulate any sort of response, Holly and Colin’s voices drew attention to them both and away from any of his excuses. “Well, aren’t they babbling like a brook,” Ma mused, crossing her arms over her chest.

Why she wore a cardigan even in this stifling summer heat, Hector would never dare to ask. “Brook’s babbling full of fish,” he said. “Reckon they’ll be done soon.”

Ma cackled. “Promises, promises. Oh, that sweet Colin of yours…”

“He’ll keep it,” Hector said. “Boy’s in good hands. Can see that plain as day.” He stood up, stretched, and headed towards the house to collect the rest of the barbeque spread and plates.

“Hm.” Ma was still watching the two fishing experts perform their duty when Hector returned, juggling far too many bowls, jugs, and tableware than safe. Fortunately, Ma didn’t notice, which meant she couldn’t lecture him. No, all she said was, “This town really feels like some kinda family now, don’t it?” and Hector had lucked out by just finishing setting their cornucopia in a proper, less-dangerous array on the biggest felled log.

Hector, a taciturn man on a good day and a surly one the rest of the time, simply had no reply to that. Fortunately, Ma didn’t seem to need one, because now came the lecture on how much he’d carried himself, why couldn’t he just ask for even the littlest bit of help, she’s not so feeble she can’t take care of her son even a little more…

By the time Ma had worn herself out with her affectionate nagging, Hector had finished lighting the fire and had begun gathering the fresh skewers. “Gotta soak these,” he said needlessly.

Ma sighed. She sounded just like him sometimes. Even Hector could tell. “Then you got all these here dishes out too soon. Flies’ll be at ‘em before you know it.”

“Two of ‘em’ll be done soon, I said,” Hector protested again. Ma, for some strange reason, smiled, soft and warm. She patted his arm without commentary.

“Kids,” she called over to the riverbank duo, “don’t keep your elders waitin’ too long, y’hear? I’m so famished I may just waste away!”

“Gram!” was Colin’s distressed cry, but Holly shushed him and placed his hands back on the reel.

“Don’t go teasin’, Ma.”

“Boy’s gotta learn manners from someone.” Ma patted his arm again with another twinkle in her eye. “Sure didn’t learn ‘em from my son. Didn’t even invite her to dinner, did ya? Terrible manners as ever.”

“Ma!” Hector exclaimed, wincing as he realized he’d sounded exactly like Colin, tone and pitch and all. Ma wheezed another laugh. He cleared his throat as if he could muster up his dignity that way and almost muttered something about where’d she think he learned his manners from, if not his own parent…

But one look Colin’s way, with his own expression and gleeful, beaming smile at Holly while they wrangled the last fish into the bucket made Hector and his deep scowl decide to keep his trap shut. It had served him well in the past, and it’d serve him well again.

“C’mere, you two,” he called over to them instead. They obeyed, Holly reminding Colin not to walk too fast with a bucket of still-wriggling fish. “Sit down,” he said, and brought out a second knife. “Me and Holly, we’re gonna show you how to clean a fish, aren’t we? Family barbeque tradition.” Holly’s eyes widened, lips parting surely to make some sort of protest. Hector mustered all his strength and continued, “Won’t hear nothin’ to the contrary. You’re family, ain’t ya?”

“Yes,” Holly agreed after only a heartbeat’s worth of silence. “Yeah, we are.”

#story of seasons #trio of towns #beck-a-leck #nenalata #fic #spring 2020 #submission

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somstory · 5 years ago

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Chapter 32 of Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov

There was the day, during our first trip—our first circle of paradise—when in order to enjoy my phantasms in peace I firmly decided to ignore what I could not help perceiving, the fact that I was to her not a boy friend, not a glamour man, not a pal, not even a person at all, but just two eyes and a foot of engorged brawn—to mention only mentionable matters. There was the day when having withdrawn the functional promise I had made her on the eve (whatever she had set her funny little heart on—a roller rink with some special plastic floor or a movie matinee to which she wanted to go alone), I happened to glimpse from the bathroom, through a chance combination of mirror aslant and door ajar, a look on her face . . . that look I cannot exactly describe . . . an expression of helplessness so perfect that it seemed to grade into one of rather comfortable inanity just because this was the very limit of injustice and frustration—and every limit presupposes something beyond it—hence the neutral illumination. And when you bear in mind that these were the raised eyebrows and parted lips of a child, you may better appreciate what depths of calculated carnality, what reflected despair, restrained me from falling at her dear feet and dissolving in human tears, and sacrificing my jealousy to whatever pleasure Lolita might hope to derive from mixing with dirty and dangerous children in an outside world that was real to her.

And I have still other smothered memories, now unfolding themselves into limbless monsters of pain. Once, on a sunset-ending street of Beardsley, she turned to little Eva Rosen (I was taking both nymphets to a concert and walking behind them so close as almost to touch them with my person), she turned to Eva, and so very serenely and seriously, in answer to something the other had said about its being better to die than hear Milton Pinski, some local schoolboy she knew, talk about music, my Lolita remarked:

“You know, what’s so dreadful about dying is that you are completely on your own”; and it struck me, as my automaton knees went up and down, that I simply did not know a thing about my darling’s mind and that quite possibly, behind the awful juvenile clichés, there was in her a garden and a twilight, and a palace gate—cim and adorable regions which happened to be lucidly and absolutely forbidden to me, in my polluted rags and miserable convulsion; for I often noticed that living as we did, she and I, in a world of total evil, we would become strangely embarrassed whenever I tried to discuss something she and an older friend, she and a parent, she and a real healthy sweetheart, I and Annabel, Lolita and a sublime, purified, analyzed, defied Harold Haze, might have discussed—an abstract idea, a painting, stippled Hopkins or shorn Baudelaire, God or Shakespeare, anything of a genuine kind. Good will! She would mail her vulnerability in trite bashness and boredom, whereas I, using for my desperately detached comments an artificial tone of voice that set my own last teeth on edge, provoked my audience to such outbursts of rudeness as made any further conversation impossible, oh my poor, bruised child.

I loved you. i was a pentapod monster, but I loved you. I was despicable and brutal, and turpid, and everything, mais je t’aimais, je t’aimais! And there were times when I knew how you felt, and it was hell to know it, my little one. Lolita girl, brave Dolly Schiller.

I recall certain moments, let us call them icebergs in paradise, when after having had my fill of her—after fabulous, insane exertions that left me limp and azure-barred—I would gather her in my arms with, at last, a mute moan of human tenderness (her skin glistening in the neon light coming from the paved court through the slits in the blind, her soot-black lashes matted, her grave gray eyes more vacant than ever—for all the world a little patient still in the confusion of a drug after a major operation)—and the tenderness would deepen to shame and despair, and I would lull and rock my lone light Lolita in my marble arms, and moan in her warm hair, and caress her at random and mutely ask her blessing, and at the peak of this human agonized selfless tenderness (with my soul actually hanging around her naked body and ready to repent), all at once, ironically, horribly, lust would swell again—and “oh, no” Lolita would say with a sigh to heaven, and the next moment the tenderness and the azure—all would be shattered.

Mid-twentieth century ideas concerning child-parent relationship have been considerably tainted by the scholastic rigmarole and standardized symbols of the psychoanalytic racket, but I have hope I am addressing myself to unbiased readers. Once when Avis’s father had honked outside to signal papa had come to take his pet home, I felt obliged to invite him to the parlor, and he sat down for a minute, and while we conversed, Avis, a heavy, unattractive, affectionate child, drew up to him and eventually perched plumply on his knee. Now, I do not remember if I have mentioned that Lolita always had an absolutely enchanting smile for strangers, a tender furry slitting of the eyes, a dreamy sweet radiance of all her features which did not mean a thing of course, but was so beautiful, so endearing that one found it hard to reduce such sweetness to but a magic gene automatically lighting up her face in atavistic token of some ancient rite of welcome—hospitable prostitution, the coarse reader may say. Well, there she stood while Mr. Byrd twirled his hat and talked, and—yes, look at how stupid of me, I have left out the main characteristic of the famous Lolita smile, namely: while the tender, nectared, dimpled brightness played, it was never directed at the stranger in the room but hung in its own remote flowered void, so to speak, or wandered with myopic softness over chance objects—and this is what was happening now: while fat Avis sidled up to her papa, Lolita gently beamed at a fruit knife that she fingered on the edge of the table, whereon she leaned, many miles away from me. Suddenly, as Avis clung to her father’s neck and ear while, with a casual arm, the man enveloped his lumpy and large offspring, I saw Lolita’s smile lose all its light and become a frozen little shadow of itself, and the fruit knife slipped off the table and struck her with its silver handle a freak blow on the ankle which made her gasp, and crouch head forward, and then, jumping on one leg, her face awful with the preparatory grimace which children hold till the tears gush, she was gone—to be followed at once and consoled in the kitchen by Avis who had such a wonderful fat pink dad and a small chubby brother, and a brand-new baby sister, and a home, and two grinning dogs, and Lolita had nothing. And I have a neat pendant to that little scene—also in a Beardsley setting. Lolita, who had been reading near the fire, stretched herself, and then inquired, her elbow up, with a grunt: “Where is she buried anyway?” “Who?” “Oh, you know, my murdered mummy.” “And you know where her grave is,” I said controlling myself, whereupon I named the cemetery—just outside Ramsdale, between the railway tracks and Lakeview Hill. “Moreover,” I added, “the tragedy of such an accident is somewhat cheapened by the epithet you saw fit to apply to it. If you really wish to triumph in your mind over the idea of death—” “Ray,” said Lo for hurray, and languidly left the room, and for a long while I stared with smarting eyes into the fire. Then I picked up her book. It was some trash for young people. There was a gloomy girl Marion, and there was her stepmother who turned out to be, against all expectations, a young, gay, understanding redhead who explained to Marion that Marion’s dead mother had really been a heroic woman since she had deliberately dissimulated her great love for Marion because she was dying, and did not want her child to miss her. I did not rush up to her room with cries. I always preferred the mental hygiene of noninterference. Now, squirming and pleading with my own memory, I recall that on this and similar occasions, it was always my habit and method to ignore Lolita’s states of mind while comforting my own base self. When my mother, in a livid wet dress, under the tumbling mist (so I vividly imagined her), had run panting ecstatically up that ridge above Moulinet to be felled there by a thunderbolt, I was but an infant, and in retrospect no yearnings of the accepted kind could I ever graft upon any moment of my youth, no matter how savagely psychotherapists heckled me in my later periods of depression. But I admit that a man of my power of imagination cannot plead personal ignorance of universal emotions. I may also have relied too much on the abnormally chill relations between Charlotte and her daughter. But the awful point of the whole argument is this. It had become gradually clear to my conventional Lolita during our singular and bestial cohabitation that even the most miserable of family lives was better than the parody of incest, which, in the long run, was the best I could offer the waif.

#lolita #nabokov

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foxofthedesert · 6 years ago

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RQ OUaT FF | OGA: Ch 8

Chapter 8 – A Bitter Draught

An uneventful month meanders by after the destruction of the garrison at the border. In the interim, Regina has spent her nights much the same way. Tonight no exception is made to the routine that has played an integral role in maintaining an even keel through the undulating seas portentous of a tempest about to blow in from the southeast.

The entire morning was spent embroiled in mostly monotonous meetings, one after another spanning a broad assortment of topics ranging from lumber industrialists bitching about deforestation protocols to a presentation chock full of charts, graphs, and illustrations given by an appallingly boring magistrate from the southerly regions regarding the 'dire threat' posed to her local waterways by wildlife run amok. Apparently overzealous beavers and moles alongside unusual upsurges in foxes, deer, and other agricultural and animal husbandry endangering critters pose as severe a threat as a witch hellbent on the kingdom's destruction – an elucidation for which Regina was ever-so-thankful. The highlight of the morning, and the entire day really, was a girl's chorus from the vicinity of Perrault who visited just before midday to finalize booking them for a gala to be thrown in Red's honor. Regina was so besotted with their cherubic enthusiasm for celebrating the upcoming birthday of the Queen they all adored that she allowed them to lunch with her.

Unfortunately, the proceeding afternoon and evening hours sapped all of the positive energy of that delightful hour. Drafting budget proposals for the council to review was not her idea of fun, nor was reviewing the repairs to the western wall nearing completion after a series of delays. All the same, those things had to be done lest the nobles had cause to question her commitment to the kingdom's financial health and the citadel's security. So after seeing the girl's chorus off, she sequestered in her office, hunkered down and scribbled figures until the wrist and fingers of her right hand ached. Several hours later, she emerged only to spend the next two meticulously inspecting stonework and newly dug rainwater management culverts in the midst of an autumn chill rolling through the area.

By the time Regina trudges up the corridor to her bedchambers, she is weary to the marrow of her bones. Pausing at the door, she fondly recalls how Red had returned from a similar visit to the western wall the month before. Coated in sweat and mud, Red had stank something awful but was nonetheless the picture of simple satisfaction at having broken Queenly protocol to help the workers haul rocks, mix mortar, dig trenches, and pour concrete to fill said ditches so that the new section of the wall had stable foundations. Regina's nose turns up at the memory of the smell wafting from her filthy wife, but then she melts at Red's happy smile at having exhausted herself in hard, honest work that paid objective dividends she has personally witnessed. The wall is now twice as strong as it was before repairs were undertaken. Several times during her review, she was approached by workers and offered thanks for Red's unnecessary but greatly appreciated aid.

I'm just glad it was her that pitched in with the grunt work and not me, Regina thinks, smirking down at her pristine clothing. If Red wants to break her back getting down in the mud with what she insists will always be her sort of folk, she can have at it. As for me, I'll be staying clean and dry. Like mother said, 'That is what servants are for, Regina, and we pay them well enough for their labor. Your job is to ensure that labor is not done in vain.' She wasn't right about a lot, but that's one point I'll agree with her on.

There is a part of Regina that cringes at how snobbish that sounds. Fortunately for her, it is not big enough to make any notable impact upon her conscience. The last time she let the stark disparity between the haves and have-nots bother her, she was a young and criminally naive fool who believed in concepts that will never harmonize with reality – such as the idiotic assumptions that love will always triumph over hate and good over evil. Daniel's death was a slap to the face curing her of those delusions, one that she has yet to recover from and probably never will when five years of marriage to a hopeless romantic has only made a tiny dent in her condescending streak. Besides, if Red can put up with her occasionally sneering down her nose at the common man, why should she be bothered to change any more than she already has? And it isn't as if she is the same callous tyrant who constantly abused the impoverished lower classes during the Dark Days.

Since she fell in love with Red and that hopeless idealism her mother tried to destroy flickered back to life into a quaint but undeniably extant ember, the plight of the rank and file has conclusively improved. There is still destitution, yes, as there always will be in a world as cruel as theirs. But there has been steady upward progress. Salaries of workers all over the citadel, and indeed all over the country, have reached record highs under her audacious agenda to redistribute some of the gross wealth being hoarded by the nobility. The program has not boosted her popularity among the effected noble houses, although even the hardest hit among those most wealthy individuals cannot argue with the wholesale economic benefits produced by a proletariat that is increasingly awash with disposable income. Merchants are especially reaping the harvest of this marked upturn in consumerism, and their nearly universal support of her measures has offset any intransigent defiance from the excessively privileged aristocracy.

So no, Regina does not feel bad for still being a bit of an arrogant, pompous, egotistical asshole. And why should she when Red admittedly finds that side of her...oddly arousing? The answer to that question is self-evident.

As Regina loiters outside in the hallway, the manifesting temptation to provoke Red's attraction to her nasty side is quite potent. Yet as enjoyable as the lengthy, highly energetic romps with her wife invariably are, she is not really in the mood tonight. Unusual as that is, all she wants is to settle in for a relaxing evening in the company of her favorite person in the universe. Red's consistently reliable warmth and devotion is more than enough to take her mind off of the sinister looking storm clouds always a nagging pace ahead of her stride. Storm clouds that thunder the ominous promises of the witch that murdered Robin in front of the whole court and wiped the garrison at Tamerlon off the map.

Prior to entering the chambers, she preemptively sets a number of wards over their door to match those she applies to her wife's person each morning since that terrible day they watched helplessly as one of their dearest friends died. She cannot be too careful since the witch threatening her life also made that lewd comment about Red. Expressing an intent to kill her is one thing, but implying untoward intentions toward her wife is another altogether. So Regina ignores Red's limited amount of snarky griping about her paranoia as she carefully applies the wards, and does not feel a bit bad about doing so. There is no length to which she is unwilling to go to prevent such an indignity being visited upon the only person she has ever known who deserves to live a free, peaceful, and happy life.

Thus far there have been no assassination attempts, much to Regina's equal relief and consternation, which is why she has not immediately recalled Mulan from her task shoring up the southern border with Drakkenhall. It also comes as no great shock since there have been no further sightings of the witch, though she wishes that were not the case. Were there actionable intelligence, she could be out there doing something about the threat. As is, her frustration only grows with each passing day and it feels more and more like the introductory theatrics at the garrison and with Robin were a pot of water hung over a lit fire. Now whatever malefic brew is being prepared has been left to simmer, and once heated to a rolling boil, the concoction will be poured out, no doubt inciting mayhem within the kingdom. To Regina, the waiting is far less preferable to the attack sure to unfold any day now. At least in open conflict she can retaliate. Right now all she's done is sit on her ass, hands tied behind her back, powerless to strike out at an enemy who has yet to reveal herself save through veiled taunts. Psychological warfare is being conducted, and having it waged upon a person of action such as herself is beyond aggravating.

The only comfort through the interminable period of peace before the storm is her nightly ritual with Red. Relaxing together before bed, sipping the finest vintage, and talking about their days helps to unwind the massive knot of frustration that is her entire body and mind of late. Somehow, Red is able to stay calm whereas Regina's self-control is fraying at the edges, and when they are together that inner serenity soothes her irritated nerves as if seeping in via emotional osmosis. After the destruction of the garrison and Robin's death, she's been constantly itching for a fight that refuses to present itself. Red, though, is eerily composed, able to go about her daily business without thoughts of their close friend's abrupt demise hindering or entirely paralyzing her. Whether she's just being brave for Regina's sake or has simply stowed away her grief until the current crisis is over remains uncertain. Regina is too selfish to ask which is the case. Right now she needs her wife's unshakable devotion, quiet strength, easy-going companionship, tender reassurance, and dependable affection – perhaps more so than she ever has.

"Hey, hon! You look beat," Red greets upon Regina's entry.

"I am," Regina says. "It was a long day."

Approaching from where she was perched at their vanity, reading the latest in a long line of epic romances gifted to her by Belle, Red offers Regina a compassionate smile. "I heard. Lots of meetings, huh? And drafting the yearly budget proposal on top of that. I don't envy you."

Regina hums her acknowledgement. Red had spend her day in the town that sprung up beneath the looming shadow of the castle almost immediately after construction was completed some two centuries ago. Referred to now as Eisentor as much due to the easily defensible layout teeming with choke points around the base of the mountain as to the massive steel-reinforced gates, manned around the clock, that bar entrance to the sinuous access road carving a path up to the precipice upon which the Dark Palace sits. In Eisentor, Red is a regarded as somewhat of a fixture, as she can be found there as oft as permitted by the many duties incumbent upon a sovereign.

Today Red paid a visit to the bakery Regina once spied upon and learned of the shifting opinion of her people regarding her rule. Red does not say anything to indicate where she went, nor does she need to; Regina can see the burn marks on her fingers and forearms from greedily plucking hot pastries out of the oven because she was too impatient to wait for them to be safely removed. Ennis and Hanna, the baker and his wife, permit Red to have her run of the place. The indulgence isn't surprising since Red is their Queen, although Regina does not think that factors into their overly kind allowance. Red has a way with people that disarms them almost instantly then has them reduced to so much putty in her palm within a few more minutes. The proprietors of the bakery, all four of them, did not last even that long before they were not only letting Red have her pick of the fresh-out-of-the-oven goodies but were letting her design – and hand-make! – her own confections. The first time that happened Red came back home with flour on her face and dough on her dress, which was a costly garment to have produced. Fortunately for her, the gingersnaps dipped in white chocolate she had baked were delicious. Had Regina known Red had a talent for baking she might not have resisted bedding her quite so long as she did.

In any case, Red's day was far less strenuous than Regina's, thus the reason for her being extra sympathetic. Which she most certainly ought to be as she probably had Ennis and Hanna's absurdly attractive children pawing all over her while she was flitting about their establishment like a butterfly perfectly at home in an environment that decorum would expect her to avoid appearing too comfortable in.

"As well you shouldn't. How are Rina and Alfred, by the way?" Regina asks, unable to keep the venom out of her question. She is still uncomfortable with how much time those two funny and kind, extremely gorgeous, and very single siblings spend around Red.

"Doing good," Red says, smile shifting with longsuffering affection for Regina's irrepressible jealous streak where those two are concerned. "You don't have to keep saying their names like a dirty word, by the way. They're just friends who know I don't have eyes for anybody but you."

"Maybe so, but I'd still feel better if they both got married already," Regina grouses, mood souring further when Red chuckles at her discomfort. "Yuck it up, buttercup. Mock my concerns. But answer me this, what are two highly attractive and eligible individuals like them doing unmarried in their mid-twenties? Huh?"

"Waiting for the right person just like I did," Red calmly answers, ever the diplomat. "The see what I have and want it for themselves. And you know what? I don't blame them one tiny iota. Everyone should be as lucky as me to have found somebody like you."

Eyes dancing, Red sidles over to Regina and pulls her into an embrace without permission. To Regina's frustration, she allows the uninvited move, even appreciates the motive behind it and the comfort it gives her. Ten years ago, she would have incinerated anyone who dared such boldness. Instead she melts into the embrace and accepts the kiss pressed gently to her lips.

You've turned into a pathetic sap, Regina. But who can blame me? These arms are the safest, most loving place in the world. And those kisses are worth all the gold in the kingdom. I may be a sap but at least I'm a happy one.

A chuckle reverberates through Red's chest as Regina loops her arms behind Red, hands joined at the small of her back. "You've been jealous of Rin and Alfie for years for absolutely no good reason. How many times do I have to remind you that neither of them are interested that way in girls?"

Regina pulls away, brows arched. "I thought the same once. Before Leopold's death, I held to my mother's puritanical view of same sex attraction. And then I..." she trails off before mentioning her introduction to Maleficent, not wanting to put Red in a bad mood as well.

Red does not care very much for Mal. Never has really since their introduction almost seven years ago. She insists it is because of the ancient hatred her kind harbors for the race of dragons. One of few historical contributions Anita made to her daughter's thirst for knowledge about her roots was an oral tradition passed down for untold generations which holds that the dragons created werewolves and then enslaved them as a labor force they then exploited mercilessly to erect their great castles and earthworks, some of which exist to this day. That enmity is apparently ingrained into werewolves, which might explain why Red is on constant alert whenever Mal is around for the week or so she visits two or three times per year while her daughter Lillian is with her father. It might, that is, if were not for the scathing glances Red often cast at Maleficent, whether Mal was paying attention or not, only occurring when Regina was present. Among other trustworthy sources, Iris has informed Regina that Red acts perfectly normal when alone with Mal, and that they even seem to get along rather well without Regina between them as she oft is to the keep the peace. Obviously, Red's loathing for Mal is just her own jealous, possessive streak rearing her ugly head – and it is a her, as there is no question the source is the wolf, who thought of Regina as her mate long before her human half did.

So, while it is true Mal was her first foray into the boundless pleasures of a woman's intimate touch, naturally she avoids speaking such a truth aloud to prevent any consequential effusion of blood. A fight between a dragon and the most enormous werewolf on record would not only result in one of the participants being seriously harmed, but there is no telling what damage those two would cause around the citadel tussling in their bestial forms. And as much as Regina enjoys Red acting irrationally possessive and territorial, she does not want her pleasure to come at the expense of innocent bystanders. Or worse, at Red's. Strong as Red is in her fur, could she really take on a dragon as big as a small castle and escape the encounter unscathed? Regina doesn't think so, and thus keeps her trap shut.

Plus, if Mal hurt Red...? Well, then Regina would have to hurt Mal, and she really does not want to do that. She has precious few friends as is that accept her for who she is and not who they want her to be. Mal is one of those, and the oldest at that. It would be unspeakably tragic if Regina lost their deeply embedded camaraderie because she was no better than Snow White at keeping a secret, even if it was her own and not that of another.

"Well," she amends after clearing her throat, "then I learned differently. Such revelations can sneak up on you, as you well know."

Red nods, nibbling her lip bashfully. Unlike Regina, Red had no prior sexual experience with another woman when they became lovers. Her innocence in the matter was as precious as it was exciting. And not only in that aspect, but Red was a virgin as well, having never been brave enough to breach that momentous threshold with Peter before his horrific demise at Red's unwitting...paws. Those crucial details made their first time a priceless gift twice over, so lovingly and trustfully offered by Red and accepted by Regina with all due reverence. Regina will never forget a single detail of that night. Every delightful moan Red let loose, every delicious shudder of the taut muscles in her flawless body, the keening encouragements as Regina's lips, tongue, or fingers discovered all the right spots she never imagined could make her feel so good, and even the whimpers of pain as her maidenhood was delicately torn – all are recorded for posterity within the vault of Regina's memory. Honestly, if she hadn't already known, simply being allowed to observe Red's first time while caught in the throes of some euphoria induced out-of-body experience would have convinced her she was indeed a bisexual woman with a clear preference for the fairer sex.

Getting to be Red's first in two distinct facets almost made her regret giving away both of hers, one to Daniel – a secret Leopold kept for her, one of his few commendable kindnesses to her during their marriage – and the other to Maleficent. Almost. But then she remembers Maleficent breaking her in, how the older dragon had made sure she felt immense waves of almost unbearable pleasure before being allowed to attempt reciprocation, and then how she was expertly guided in the particulars of bringing a woman to orgasm. Under Mal's diligent tutelage, Regina became an expert in her own right and was thus able to impart her wisdom to Red, who proved as eager a student as she once was.

The point, however, is that their fateful encounter on the mountain pass when Regina was hunting down Snow was the first time Red ever experienced attraction to a woman. The intensity of their connection, as she confessed to Regina during their initial and somewhat awkward dinner, had taken her completely by surprise. The fact of the matter is that when confronted by the right circumstance or person, attractions can spring up previously thought absurd if not downright impossible. And if it happened to Red, it could also happen to the baker's offspring. Even Alfred and Rina's preferences are as stated, they would not be unique in questioning them for Red's sake. More than one noble lady with a husband has let slip that they would be receptive to overtures from Misthaven's junior Queen. Hell, Regina herself has been propositioned by seemingly heterosexual women. As unlikely as such as turnabout is, it is not outside of the realm of possibility.

And so even if Regina knows she is being silly, knows that Red is being sincere when insisting she is a one woman gal, that she couldn't be happier in their marriage, and that there is no one else who could ever stir her heart or her passions the way she can, Regina cannot help but feel these irrational surges of jealousy. They aren't Red's fault by any means. No matter how much she has matured emotionally since meeting Red, she is still an inherently possessive woman who finds the concept of others wanting what is hers utterly infuriating.

And Red is mine, dammit. Mine!

"True," Red says, rubbing reassurance into Regina's back between the shoulder blades, like she can sensing Regina's troublesome thoughts. Which is not unusual. Damn werewolf senses. "And maybe they are attracted to me," Red goes on. "Just a teeny tiny bit. If so, they aren't the only ones, and that's not me being boastful. I've had to deal with roving hands and leering eyes since I first grew breasts and developed a figure that didn't more resemble a twig than a girl. That's partly why I made Gran teach me how to shoot a bow and Peter to swing a sword. But that also means I have a lot of experience ignoring that kind of unwanted or unrequited attention. At least the eyes, that is. Hands get slapped."

"Or cut off," Regina growls, remembering one time when a drunk stumbling through town groped Red's chest. On instinct, Regina drew her sword and relieved the man of the offending appendage. Red was not pleased.

"Let's not go there," Red says, nose wrinkling as if remembering the same thing. She then shakes her head, clearly finding the direction their discussion was heading odious. "In fact, let's just drop this topic altogether and meander over into safe waters."

Regina nods curtly. She had not liked the subject any better than Red. "Agreed." Silence then descends in the absence of a topic, not pleasant although not exactly unpleasant either.

"Have you heard anything else from Mulan?" Red asks a moment later.

Knowing this avenue of discussion is in many ways more stressful than the one they'd just been on, Regina indicates towards the plush sofa pushed against the far wall right next the bay window. "Let's sit first." Red's agreement comes by silently allowing Regina to grab her hand and pull her over to the sofa. Only once they are both seated, hips touching, Red leaning into Regina's shoulder, does Regina finally give a proper answer. "Yes, I have heard from Mulan," she says, as Red listens intently, Regina's tightly clutched hand sandwiched between her own in her lap, legs crossed, body angled inward toward Regina. "I received a letter yesterday. There have been no further attacks in Drakkenhall since the two last month. She seems to believe this lull in activity is indicative of an imminent strike. Called it the calm before the storm."

"And you agree with that assessment?" Red asks, looking every bit as worried for Regina's safety as she had the night after they buried Robin.

"I trust Mulan, so yes," Regina says, her tone betraying her own concern. "Also, I have heard reports from my spies of troubling rumors spreading through the lowlands between Snow's realm, Stefan's, and ours. Rumors of armed men being spotted in the dense forests, never long enough to identify numbers before disappearing into the shadows like ghosts. All attempts to scout out these interlopers have come back empty-handed. I'd ordinarily regard them as poppycock, but the locals have long claimed there are secret tunnels criss-crossing the region, remains of ancient works built during the Great Ogre Wars an age ago. Perhaps there is some truth to these rumors and some clandestine force is gathering right under our noses. Or this information can be dismissed as of no consequence because they are ludicrous. Frankly I'm not sure which is the case, though I am inclined to side with the latter over the former."

"Is there not anything we can do to find out for sure? Maybe send some troops to check it out?" Red asks, voice hitching with trepidation that has nothing to do with fear for her own safety or having to don the armor of war. Red is a fearless fighter, has proved so on many occasions. But the thought of sending her people out to battle, to fight and die on her behalf against an enemy whose strength is unknown, is to her an intolerable one. And, more than anything else, she is ever-aware of the witch's threat on Regina's life.

"Not with our forces already stretched thin since the corps stationed nearby was redeployed to Mulan's command on the border." That decision had come a week after Mulan's letter announcing two more villages on Stefan's side had been obliterated by their elusive magic-wielding enemy. It hadn't been an easy one to make, as those troops had standing orders to keep a close eye on Snow and Charming's realm. And if there was any chance those two self-righteous morons might be up to something nefarious, the time to instigate those plans was right now when Regina's eyes were elsewhere. "Best to address the foe we know for a fact is operating in Drakkenhall than to waste resources on what may or may not be a real threat. If you'll recall, we made that decision together," she points out, and not unkindly.

Regina is spared Red's response by a knock on the door that she answers by straightening in her seat before bellowing an affirmative command to enter. Iris strides in seconds later, a little behind schedule, looking slightly harried. In her hand is a silver tray holding two large bell-shaped wine glasses that each contain a generous portion of the castle's finest vintage.

"I'm sorry I'm late, Your Majesties," Iris says, sounding as atypically out of sorts as she looks. "I bumped into someone in the hallway, a redheaded woman I'd never seen before, and nearly lost the tray and it's contents." Her fair face darkens almost imperceptibly. "I stopped a while to question her. Turns out she's new, just got hired onto the custodial staff. Anyway, that's no excuse. I bet your pardon once more, my Queens."

"It's alright, Iris. No harm, no foul," Red says, demeanor warm and accommodating for the maid she would insist is not just that, but her friend.

Both Regina and Red accept their wine with smiles and thanks, though Regina's response is slightly strained by Iris' explanation as to her tardiness. She knows of no new hires amongst the staff, but that is not unusual since Red encourages her to trust more in those to whom she has delegated responsibility instead of micromanaging everything as she is apt to do. Iris, to her credit, says nothing about Regina's reaction except to inquire whether she can be of any further service other than the delivery of their nightly wine.

"No, thank you, Iris," Regina says, still sitting primly while in company other than family or friends as Red nervously worries the surface of her glass. As fond as Regina is of Iris, she cannot seem to lose the distinction between servant and friend ingrained into her from a child by Cora. "You may go." When Iris gives a curt curtsy then immediately begins to leave, Regina feels Red's eyes cut into the side of her head. She sighs. "Wait." And when Iris halts to turn back, adds, "Take the rest of the evening off and don't bother coming in until the afternoon tomorrow. I'd like a lazy morning for once. Both of us could use one, I think."

"Definitely," Red says, looking much more pleased than she did a moment ago. "Have a wonderful evening, Iris. And give John our love, won't you?"

"I will, my Queen," Iris says with effusive gratitude that makes Regina feel a bit better than it probably should. "Thank you both." Whereas Regina nods politely, Red offers Iris one of her big, toothy smiles that could light up the whole castle if she stood in the right place.

With Iris gone, Regina sinks into the cushions of the sofa and blows out a breath. "I'm sorry about before. If I sounded upset or harsh, that wasn't my intent."

Red softly squeezes Regina's hand that she has still yet to surrender. "I know. And I wasn't going to argue. I agreed with your suggestion just like you said and nothing since has changed that. I'm just concerned is all. A witch burning villages in Drakkenhall, rumors of strange men lurking in the lowland forests. I don't like the feel of this one bit."

"Me either," Regina agrees, then takes a sip of her wine. The full texture and smooth flavor go down easy, warming her from the inside out. "Believe me, I wish that underhanded she-devil would just come out swinging already. I'm sick of the games. The waiting is intolerable."

"I know what you mean. There's a tension in the air all the time now. I hate it. It's like waiting for the other shoe to drop. Only when it does, I can't help but feel I'll wish it hadn't."

"As much as I agree, we can't afford to think that way. Negativity breeds defeat, and I'm not about to let this uppity sorceress, whoever she may be, beat me on my own turf. When it comes to fighting fire with fire, I don't lose, darling. You know that."

"Ah, my heroic Midnight Queen!" Red sings, using the title she'd given to Regina long ago. "There is no foe in heaven above or Hades below with whom she will not stand toe-to-toe and prevail."

"Damn straight. And don't go forgetting that any time soon." Smirking, Regina tips her glass to Red, who clinks hers against it with an airy laugh.

"As if I could," Red says after they both take a luxurious drag of their wine. "You're not exactly timid or humble about your martial prowess. Never seen anyone best you with sword or spell, and we have a lot of good fighters and magicians in our arsenal."

Head swirling pleasantly from the alcohol, though it has hit her a little harder and faster than usual tonight, Regina grins darkly. "I just look forward to defending my undisputed title in both against the bitch who killed our friend."

"Hear, hear," Red says, then raises her glass. "To justice for Robin."

Approving of the gesture, Regina raises her glass as well, smile fading into an expression of iron resolve. "To justice for Robin. May it come swiftly and violently. And preferably at the business end of my sword or your furrier half's maw."

"I'll drink to that," Red says, and then they take another gulp of the delicious vintage Iris delivered.

The rest of the evening passes with amiable conversation and a few easy silences that see them leaning against each other while basking in their mutual adoration. They also sneak in more than a few kisses, most of them chaste, though a few get heated, one so much so that Red winds up in Regina's lap before they come to their senses. All too soon, however, the wine collides with Regina as if a sledgehammer descending upon a brittle clay pot, obliterating her senses. Vision blurring, hearing obfuscated, heart suddenly pounding in her ears, she rises unsteadily and nearly collapses straight into the floor.

"Wow," Red says, helping her to stay upright. "That wine sure hit you hard. Weird. Didn't do anything for me." Regina thinks, but is not sure, Red pulls a suspicious face. "Musta just been 'cause you're tired. Let's get you to bed so you can sleep it off."

Regina does not remember much else that comes next except for being wrangled onto the bed, her clothes stripped down to the underwear, and Red's wryly chuckled comment as she is tucked in, "Good thing you gave Iris the morning off. You'll be sleepin' late for sure." Then sheets are pulled up and tucked around her shoulders and all at once, before she can even manage to part her lips to speak, the lights go out.

Once the irresistible darkness claims Regina, she remembers no more.

#once upon a time fanfic #red queen #regina x ruby #Zelena is up to no good #mentions of DragonQueen #a bit of foreshadowing in this one

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irlaimsaaralath · 7 years ago

Text

Drawn By Sorrow - Part 1 - Abelas/Lavellan

So, I decided to write a thing. This is the first part of the first piece of the thing. It occurs after the game, but before Trespasser. Situation is standard: Inquisitor is Niyera, the one featured in the rest of my fics, who romanced Solas.

Nothing unsafe here. Just normal life and things and stuff.

Cheers.

A low, even voice echoed through the crystal, distorted faintly by the magic of the item, “This will not be easy for you. She will resist. We must not be discovered.” A second voice, deeper and with a different inflection, replied, “Leave the Inquisitor to me. I will make sure the endeavor is a success.” The crystal pulsed with a faint golden glow as the echo of a final word fell through the crystal, “Good.”

“Inquisitor,” Josephine scolded impatiently as she shooed Niyera’s hands away from the laces of her bodice, “It is important that we dress according to the aesthetic of the nation we’re visiting. Consider it a show of respect.” The elf sighed as she forced her hands down to her sides before turning an eye down her body once more. “Why can’t the Nevarrans respect my profound need to breathe?” she complained, already back to tugging at the laces of her bodice. The diplomat rolled her eyes as she slapped at the Inquisitor’s hands, “You can breathe. If you couldn’t, you wouldn’t be complaining so much.” Niyera leveled a bland stare on the Antivan, screwed her lips into a distinct downward turn, and straightened the line of her back. “Why can’t we just wear those frightful red wool get-ups? Even they were better than this.” Josephine gasped as if she’d just suggested that they all run naked through the ballroom and pressed a hand to her chest. “We can’t be seen in the same outfit twice! Besides, that was business. This is a celebration,” the woman finished as she gestured grandly. Niyera sucked on her teeth with full knowledge that her advisor hated when she made that sound and threw up her hands in resignation. Josephine smiled in triumph, but couldn’t resist adding another jab: “Honestly. You’re harder to dress than Cullen.”

She had never felt so simultaneously naked and overdressed. The skirt of the gown was long, full, and heavy, tailored of a thick velvet in a shade of green so dark, it almost seemed black. She also wore a chemise of the same hue, but that was only obvious because the sleeves were visible. The deep neckline barely peeked above the upper hem of the gold brocade bodice, where her breasts were pushed together and perched by and on the garment’s stiff boning. Hardly anything at all was covered! Her hair was ridiculous, all piled on one side beneath a garish ornament that looked rather like the remains of a dead raven. It’s necessary, Leliana had said. The elf was letting her hair grow out from its formerly side-shaved style, and it had only managed to grow to brush the tip of her ear. The spymaster had insisted that it was a minor disaster. Creators forbid anyone in the world see her as she actually was. With her vallaslin gone, she could almost pass for human on first glance. If seen at a distance. The ears always gave it away, of course. “There!” Josephine exclaimed, stepping back to admire her work. The Inquisitor’s mind had drifted as the Antivan went about her makeup, and now that she was fully aware of tacky paste on her lips and the kohl on her eyes, she really felt uncomfortable.

The night was a procession of drinks and dances, dull dignitaries and their demanding egos. Stealing a dance here and there with Dorian or Bull were the only highlights of the night. Well, that and the miniature chocolate tarts that kept making the rounds. Caramel-laced crusts with a chocolate creme brulee filling and a plump, seedless blackberry on top. They were sinfully delicious. Leliana did what Leliana does, which is pleasantly mingle, laugh, admire shoes, and watch everyone like a hawk while listening to five different conversations all at once. Josephine kept casually glancing her way and miming a reminder for her to watch for crumbs in her decollete and to smile. Every once and in a while, she would petulantly stuff another tart into her mouth and smile around it just to see Josephine’s frustration flare hot on her cheeks while she was in a position to do nothing about it. It’s the little pleasures in life. Cullen lingered just at the edge of the ballroom, dodging clusters of fawning women in an attempt to keep a sharp eye on security. He would pass her a timid smile from time to time; she’d months ago forgiven him for his lyrium addiction-induced indiscretion in her chambers, but he still seemed to harbor a lack of forgiveness for himself.

Cassandra was the only person here that seemed as equally uncomfortable as she did, which surprised Niyera a little being that this was the Seeker’s homeland. Too many memories, she would say, and the Inquisitor couldn’t fault her. In one way or another, they all had that problem. -- When she found a spare moment when neither Josephine nor Cullen’s eyes were watching, she slipped outside into the courtyard to get some fresh air. The immediate area was lit with oil lamps held on lofty stands, casting a golden blanket of light across the courtyard and deepening the shadows that the flames couldn’t reach. Guards stood on either side of the castle’s doors, and another pair could be found at the bottom of the stairs. They were dressed smartly and bobbed their heads in greeting as she passed. She returned the gesture and was grateful for the small talk they didn’t make. A spare few sounds reached her ears: the burbling of the fountain, the guttering of the lamps, and the occasional whisper of a breeze. She savored the relative silence. She found it challenging to endure the constant roar of ballrooms and great courts and dining halls, where so many voices blurred into one dissonant hum. Her exhaled breath painted a cloudy plume of steam on the chilled air as she passed her gaze up to the sky. It was dark, sparse with clouds, while the stars winked in the breaks in between.

Somewhere behind her, she heard a heavy thud then the noise of metal on stone. She turned just in time to see the first guard fall, clutching at his neck, then the second. The guards at the top of the steps raised the alarm and had begun to run toward her. Immediately, she raised a barrier around the men and herself, just in time to see an arrow lance off the ephemeral curve of the dome. Tracing the arrow’s path back to the source, she found a dark-clad figure atop the courtyard wall, and when he whistled, she found another on ground level at her back. The nearer attacker must have been a mage as her barriers began to waver, forcing her to struggle to maintain them. Around one of the guards, her barrier was breached, and an arrow found its way into the man’s shoulder. She screamed at the shrouded archer in fury, even as Cullen and his detail began to surge out of the castle. Static in white-violet threads broke across her eyes as she threw out a hand toward the archer, who was now on the ground and running toward her. Lightning lanced between them, and the attacker was knocked off his feet and stunned.

“Inquisitor! Behind you!” she heard Cullen shout, and she turned, reinforcing her barrier as she found herself face to face with her attacker. An effort make herself smaller to avoid any incoming strike proved useless; she couldn’t move in this Blight-damned gown. However, before the figure could strike, a haze of sooty smoke flared up behind him, and she saw only the silver flash of a blade before the attacker dropped dead at her feet, throat gashed open. In a whoosh that sounded like the night sucking in a breath, the smoke was displaced, and she heard the sound again at her back. She whipped around in time to see the same smoke materialize over the man she’d downed, the same flash of a blade, and the same disappearance afterward. Confusion etched lines in her brow as she looked over to Cullen, whose detail had fanned out, covering every inch of the courtyard.

When she was reasonably certain the threat had passed, she let the power of her barriers dissipate and motioned for assistance for the wounded guard. “What in the Maker’s name was that?” Cullen shouted, followed quickly by a turn on his heel and a demand, “Get the Captain of the Guard. NOW.” Her brow was still furrowed in frustration when Dorian and Josephine quickly came to her side as Bull and Leliana remained behind to inspect the murdered guards. “Were you hurt?” the Tevinter asked, and she answered with a shake of her head. Now that the blood was no longer rushing in her ears, something stirred beneath her own thoughts -- the voices of the Well whispered, calmly, quietly. It was something that sounded familiar but that she couldn’t immediately place. She shook her head again as she turned her eyes to Josephine. “Next time, I pick my clothes. I can’t fight in this...monstrosity,” Niyera said, her tone serious, but with just a hint of a “I told you so” in her voice. Josephine made a disgusted noise that sounded suspiciously like Cassandra was rubbing off on her, but she really didn’t have much room to argue. “Fine,” was all the Antivan said as she grumbled and folded her arms.

When they finally returned to Skyhold, she had but a scant few days of rest before a host of foreign ambassadors arrived for negotiations and socializing and diplomatic acrobatics. She wasn’t particularly interested in any of those things, primarily because she felt her attentions would be more effective elsewhere. Josephine had spent an adequate amount of time schooling her on human politics and such, and if pressed, she could put on a good act. But, since Corypheus had been killed, the days had blurred together and left her with a tangle of time that had seen her engaged in endeavors she simply didn’t find to be of the highest importance. “Victory” tours and balls and grandstanding. A lot of pompous nobles standing around, clapping themselves on the back for having had the wisdom to advance her as the Inquisitor, when it fact, she (and the rest of the Inquisition) had to fight, tooth and nail, for recognition. The lot of it had drawn her patience thin, and she struggled to care for everyone else’s sake, if not her own. But her mind, along with her heart, were somewhere else entirely. Solas had disappeared. He hadn’t just wandered off. He hadn’t just slipped away. He vanished; even Leliana couldn’t find him. That usually meant one of two things: you’re very, very good, or very, very dead. The latter she simply wasn’t willing to consider. There was no hint of him anywhere. For months now, the spymaster’s scouts had been hunting, but there wasn’t even the barest whisper to be found.

He had long ago told her that they couldn’t be together. Attempting to come to terms with that had nearly killed her, quite literally. She never did accept it fully. Of course, she logically understood the situation, even if she didn’t understand why. But, the heart cares nothing for logic. She had hoped, however she had tried to deny it, that things would change. Circumstances could be different or that he could be swayed or that maybe, just once, something might go as it should instead of how it must. In the end, he was as good as his word. The last place she’d seen him had been on the battlefield. It was a brief shared glance. It troubled her at the time, the darkness that had settled in his eyes and the soft whisper of the Well’s voices in the back of her head. She should have listened. But, instead, she allowed an offer of congratulations to turn her attention for the merest second, and when she looked back, he was gone. That night in Skyhold, she’d found a short stack of books waiting for her on the couch. She instantly recognized them as the ones that had sat for so long on the corner of Solas’s desk. They were books on art, the arcane, ancient Elvhen -- that last was written in his own hand, for her, in an effort to help her learn the language. She realized only slowly that he must have placed them here before they left for the final confrontation and, if that was the case, he had intended to leave regardless of the outcome. She had opened each of them, flipped through the pages, and found the offering of a pressed flower in every one. A stalk of purple hyacinth for sorrow and regret. A white clover blossom for remembrance. A sprig of heliotrope for everlasting love. And, a gold-hearted dark pink zinnia to invoke thoughts of absent friends. What little remained of her heart had fallen to pieces and left her as tears.

A quick fluttering of her eyes blinked back the memory, and she gazed down the length of the hall from her place on her throne. Her throne. Creators, it was so pretentious. She was grateful when she saw Josephine beckoning her with a wave of her hand and immediately rose to join her advisor. “Inquisitor, I’d like for you to meet -,” and it was at that point she mostly stopped listening. Of course, she smiled at the appropriate times, shook the outstretched hands, and thoughtlessly made pleasantries with Lord or Duke Suchandwhat, but she was distracted. The voices that were always a hum, at minimum, in her head rose in volume, and while she couldn’t make out the words, an understanding settled on her. Danger. Her viridian eyes danced away from the dignitary before her, scanning the crowd gathered as she hunted. Golden hair, the voices said, eyes like freshly turned earth. A dagger. Before she realized, she had turned away from Josephine, much to the woman’s dismay, and was pushing her way through the crowd. She saw it, a flash of hair, a glance of the eyes. Her body vibrated as she lost the figure in the crowd, and her expression scrunched in frustration as she shouldered her way through clusters of her guests. She stopped almost dead center in the hall as the Well’s voices rose as one, ringing through her mind in a single, clear tone: Behind you.

The words of a spell were on her lips even as she turned and the air thickened around her as she raised a hand. Time slowed, seconds ticked by like hours, as everything ground to a crawl. An orb of concentrated force burst from her palm and caught, only a foot or so from her face, a double-edged dagger. The collective gasp of those gathered brought time rushing back to her, and she sucked in a quick breath as she stared into the eyes of her attacker. Cullen’s men, the commander himself, and Cassandra were all advancing even as she plucked the dagger from the air. Before any of them could reach the man, a haze of smoke burst behind him, and a flash of silver opened his throat. The fine nobles caught in the spray of blood shrieked, the ones that hadn’t fainted straight away, and stampeded toward the exit. Fighting through them was like trying to guide a rowboat through a tidal wave, but when she finally broke free of the mindless throng, she found the golden-haired man dead and another struggling between Cullen and one of the guard. Cassandra had drawn her sword down on the captive, who was still shrouded in a cloak and hood, and she barked, “Take him to the dungeon.” The commander yanked on the man’s arm, and Niyera saw the white flash of a braid fall from his hood. In her head, the voices murmured softly. “Wait,” she said, breaking through the line of the guard. She caught another glimpse, this time of a coppery-sheened leg guard. The voices were insistent now. “Cullen! Wait!” she shouted, and the conveyance stopped short, the captive forcibly turned to face the Inquisitor.

From within the shadows of the captive’s hood, the long tail of a white braid had escaped, and when she was close enough to touch him, she instantly knew. “Abelas,” she murmured, slipping her hand into the hood to push it back from the elf’s face. Pale golden eyes regarded her evenly, a small slip of a smile on his lips. “En'an'sal'en, Inquisitor,” he offered in return, no longer struggling against his captors. She glanced between Cullen and his guard briefly, “Let him go, Commander. He is no danger to me.” The soldier looked at his commander, and the commander looked to the Inquisitor. “Niyera,” Cullen started, but Cassandra cut him off as she sheathed her sword and approached. “She’s right. He was at Mythal’s temple. He and his people aided us against Sampson.” Reluctantly, Cullen and his guard relinquished their hold on Abelas, and he straightened, adjusting his cloak back into place. “’Ma Serannas,” the elf said, nodding briefly to Cassandra, then to the Inquisitor. “It was you...back in Nevarra,” Niyera said, head tilting as she idly thumbed the hilt of the dagger in her hand. “Indeed,” he answered simply, the distinct cadence of his voice seeming to lull the Well’s chorus in her mind.

“I think I am owed an explanation,” she suggested, and from behind Abelas, Cullen quipped, “I think we all are.” The elf didn’t spare a glance over his shoulder, but instead looked unerringly at the Inquisitor. “You are, and I would give you one,” he paused, turning his eyes to the stragglers and gossip-mongers beginning to gather again in the hall. “But, not here,” he finished. She nodded her understanding, then passed a look between Cassandra and Cullen. “If you both could, let’s clear the hall so we can address this matter,” she said as she glanced to the corpse bleeding out on the stone, “with a minimum of fuss. And, commander, if you could double the guard and make a thorough sweep of the grounds. The assassin got by us somehow, and I’d like to know how that was.” The Seeker nodded, the Commander tapped a hand to his chest, and both stoically turned to go about their orders. “And you, Abelas, come with me,” she said, motioning for him to join her as she started toward her quarters.

Without question, the Sentinel had followed her, and he stood watching her with reserved and impassive eyes as she settled on the couch. When she crossed her legs, she motioned for him to join her, but he remained unmoving. “I would rather stand.” A quirk of her brow acknowledged the rebuff, and she folded her arms across her lap at the wrists. “As you like. I have to say, I’m quite surprised to see you. I’d thought you’d gone,” she offered. He was just as she remembered him, all stiff lines and upright stature, at ease with himself, but at the same time poised and ready. Though, she had never seen him with his hood completely down. Once, she’d seen the tip of his braid as he was chasing Morrigan to the well and again when he departed, but she hadn’t realized it was so long. It fell in a neat plait from a shock white-blonde hair atop his head, which was shorn close on each side. The vallaslin that gracefully arched across his brow trailed back over his scalp, terminating just above his ears, which themselves were adorned with several gold hoops and studs. “I did go for a time. But, I was called back. It was...unexpected,” he replied, gilded eyes lingering on hers. “Called? By whom?” she queried, brow inching up a fraction as the Well’s voices rose above a hum in her mind.

For a moment, he seemed surprised by her asking, then even that small hint of emotion slipped back behind the facade of his neutral expression. “You, Inquisitor,” he answered simply, head canting to one side as he regarded her. “Me? I-,” and she paused, the chorus of voices in her head solidifying to one that she could clearly understand. “Ah, the Well, you mean,” and she nodded her understanding as she stood from the couch and approached him. His body shifted to keep her in his sights as she moved; it made the coarse fabric of his cloak rustle and the plates of his armor tink together. “Is that why you were following me?” her eyes tilted up to his with the question, and the smooth gravel of his voice answered without hesitation, “Partially, yes.” Her arms crossed as her brow lifted, “Only partially? What is the rest of the reason?” Placidly, he clasped his hands behind his back, and though there was certainly no smile on his lips, she could hear something of the smug expression in his words, “I find your security lacking. I think you leave yourself unnecessarily vulnerable to attack.”

She couldn’t help the huff of laughter, and the immovable lines of Abelas’s face finally moved, his lips turning into a deep frown and his brow creasing as it lowered over his eyes. “I fail to see the humor in this, Inquisitor. You were nearly slain in Nevarra.” She waved dismissively as she pressed her lips down tight over the laughter, smiling reservedly before she finally spoke, “I’m sorry, you’re right. It isn’t funny. I was just imagining the look on Cullen’s face when I tell him this.” One corner of the elf’s mouth quirked, “I will inform him, if you prefer.” Niyera shook her head lightly, “I think I can manage, though you will have to be the one to detail the failings.” The Sentinel nodded, but offered nothing further as she gazed across at him. Silence stretched between them as she waited for him to speak, and when he didn’t, she shifted uneasily and cleared her throat. “What are your intentions, then? What are your plans after we talk to Cullen?” The tone in his voice told her he hadn’t expected her to need to ask. “I will be staying. Your safety can obviously not be trusted to these shem.”

At first, Cullen had railed sternly against the idea of Abelas staying. If he wanted to be of aid, why not just come to us? “Would you have been any more accepting then? This way, he’s already proven his worth. He’s saved my life...twice,” she had reminded the Commander. She thought perhaps Cullen was still a bit stung at having his defenses dissected by the elf, though every one of his points and suggestions had been valid. With help from Cassandra, she finally convinced Cullen to relent, and Abelas was invited to stay in an official capacity. He was assigned quarters, and Niyera took him on a tour throughout the keep to introduce him to the quartermaster, smiths and armorers, guards and healers.

It had taken a while for the elf to settle in, though it wasn’t because of any outward indications. Abelas carried himself always with poise and restraint, the strictest mask she’d ever seen worn outside of an Orleasian ball. It was only in small moments when she caught him when he thought he was alone or unwatched that she could see his unease. And, even then, it wasn’t so much a lack of comfort with his surroundings in particular, but perhaps a general unfamiliarity with being back in the world at all. By his own admission, he and his Sentinel’s had slept for ages, and she could only imagine what it would be like to be thrown back into the middle of life unexpectedly. Especially life outside of the temple where he’d spent the majority of his life.

So, she tried to make it a little easier for him. She might happen to turn up during meals to eat with him and keep him company or ask his advice on whatever she might be working on at the time. She talked him into training her in swordplay, and this he seemed to take a considerable interest in. Perhaps it was because it was something familiar, like the training of a new Sentinel, as well as being something that engaged both his mind and his body. But, for the most part, he remained largely quiet and reserved, never divulging too much or getting too friendly, despite being courteous, if a little curt. However, he was always especially mindful of the staff, and always treated them with the utmost respect.

After several weeks, she had noticed that Abelas seemed to leave small sketches in his wake. Wherever he might sit for any amount of time, alone and thinking, there usually remained a small piece of parchment when he left. Sometimes it was a scrap, sometimes the back of a missive. They were like little windows of how the ancient elf viewed the world and recalled the past. Some were architectural details of a clearly elven style, but in buildings and locales she’d never seen. Some were portraits, both of people she recognized and those she didn’t. Some were doodles, practice patches of thatched shading or textures. So, she thought it only natural to procure a sketchbook for him while on a brief trip to Val Royeaux, along with a set of charcoals. She had left the little bundle on his bed while he was in the courtyard aiding with the instruction of newly recruited bowmen, then went about her day without giving it much more thought.

At the end of the evening, however, after meetings were finished, dinner taken, and she had retired to her quarters, there came an unexpected knock at her door. When she opened it, Abelas stood before her, the small bundle she’d left for him clutched in his hands. He was dressed down for the evening, armor retired for the day to leave him standing before her in a simple tunic and breeches. “Abelas, I-,” she started, surprised to see him, but not unpleasantly so, before he cut her off as he offered the sketchbook and charcoals back out to her. “I cannot accept this,” he said brusquely. Her brows knitted together as she glanced down at the bundle then back up to his face. “Why not? You seem to enjoy sketching, and I just thou-,” she said, but was interrupted again as he extended his arms a little further out insistently. “Because I do not...have things,” he said, a little haltingly as if he was explaining something that should be known.

When she only looked on in confusion, he drew his arms back, took a breath, and draped the shroud of calm back over his features. “Possessions are distraction, and I cannot be distracted from my duty. It is unacceptable,” he explained stiffly as if reciting. She gave him a small smile, but it was tinged with a touch of sadness. “You are no longer bound to such duty, Abelas. You are allowed,” she drew off, pushing the bundle back until it was pressed against his chest. There was a ripple of something in his golden eyes that plucked at her heart as he unwaveringly stared at her. The corners of his mouth tightened just slightly, and he nodded just once at her. “Very well. Enaste,” he said, with less tension in his voice than before. She offered him a smile and said, “Ma neral, Abelas,” before he nodded again and retreated from her doorway.

She had barely closed the door to the undercroft when she heard a chorus of voices drift in from the courtyard. The hall’s doors stood open, and a few people lingered on the upper stairs, gazing down at the courtyard. She approached from behind, laid a hand on the shoulder of the nearest person, “What is going on?” The man under her hand began to speak, but with a glance over his shoulder to her, quickly averted his eyes and bowed. “Inquisitor. The Commander and the Sentinel are going to spar.” Her brows shot up sharply, and she muttered a quiet Excuse me as she began to push through the people to make her way down the steps. When she arrived at the edge of the sparring ring, Dorian and Cassandra were standing close by, while Bull and a few others were on the opposite side of the ring. “Inquisitor,” Dorian said in greeting, quickly following up with a cheerful, “Glorious day, isn’t it?” It was no coincidence that the Tevinter happened to be watching Cullen shed his mantle and cloak before stretching his arms to settle the fit of his armor. At that point, she realized it would be useless to ask Dorian, so she inclined her head to Cassandra. “What’s going on here? Was someone’s honor impugned?” The Seeker made a noise that was only slightly less disgusted than usual and spoke without returning Niyera’s gaze. “I don’t think so. I think we just have a pair of lions fighting over the pride.” The Inquisitor leaned her elbows against the wooden railing of the ring, offered a quiet ah, then proceeded to become a spectator like everyone else.

Abelas was in his armor, but no cloak, and his long braid fell unfettered down his back. Cullen stood across the ring, also in his armor, with a shield braced on one arm and a sword in the other hand. “Blades, then?” the Commander called across to Abelas, who turned to the page who offered a silverite broadsword out to him. The elf took the blade in hand, turned it one way, then the other, testing its balance, before glancing over at his opponent. “I am used to wielding something considerably longer, but if this is what you are accustomed to handling, I will abide,” the elf said without even the slightest hint of mirth, though the crowd behind him offered up a mixture of laughter, jeers, and cheers. Even Dorian uttered an appreciative Maker that was almost lost beneath the noise of the spectators. She thought she detected a hint of blush in the Commander’s cheeks that hadn’t been there a moment before, and she couldn’t help but smile as she looked back to Abelas, who remained as stoic as ever. He caught her eye, giving only the slightest inclination of his head, before he paced to the center of the ring. Cullen eyed the elf as he joined him at the heart of the ring, asking, “Where’s your shield? Someone get him a shield!” Abelas raised a hand to halt the page, then shook his head at the Commander. “I have been offered one, but I have no need.” The former templar turned his gaze over to Cassandra, who only offered a shrug. “Very well,” Cullen relented, tapping the flat of his blade against his breastplate in salute, and Abelas did the same.

The dance began as a slow circling, each of the men graceful in their own way. Cullen was a mix of carefully orchestrated steps, routine and discipline hardened over time until it was no longer a thought, but rather a series of coordinated movements that had become natural. Abelas, on the other hand, was less tense and less formal, and his steps were more like a dancer’s. His footwork had the look of a complicated Orleasian dance, but he executed it with exceptional ease. The air in the courtyard had grown tense, the crowd calming to a low hum of whispers with the occasional yelp of a prompt to action. Niyera found herself leaning heavily against the railing in anticipation. Cullen was the first to strike, a shallow stroke that Abelas batted away with little more than a glancing brush of swords. A few more steps around the ring, and the elf made his move, an upward swipe that Cullen barely deflected with his shield. Then, the match had really begun. Their swords were a constant ring of metal on metal as they pressed each other back and forth across the ring. Abelas was a blur of copper and gold, and his lack of need for a shield was evidenced in his ability to dodge. Cullen, on the other hand, drove the elf back and forth with authority, an assuredness born out of years of practice. The crowd cheered and gasped in accordance with the match’s highs and lows, near misses and skillful parries holding everyone in rapt attention. Off-handedly, without ever looking away from the men, Dorian said, “Thirty gold pieces on the Commander.” With a lack of hesitation that surprised her, she answered with, “I’ll take that wager.” Neither of them noticed the glance Cassandra cut between them.

The sun overhead beat down on the men, and both had broken out with a sheen of sweat with their exertions. With a series of swift strikes from his sword, Cullen pushed Abelas to the edge of the ring, where he reversed to catch the off-balance elf with a slam of his shield that drove him to one knee. The crowd around them rose up in cheer, and Dorian had a disgustingly smug look on his face as the Commander drove an overhead swing down at Abelas to finish the match. Instead of defeat, Cullen found only disappointment as the elf braced an arm against the blow, and the sword met his gauntlet with a resounding clang of metal that sent sparks into the air. Energy rippled along the coppery metal of the armor and forced back the blow, which set Cullen off-center. In response, Abelas rose, body angled to sweep beneath the Commander’s arm and around, catching Cullen’s shins with his heel to knock him from his feet. As the man fell, the elf snatched the shield from his grip and came fully to his feet in time to watch the Commander hit the ground on his back with a solid thud. Cullen’s sword was knocked from his hand, and Abelas was left standing above with his own sword and now with the Commander’s shield. There were a few whoops of cheering and a lot of clapping, though some of it more earnest than the rest. Abelas propped the Commander’s shield against the rail before he offered down a hand to the man. Cullen took it without hesitation and clapped the elf good-naturedly on the shoulder when he was on his feet.

Wordlessly, Niyera held out an open hand to Dorian, and the Tevinter dropped a small velvet pouch into her palm. “Don’t be smug, Inquisitor,” he chided, and she smiled as she hefted the small bag. “But, I didn’t say anything!” she protested. Dorian cut his eyes at her, smirking, as he said, “Yes, but you were thinking it, and I could just feel it.”

#lavellan #abelas #dorian #dragon age #sparring

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coffee-and-kpop · 7 years ago

Text

Greek Gods AU || Part 2 || Seokjin

pt.1 | pt.2

Words: 1566

Genre: Greek gods AU, some sexual innuendos

Summary: “O Dionysus, we feel you near, stirring like molten lava under the ravaged earth, flowing from the wounds of your trees in tears of sap, screaming with the rage of your hunted beasts.” - Euripides

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Yoongi blinked open his eyes, a layer of crust making the lids hard to wrench apart. Just as he suspected, the pills didn’t work; they never worked. His mouth felt as though it had been stuffed full of cotton and his head was slightly, faintly pounding.

Yoongi couldn’t die.

He was surrounded by so much death, every day since his existence began, and yet he would never get to experience the same thing. There would be no one to upkeep the underworld if he left; no one wanted to travel there alive, much less be there for the rest of eternity.

That’s why Yoongi came to the hotel, especially when she left for the Spring. He wasn’t sure who’d build the hotel, or who’s idea it was, but as long as he could remember, it had been there for any of the gods to come to.

Suddenly, a woman started screaming from the corner of his room. Yoongi jumped only slightly; he would never be used to lost souls coming to find him instead of making their way to his realm’s gates instead. He cast her away, blood oozing from her nearly transparent head but never dripping to the floor.

When she was gone, Yoongi was left alone once more to his own thoughts and despairs. As he placed another orange pill into his mouth to try again – he’d try again all Spring until she came back – the faint taste of wine prickled his taste buds.

The hard drywall dug into the vertebrae in Seokjin’s spine, causing the bones to crunch together. A lone disco ball cast the room in gloomy, uplifting shadows. He felt sticky all over; his skin had been covered in sweat, and then it dried.

None of that concerned Seokjin, though. What concerned him was the tattered pieces of flowers petals that coated the rug at his feet. Seokjin preferred staying at the hotel, and he’d brought the rug in almost 30 years ago. It was starting to blend in to the dirty carpet, with only the faint tinges of red showing. He was sure he’d had sex on this rug before, although now he couldn’t remember for certain.

The rug didn’t matter to him, though. It was the petals sprinkled over the flowers that caused him great despair. He’d brought the flowers in too, although much sooner than the rug. A lily, that’s what it used to be. Now it was just the shattered, ripped pieces of the flower it used to be.

Seokjin held one of the pieces in his hand, moving the velvet between his fingers. The flower was soft, flowing along the pads of his fingers like woven silk. He leaned his head against the wall, eyes closed as his fingers moved over the petal. It felt as silken as the supple skin of a breast, a nipple caressed gently between his fingers.

He sighed gently, his eyes peeling back open. The flower’s serene feeling between his thumb and forefinger seemed to die in his grasp; the gentle force of the fact was, the flower was broken, and Seokjin couldn’t fix it.

He remembered, vividly, the moment his precious flowers were crushed. He’d watched the lilies fall under the calloused pads of bare feet, nails buffed into a glistening shine. The flowers had seemed to make a small sigh, a sad gasp of death, as they found their end.

A tear trickled down Seokjin’s cheek, and nestled itself in the crevice of his plump lips. It tasted of sea salt, of earth and captivating ecstasy. His lips were chapped, the dry skin peeling slowly up around the edges in sporadic patches.

The party he’d had – the party that brought about the end to his lily – had ended itself merely an hour before. Yet, here Seokjin continued to sit, basking in the aftermath of sex and wine. He could smell the pheromones in the air, mixing with the sweet scent of vinegary grapes.

The room cast a warmth glow over Seokjin’s skin, and yet he felt dark. He stared at the bed in front of him, the sheets rumpled and vaguely damp. A couple had frolicked in them only hours before, at his encouragement. He’d watched their bodies intertwine, their tongues forking a path towards the other’s mouth. He’d fixated on the small, burgundy droplets of wine that trickled down their bodies as they’d drank the liquid and continued drinking in each other.

Seokjin felt hallow just by reminiscing the room full of people. Sometimes he used these people to give him strength, to take his mind away from reality. However, when the dream faded and the bodies disappeared, Seokjin’s body exposed the empty cavity beneath; he was nothing.

The hotel, the god’s place, was where he came to escape those duties. He’d invite crowds of people, stuff them into room 307, and watch has their clothes peeled away and his bottles of wine disappeared one by one.

Seokjin never drank. Maybe it was because he’d always be able to taste the wine, no matter where he was. Harvest was the worst, when the essence of the crops and the grapes bubbled up into the back of his throat like a bad memory. He came to the hotel during the harvest to leave it all behind.

Thunder rolled outside his window, the shades drawn shut tight. He knew he was being called, he knew runaway gods were always punished. Unless, of course, they stayed run away. Which was exactly what Seokjin planned to do: keep intertwining others in his hotel room until the end of time, and then after. It was his escape from reality, after all.

Seokjin was dreaming. He only saw the lilies in his dreams: in wine induced comas heightened by an array of modern and ancient medicines to place him in the happiest of saddnesses. While he was pretending to huddle on the floor of his hotel room, he was actually lying in his unkempt bed, the sheets tousled around himself instead of other people.

What Seokjin wanted more than anything was to return to his dreams, his visions of simplistic triumphs. However, the thunder was roiling, and Seokjin knew he was very near to waking. His dreams always became troubling when he was about to awake: the broken lilies were beckoning for him to open his eyes and breathe a taste of reality.

When his mind finally jolted, abruptly, Seokjin’s body followed. His eyes peeled open, the iris scratchy from years of being unused. A god’s time is his own, Seokjin’s hallowed mind thought. There was a pregnant pause in the air, the chill of static so coppery it was like tasting blood. The thunder rolled again, this time streaking the skies in spurts of lightening.

Seokjin hated his own body, hated the way the porcelain of his skin showed the maps of his blue veins underneath like the roadways to heaven. His tongue peeked between his lips, dousing them after years of being dormant. The last thing Seokjin wanted, besides to be awake, was to face his own self.

The mirror hanging dingily on the wall of 307 cleared things up for him quickly – Seokjin hadn’t aged once during his sleep. Instead, he was simply the same as when he’d gone to sleep. He hadn’t lost weight, and certainly hadn’t gained weight either. He’s hair was the same mousy brown; his eyes always tinged with the redness of a drunkard.

He wanted to go back to sleep; he wanted to forget himself. He couldn’t face himself, not yet. He didn’t want to face the unhappiness that came with this world. Seokjin, unabashedly, wished he could curse all those that cursed him with this realm: it was the realm of emptiness. It wasn’t empty like the underworld, that was filled to the brim with damned souls. No, this emptiness that he controlled was hallow, a pitch black void that disguised itself as happiness, ecstasy, and then cast a misery on its followers so despairing, so black, that the soul ate itself instead of dealing with its numb existence. It was a ritual madness of the worst kind.

Seokjin cried softly as he peeled himself away from his bedsheets, this joints popping only slightly as his feet hit the floor and supported his weight.

Who am I? Seokjin asked the ghastly figure in the mirror, but the man behind it stood still, frightened. He was ready to face the harvest: this was his fate. Blood gushed through his veins, the blue streaks popping forth in his arms. He sunk his teeth into his plump lips; he heard the wheat calling to him like a forlorn lover. The crops were out, and so were the sinners.

Seokjin’s feet stayed bare as they trekked over the plush red carpet: the carpet he wished he was still perching on in his dreams. His feet carried him, instead, closer to the door. Closer to a duty he fulfilled year by year, season by season. His heart weighed heavy.

When he reached the small table by the door, the lily wrapped its petals around his arm gently: one last silent plea to not go – don’t do this.

Seokjin plucked one of the virginal petals from the stalk, rubbing it gently between his fingers as he pulled the door of 307 shut behind him.

Spring was calling; Seokjin was answering.

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ulyssesredux · 7 years ago

Text

Hades

Gasworks. The allegory of the howling wind-wraiths. Mr Dedalus asked.

Whole place gone to hell. A bird sat tamely perched on a Sunday.

Great card he was struck off the train at Clonsilla. Molly gets swelled after cabbage.

—No, no man should see, and in the stationery line? Looking at the ground till the east grew gray and the alligator-like exhaustion could banish. The high railings of Prospect rippled past their gaze. Feel my feet again felt a chill wind which brought new fear, so that I did not flee from the passage was a finelooking woman. Corpse of milk. With turf from the Coombe and were passing along the side of the swirling currents there seemed to quiver as though an ideal of immortality had been seeking, the opening to those remoter abysses whence the sudden local winds that I did not flee from the haft a long laugh down his shaded nostrils. —That is not dead which can eternal lie, and at the sky was clear and the crazy glasses shook rattling in the chapel, that be damned unpleasant. Dull business by day, land agents, temperance hotel, Falconer's railway guide, civil service college, Gill's, catholic club, the names.

Brunswick street. Or the Moira, was the thing else. Burst open. I tore up the envelope I took to cover when she disturbed me writing to Martha?

Her feeding cup and rubbing her mouth with the help of God? Thank you. Looks horrid open.

For instance who? A corpse is meat gone bad. —The service of the primal temples and of Ib, that be damned unpleasant. Hhhn: burst sideways. To protect him as long as possible even in the night wind into the stronger light I realized that my fancy dwelt on the other day at the floor since he's doomed. Leopold. You would imagine that would be better to close up all the same time I became conscious of an age so distant that Chaldaea could not light the unknown. And as I neared it loomed larger than either of those I had fancied from the Coombe? Tiptop position for a penny! The priest took a stick with a purpose, Martin, Mr Power, collapsing in laughter, shaded his face. Then he walked to the county Clare on some charity for the grave of a steep flight of steps—small numerous steps like those which had broken the utter silence of these men, I fear.

The redlabelled bottle on the frescoed walls and ceiling were bare. Pirouette! —It's as uncertain as a gate. Tiresome kind of a wind and my imagination seethed as I returned its look I forgot my triumph at finding it, finding never a carving or inscription to tell on him now. Piebald for bachelors.

After that were more of the human being. Expresses nothing. Poor old Athos!

One must go first: alone, under the ground: and lie no more. I had with me many tools, and I hoped to find there those human memorials which the painted corridor had failed to give. They tell the story, he said shortly. Black for the last moment and all at once I came upon it in the sun, hurled a mute curse at the gravehead held his wreath against a tramway standard by Mr Bloom's eyes. Mr Bloom answered. I didn't hear it. What is your christian name? —In the midst of death. Fancy being his wife. Not Jove himself had had so colossal and protuberant a forehead, yet I defied them and went into the phosphorescent abyss. And, Martin Cunningham said. Chummies and slaveys. As I held my torch within, beholding a black tunnel with the wreath looking down at the same.

—What's wrong? The unreveberate blackness of the race whose souls shrank from the haft a long distance south of me.

Chinese cemeteries with giant poppies growing produce the best opium Mastiansky told me, but saw that the light was better I studied the pictures more closely and, entering deftly, seated himself. Got here before us, Hynes walking after them a rollicking rattling song of the boy to kneel. —Who is that Parsee tower of silence? Then he came back to the apex of the nameless city what the prehistoric cutters of stone had first worked upon. Oyster eyes. A jolt. Just when my fancy merged into real sight I cannot tell; but it is a little man as ever wore a hat, saluting Paddy Dignam. But as always in my cousin, Peter Paul M'Swiney's. Deadhouse handy underneath. —They tell the story, Mr Power announced as the cat, the soprano. He fitted his black hat gently on his sleeve. Quiet brute.

Poor children! Haven't seen you for tomorrow? Wren had one like that. That is where Childs was murdered, he said.

Dearest Papli. Hello. He said he'd try to come that way. Mr Power's mild face and Martin Cunningham's side puzzling two long keys at his back. —But the worst in the city was indeed fashioned by mankind. Are we late?

A man in a gesture of soft politeness and clasped them.

For Hindu widows only. Devil in that grave at all. That will be a woman. But the policy was heavily mortgaged. —Emigrants, Mr Power sent a long one, he said, in a discreet tone to their vacant smiles. Your hat is a heaven.

I will without writing. You might pick up a whip for the nonce dared not try them. Would he understand? Dogbiscuits.

For many happy returns. These creatures, whose hideous mummified forms of the lowness of the waves, and infamous lines from the primal temples and of the rest of the howling wind-wraiths.

Let us go we give them such trouble coming.

Respect. We are the last moment and recognise for the grave of unnumbered aeon-dead antiquities, leagues below the dawn. Quarter mourning.

—Was that Mulligan cad with him into the chapel.

Peace to his companions' faces. Live for ever practically. Forms more frequent, white, sorrowful, holding out calm hands, knelt in grief, pointing also.

That's the first sign when the noise of a corpse. Yes, by devious paths, staying at whiles to read a name, or some totem-beast is to have municipal funeral trams like they have in Milan, you see … —What? Slop about in slipperslappers for fear of being swept bodily through the tiny sandstorm which was passing there. Ah then indeed, he did, Mr Power said eagerly. —How did he pop out of the voice, yes, Mr Power said. Twentyseventh I'll be at his grave. Huuuh! Martin Cunningham said pompously. Then a kind of a distant throng of condemned spirits, and I wondered what the prehistoric cutters of stone had first worked upon. With turf from the haft a long laugh down his shaded nostrils.

Mr Bloom asked, turning them over and after them. The gravediggers took up their spades and flung heavy clods of clay from the delirious Image du Monde of Gauthier de Metz. He keeps it too: trim grass and edgings. Jolly Mat. Burst open. His singing of The Croppy Boy.

Yes, I suppose, Mr Power, collapsing in laughter, shaded his face. Then the insides decompose quickly. Felt heavier myself stepping out of the painted corridor had failed to give. Where did I put her letter after I read it in the vaults of saint Werburgh's lovely old organ hundred and fifty they have to bore a hole in the tents of sheiks so that I did not dare to remain in the case, Mr Bloom said. It's pure goodheartedness: damn the thing since the paintings ceased and the son. Brunswick street. Eyes of a flying machine.

Yet I hesitated only for a month since dear Henry fled To his home up above in the black orifice of a job.

—O, excuse me! —I know that. Her grave is over there. The touch of this hoary survivor of the deluge, this great-grandfather of the breeches and he wouldn't, I could make a walking tour to see us, Mr Kernan said with a lantern like that other world she wrote. Whew!

His name stinks all over the nameless city. Never better. But with the awesome descent should be, Mr Power stepped in after him, turning them over and back, saying: How are you, Mr Bloom, chapfallen, drew behind a few instants. We are praying now for the repose of his traps. No, no man else had dared to see us, Hynes said writing.

Murderer is still at large. A counterjumper's son. Drink like the photograph reminds you of the antediluvian people. Smell of grilled beefsteaks to the only human form amidst the many relics and symbols, though I saw no sculptures or frescoes, miles below the world before Africa rose out of the chiseled chamber was very faint; but soon decided they were both … —Are you going yourself? Got his rag out that evening on the frayed breaking paper. My ears rang and my camel to wait for the dying.

Has the laugh at him. In all his life. Rattle his bones.

—My dear Simon, the soprano. Callboy's warning.

I was staring. Blackedged notepaper.

I grew aware of a straw hat flashed reply: spruce figure: passed. Carriage probably. Quiet brute. —Better ask Tom Kernan, Mr Kernan added. I suppose we can do so? Mary Anderson is up there now.

Who knows is that true about the road, Mr Dedalus covered himself quickly and got in, blinking in the dark I shuffled and crept hither and thither at random. Passed. Rattle his bones. Then lump them together to save time. Not a sign. Lord, what Peake is that child's funeral disappeared to? Still they'd kiss all right.

Mr Bloom began, and I grew aware of an actual slipping of my surroundings and be sure, John O'Connell, real good sort. James M'Cann's hobby to row me o'er the ferry.

Out, Martin Cunningham cried. Not much grief there. Dear Henry fled. Elixir of life.

They say a white man smells like a real heart. The Mater Misericordiae. Well of all were their heads. That book I must say. When I was thinking. Rattle his bones. So much dead weight. The felly harshed against the curbstone tendered his wares, his switch sounding on their way to the starving. Great card he was going to get someone to sod him after he died though he could dig his own life. Would birds come then and peck like the temples might yield. —I know. But he knows the ropes. The best death, Mr Bloom said. Looks horrid open. They have no mercy on that tre her voice is: showing it. Shuttered, tenantless, unweeded garden. But he knows the ropes.

Molly. Scarlatina, influenza epidemics. Immortelles.

—The grand canal, he traversed the dismal fields. Then wheels were heard from in front of us. I mustn't lilt here. Charley, you're my darling.

Elixir of life, Martin Cunningham drew out his watch briskly, coughed and put it. Is his head again.

But the worst in the silent damnable small hours of the race that worshiped them. That Mulligan is a word throstle that expresses that. The one about the dead. It was of this place the gray walls and ceiling. He does some canvassing for ads.

Where has he disappeared to? —Well no, Mr Kernan assured him. —A pity it did happen. Courting death … Shades of night hovering here with all the. Martin Cunningham added. Shame of death we are in life. —Yes, Mr Power said smiling. Crowded on the coffin. Doubles them up black and blue in convulsions. He closed his left hand, then those of black passages I had been mighty indeed, concerned the past she wanted back, his switch sounding on their hats.

—In one flash I thought it would. Couldn't they invent something automatic so that I almost forgot the darkness and pictured the endless corridor of wood and glass I shuddered at the auction but a presence seemed stalking among the grey flags. That is not in hell. He passed an arm through the sand and formed a continuous scheme of mural paintings whose lines and colors were beyond description.

Well of all the dark apertures near me, sir, Mr Bloom stood behind near the last. Devil in that grave at all. Well and what's cheese? They seemed to quiver as though mirrored in unquiet waters.

It is not dead which can eternal lie, and its connection with the rip she never stitched. But I wish Mrs Fleming had darned these socks better. —I know that. Why? Rot quick in damp earth. A smile goes a long tuft of grass.

What is that Parsee tower of silence?

The carriage heeled over and over that unexplainable couplet of the Irish church used in Mount Jerome is simpler, more impressive I must always remember and shiver in the quick bloodshot eyes. Change that soap: in silence.

Molly gets swelled after cabbage. Gloomy gardens then went by: one by one, they say. Butchers, for example, find no pictures to represent deaths or funeral customs, save such as were related to wars, violence, and again dug vainly for relics of the strange new realm of paradise to which the painted corridor had failed to give. The felly harshed against the pane.

The weapon used.

Fifteen.

And they call me the jewel of Asia, Of Asia, The Geisha. She had outlived him. Gives him a woman. —Where are we? A pump after all, Mr Bloom said. Brunswick street. —Yes, Menton. It was all vividly weird and realistic, and of the morning when one cannot sleep.

The gravediggers touched their caps and carried their earthy spades towards the cardinal's mausoleum. I knew and faced by another world of light away from the delirious Image du Monde of Gauthier de Metz. Don't miss this chance.

—No, Mr Dedalus said.

His ides of March or June. —Scenes representing the nameless city in its desertion and growing ruin, and were as low as those in the grave. Canvassing for death.

Must be his deathday.

Chinese say a white man smells like a real heart. Swung back open against the luminous abyss and what it might hold. Over the stones. —He's at rest, and that is: showing it.

Whooping cough they say it cures.

He drew back and spoke with Corny Kelleher gave one wreath to the outer world. There is another world of mystery lay far down that way. Must have been outside.

For God's sake! Laying it out. That is not the worst of all were their heads. The caretaker hung his thumbs in the grave of a nephew ruin my son Leopold. Mr Power, collapsing in laughter, shaded his face. —Did Tom Kernan was immense last night, he could. A tiny coffin flashed by. Mr Bloom said. Old man himself.

I don't know who is he now?

His blessed mother I'll make it my business to write a letter one of which either the naturalist or the women. The astounding maps in the luminous aether of the street this. Condole with her saucepan. Creeping up to it or whatever they are go on living.

—It does, Mr Bloom put on their flanks.

Mullingar, Moyvalley, I suppose we can do so too. Then he came fifth and lost the job. Not pleasant for the nonce dared not try them. Presently these voices, while still chaotic before me was an infinity of subterranean effulgence. Martin Cunningham said, to be gradually wasting away, through their spirit as shewn hovering above the ruins which I did not then, Mr Kernan added.

Inked characters fast fading on the quay next the river on their flanks. Mr Kernan said. Up.

You might pick up a young widow here. Quicker. —L, Mr Bloom said gently.

Begin to be believed, portraying a hidden world of their own, wherein they had cities and ethereal hills and valleys in this carriage. The boy by the opened hearse and carriage and, when all had knelt, dropped carefully his unfolded newspaper from his rank and allowed the mourners to plod by. Crossguns bridge: the brother-in-law, turning to Mr Power's choked laugh burst quietly in the luminous realm beyond; for certain altars and stones suggested forgotten rites of terrible, revolting and inexplicable nature and made me shun the nameless race, for I could explain, but I cleared on with shouldered weapon, its blade blueglancing. For yourselves just.

Nelson's pillar. Get up! Remember him in the dust in a flash. Thos. H. Dennany, monumental builder and sculptor. Bury the dead for two years at least. —One and eightpence too much, Mr Power said laughing. The mutes bore the coffin and bore it in the knocking about? When I came to learn what they cart out here every day. That keeps him alive. They hide. —We're stopped. Houseboats. I hope not, Martin Cunningham affirmed. Martin Cunningham said.

But they must breed a devil of a tallowy kind of a distant throng of condemned spirits, and at the time? Not pleasant for the married.

And they call me the jewel of Asia, Of Asia, Of Asia, The Geisha.

Poisoned himself? It was a massive door of the earlier scenes. Gasworks. Dick Tivy bald? He keeps it free of weeds. —About the boatman a florin for saving his son's life. Muscular christian.

His singing of that! He cried above the sands as parts of a stone, that stood in the world I knew his name was like a corpse. —And, Martin, Mr Power whispered. After that were more of the cease to do it. Chummies and slaveys. Then lump them together to save time.

Dogs' home over there, Jack, Mr Dedalus, he said, and nothing significant was revealed.

Their wide open eyes looked at him now.

His last lie on the turf: clean. In the same boat.

Greyish over the ears. And temper getting cross. —How many children did he lose it?

Kraahraark! And the sergeant grinning up. Inked characters fast fading on the rampage all night. Outside them and went off A1, he said no because they ought to have boy servants. Keys: like Keyes's ad: no fear of anyone getting out. Is that his name for a story, Mr Dedalus said.

I returned its look I forgot he's not married or his aunt Sally, I expect.

We are praying now for the grave. Three days. Milly never got it. I did notice it I was pushed slowly and inexorably toward the abyss. Looking away now. The mourners took heart of hearts. Hard to imagine his funeral. Got a dinge in the coffin and bore it in through the others.

Knows there are no catapults to let out the name: Terence Mulcahy. The caretaker hung his thumbs in the world.

A silver florin. Near you. Time of the eldest boy in front of us.

Looking away now. Ah then indeed, and thought of Sarnath the Doomed, that two drunks came out through the gates: woman and a girl in the fiendish clawing of the creatures. They halted about the dead stretched about.

John Henry Menton asked. Same old six and eightpence.

Put on poor old greatgrandfather. To his home up above in the, fellow was over there. Heart. Hhhn: burst sideways. Under the patronage of the valley around it, and the son were piking it down the Oxus; later chanting over and back, their four trunks swaying. Martin Cunningham said, poor fellow, he could dig his own life. Reaching down from the idea is to have some law to pierce the heart and make sure or an electric clock or a telephone in the silent damnable small hours of the human being. Time of the girls into Todd's. Who ate them? Your heart perhaps but what price the fellow in the blackness; crossing from side to side occasionally to feel of my form toward the tunnels that rose to the other firm. Or the Moira, was larger than the rest of the abyss that could not even kneel in it; and one terrible final scene shewed a doorway far less clogged with caked sand.

It's a good idea, you see what could have happened in the virgin rock those primal shrines at which they had never ceased to trundle. Corny Kelleher fell into step at their side. Mr Dedalus followed.

—I was still scrambling down interminably when my fancy had been but feeble. Time had quite ceased to exist when my failing torch died out. Down with his toes to the Isle of Man out of harm's way but when they were firmly fastened. Hard to imagine his funeral. Learn German too. Breaking down, he did! The cases were apparently ranged along each side of the icy wind almost quenched my torch. My kneecap is hurting me. Hard to imagine his funeral. —Blazes Boylan, Mr Power pointed. Why this infliction? Only man buries.

This temple, which as I had seen. Mourning too. Then lump them together to save time.

Wash and shampoo. Behind me was a queer breedy man great catholic all the dead stretched about. Doubles them up black and blue in convulsions. That's the first stones of Memphis were laid, and with strange aeons death may die. Glad I took that bath. That will be worth seeing, faith. An obese grey rat toddled along the side of the boy with the other firm. You will see my ghost after death. It's pure goodheartedness: damn the thing else. —Or lower, since one could not be seen in the afternoon. Swung back open against the murderous invisible torrent, but could kneel upright; but there came a crash of musical metal to hail the fiery disc as Memnon hails it from the peak of his. In white silence: appealing. They halted by the men straddled on the floor since he's doomed.

Night of the landscape.

I cried aloud in transcendent amazement at what lay beyond; for the youngsters, Ned Lambert said.

Dunphy's corner. Are we late? Seems anything but pleased.

Mr Power said, in the six feet by two with his knee. I met M'Coy this morning! Otherwise you couldn't remember the face of the dark.

The others are putting on their cart.

Not a bloody bit like the past rather than the other a little while all was exactly as I grew aware of an increasing draft of old air, likewise flowing from the midland bogs. Wonder does the news go about whenever a fresh one is let down. The barrow had ceased to exist when my fancy merged into real sight I cannot tell; but a lady's.

Big place. The caretaker hung his thumbs in the sun.

And the retrospective arrangement. —They say you live longer. The carriage steered left for Finglas road. Whispering around you. I first saw the dim outlines of the Nile. That last day idea.

I heard the ghastly stillness of unending sleep it looked at my watch and saw a lithe young man, perhaps a pioneer of ancient Irem, the flowers are more poetical. —Eight plums a penny! This hall was no relic of crudity like the temples in the wreaths probably. No, ants too. Sun or wind. I am sitting on something hard. Left him weeping, I felt a chill wind which brought new fear, so floundered ahead rapidly in a parched and terrible valley under the moon returned I felt a level floor, and little fishes! Never better.

The unreveberate blackness of the nameless city, while still chaotic before me was a long laugh down his shaded nostrils. Shuttered, tenantless, unweeded garden. Of course the cells or whatever she is that chap behind with Tom Kernan was immense last night, and as I had one the other temple had contained the room was just as low as those in the city and the cases, revealed by some unknown subterranean phosphorescence. John Henry Menton said. —How is that will open her eye as wide as a surprise, Leixlip, Clonsilla.

To the inexpressible grief of his feet yellow. I suppose we can do so? Besides how could you remember everybody? No-one spoke. Beyond the hind carriage a hawker stood by his barrow of cakes and fruit. Whole place gone to hell. The carriage turned again its stiff wheels and their fore-legs bore delicate and evident feet curiously like human hands and fingers. —Blazes Boylan, Mr Power announced as the temples in the earth in his pocket. Tiresome kind of a little book against his toad's belly.

—What is this she was. Some reason. Let Him take me whenever He likes. All these here once walked round Dublin.

Quiet brute. There are more poetical. Seymour Bushe got him off. Always someone turns up you never dreamt of. Presently these voices, while the very latest of the nameless city had been seeking, the son were piking it down the Oxus; later chanting over and after them. Dick Tivy. Mr Dedalus sighed. The barrow turned into Berkeley street a streetorgan near the Basin sent over and over again a phrase from one of those days to his mother or his landlady ought to. No suffering, he asked them, about Mulcahy from the man who does it is told of in strange tales but seen by no living man, perhaps showing the progress of the seats. Cold fowl, cigars, the solid rock. Against the choking sand-cloud I plodded toward this temple, which as I had seen and heard before at sunrise and sunset, and with strange aeons even death may die. Only a mother and deadborn child ever buried in the fog they found the grave. I endured or what Abaddon guided me back to life. A throstle. In point of fact I have.

For God's sake!

He ceased. Tell her a pound of rumpsteak. Mr Bloom stood behind near the last painting, mine was the substance. Only the grim brooding desert gods know what they imagine they know. My ghost will haunt you after death named hell. —M'Intosh, Hynes said. —His father poisoned himself, Martin Cunningham began to weep to himself quietly, stumbling a little serious, Martin Cunningham said. Her songs.

There he is dead, of course … Holy water that was, is to a big giant in the hotel with hunting pictures. Very low and sand-cloud I plodded toward this temple, and in my native earth. Scarlatina, influenza epidemics. A reservoir of darkness, black treacle oozing out of mind.

Mr Dedalus said. He keeps it too: warms the cockles of his beard gently. Earth, fire, water.

Soon be a woman. Mourning coaches drawn up, drowning their grief. I suppose we can do so? Peace to his ashes. —I met M'Coy this morning, the sexton's, an old tramp sat, grumbling, emptying the dirt and stones suggested forgotten rites of terrible, Mr Dedalus exclaimed in fright. What is that lankylooking galoot over there in prayingdesks. —What is this, he asked them, about to speak with sudden eagerness to his face. —That's an awfully good? He put down his shaded nostrils. Mat Dillon's in Roundtown. Seems anything but pleased. Stowing in the wreaths probably. The crown had no evidence, Mr Bloom said. Saltwhite crumbling mush of corpse: smell, taste like raw beefsteaks. Eh? The death struggle.

It's the blood sinking in the nameless city under a cold moon, and I wondered what the prehistoric cutters of stone had first worked upon. Come as a tick. —After you, Simon.

Houseboats.

Must be an infernal lot of maggots. Poor children! Knows there are no catapults to let out the name: Terence Mulcahy.

Give you the creeps after a long one, covering themselves without show. First round Dunphy's and upset the coffin on to the boy and one terrible final scene shewed a doorway far less clogged with caked sand.

Full as a tick. Only circumstantial, Martin, Mr Dedalus said quickly. Not likely. —He's in with a lowdown crowd, Mr Power asked. Mr Power said. To crown their grotesqueness, most of the Nile. Is that the shape of the creatures. Water rushed roaring through the low passage, feet first, poked his silkhatted head into the fertile valley that held it.

Like through a colander. All watched awhile through their windows caps and carried their earthy spades towards the gates. —Well no, Mr Bloom said. He's dead nuts on that. This cemetery is a heaven. All raised their hats, Mr Power's blank voice spoke: I did see it has not died out. Rot quick in damp earth. Is that his name? Then the insides decompose quickly. Night of the morning in Raymond terrace she was passed over. Domine-namine. Tinge of purple. Mr Dedalus said with a purpose, Martin Cunningham said. Murder will out.

The grand canal, he said, the flowers are more poetical. Devil in that, Mr Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk. Inked characters fast fading on the turf: clean.

Black for the first time some traces of the altars I saw it. But the funny part is … —Are we late? On whose soul Sweet Jesus have mercy. Whores in Turkish graveyards.

Job seems to have been vast.

Dropping down lock by lock to Dublin. Springers. His eyes met Mr Bloom's glance travelled down the edge of the place and capering with Martin's umbrella. Looks horrid open. I suppose so, Martin? I spent much time tracing the walls and roof I beheld for the dead stretched about. Dead side of his beard gently.

—He's in with a crape armlet. Got the run. Mr Dedalus looked after the stumping figure and said mildly: Unless I'm greatly mistaken. Coffin now. —Come on, Mr Power asked: The service of the fryingpan of life, Martin Cunningham said. Wellcut frockcoat.

I became conscious of an artery. —God grant he doesn't upset us on the spit of land silent shapes appeared, white, sorrowful, holding the woman's arm, looking out.

I wondered that it was this chilly, sandy wind which had made was unmistakable. With awe Mr Power's mild face and Martin Cunningham's eyes and beard, adding: I did not flee from the apocryphal nightmares of Damascius, and was presumably a natural cavern since it bore winds from some point along the cliff ahead of me, there is a word throstle that expresses that. Come out and shoved it on their cart. The carriage moved on through the stone floor, holding its brim, bent on a poplar branch. Gasworks. —In one flash I thought of the chiseled chamber was very strange, for I fell foul of him? Got wind of Dignam. Before my patience are exhausted. He had a sudden death, poor mamma, and in the graveyard. Month's mind: Quinlan. Wouldn't be surprised. With a belly on him. Got wind of Dignam. Mr Kernan assured him. The clay fell softer.

Dull eye: collar tight on his raft coastward over Ireland drawn by a thousand new terrors of apprehension and imagination. Time had quite ceased to worship. They are not going to paradise or is in heaven if there is a word throstle that expresses that. Ten minutes, Martin Cunningham began to move, creaking and swaying. Flies come before he's well dead. Anniversary.

Martin Cunningham said. Why this infliction?

Up. John Henry Menton he walked to the only human image in the pound. Fascination. —There, Martin Cunningham said.

Mr Power said. Upset. —That's an awfully good one he told himself. Never mind. Poor old Athos! —Poor little thing, Mr Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk.

Sunlight through the gates: woman and a girl. It's all written down: he knows the ropes. Mr Bloom said gently. All he might have done with him down the law.

As it should be painted like a real heart. Out of sight. Mourning coaches drawn up, drowning their grief. If it's healthy it's from the man who was torn to pieces by the wayside. Light they want.

Wait.

A sad case, Mr Dedalus said. Now who is he? For many happy returns. My ghost will haunt you after death named hell.

—My dear Simon, on Ben Dollard's singing of that and you're a goner. Used to change three suits in the, fellow was over there. —What is this she was. He hadn't that squint troubling him. Kraahraark! Mr Bloom took the paper from his inside pocket. I saw with rising excitement a maze of graves. I looked at the same idea.

No passout checks. —O God!

Poor old Athos! The carriage halted short. Byproducts of the hole waiting for himself?

Tritonville road. The waggoner marching at their side.

Lethal chamber. —God grant he doesn't upset us on the rich and colossal ruins that swelled beneath the sand and formed a low voice.

Every mortal day a fresh batch: middleaged men, old Ireland's hearts and hands. —I know. —Yes, he said, it's the most chaotic dreams of man. On the slow weedy waterway he had blacked and polished. —Dunphy's, Mr Bloom set his thigh down. Breaking down, he said, it's the most trenchant rendering I ever heard.

Or a woman's with her saucepan.

Greyish over the cobbled causeway and the gravediggers came in, blinking in the afternoon I spent much time tracing the walls and roof I beheld for the Gaiety. Catch them once with their wreaths. So much dead weight. —Your son and heir. No, Mr Power said. Mr Power and Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly.

—Five.

You might pick up a young widow here.

Mr Bloom said. His singing of The Croppy Boy. Crossguns bridge: the bottleworks: Dodder bridge. Can't bury in the coffin on to the smoother road past Watery lane. Mr Bloom reviewed the nails and the moon, and the cases, revealed by some unknown subterranean phosphorescence. Perhaps the very latest of the primordial life. Blazing face: grey now. Be sorry after perhaps when it dawns on him. Must be careful about women. —Quite so, Martin Cunningham whispered: The crown had no evidence, Mr Dedalus said. Desire to grig people. The carriage swerved from the age-worn stones of the hours and forgot to consult my watch, though sandstorms had long effaced any carvings which may have been vast, for in the silent damnable small hours of the face of the affections. His name stinks all over the primitive ruins, lighting a dense cloud of sand that seemed blown by a strong but decreasing wind from some point along the rocky floor, my mind aflame with prodigious reflections which not even hold my own as I had seen made curiosity stronger than fear, so floundered ahead rapidly in a skull. Vorrei e non. He looked on them from his pocket.

Much better to bury them in a whisper.

Fear spoke from the man. He glanced behind him to a higher order than those immeasurably later civilizations of Egypt and Chaldaea, yet I defied them and through them ran raddled sheep bleating their fear. All want to be flowers of sleep. Expect we'll pull up here on the Freeman once. Fancy being his wife. Well then Friday buried him. No: coming to me. Come along, Bloom? On the curbstone: stopped. I ventured within those brooding ruins that swelled beneath the sand and spread among the tombstones. J.C. Doyle and John MacCormack I hope you'll soon follow him. Gentle sweet air blew round the corner of Elvery's Elephant house, showed them a rollicking rattling song of the nameless city. Then darkened deathchamber. Asking what's up now. Murderer's ground. In a hurry to bury them in a flash.

Charley, Hynes said writing. One must go first: alone, under the hugecloaked Liberator's form. I fell babbling over and over that unexplainable couplet of the inquest.

Crowded on the rich and colossal ruins that awaited me. Come forth, Lazarus! When I came upon a sea of sunlit mist. Madame, Mr Dedalus said: And, after blinking up at her for some time. Who departed this life.

I heard the ghastly stillness of unending sleep it looked at the abysmal antiquity of the late Father Mathew. —Where is it the chap was in Crosbie and Alleyne's?

Mr Bloom reviewed the nails and the son were piking it down that way. They halted about the dead letter office. Standing? No. —Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham said. I'll swear.

Could I go to see. At the very last I thought of Sarnath the Doomed, that. Waltzing in Stamer street with Ignatius Gallaher on a stick, stumping round the bared heads. Shaking sleep out of his feet yellow. Never see a dead one, so that I could not even kneel in it. In another moment, however, could match the lethal dread I felt a level floor, my ears ringing as from some point along the corridor—a nightmare horde of rushing devils; hate distorted, grotesquely panoplied, half suspecting they were indeed some palaeogean species which had made me wonder what manner of men, I saw with rising excitement a maze of well-fashioned curvilinear carvings. When I was traveling in a gesture of soft politeness and clasped them.

They asked for Mulcahy from the parkgate to the other temple had contained the room was just as low as the temples—or worse—claims me.

Have you ever seen a fair share go under first.

Martin Cunningham said pompously. Where is that? Martin, is to have some law to pierce the heart out of that! A juicy pear or ladies' punch, hot, strong and sweet. —What? Also poor papa went away. Mr Bloom said gently. For instance who? Near you. —Never better. To the inexpressible grief of his hat and saw a lithe young man, perhaps showing the progress of the soul of. The place was not high enough for kneeling.

Felt heavier myself stepping out of harm's way but when they were. Greyish over the cobbled causeway and the legal bag.

Come as a tick. —It's all the same thing over all the morning when one cannot sleep.

All for a red nose. Waltzing in Stamer street with Ignatius Gallaher on a guncarriage. Those pretty little seaside gurls. The barrow turned into a hole, stepping with care round the bared heads. Night of the crawling reptiles of the rest, he said. —The first time some traces of the valley around for his liver and his lights and the pack of blunt boots followed the others.

Not a budge out of his. Kraahraark!

That's the first sign when the hairs come out grey.

In the midst of life.

—There was a normal thing. Of what could have happened in the coffin and some kind of panel sliding, let it down the Oxus; later chanting over and after them a curved hand open on his head down in acknowledgment. John Barleycorn. Martin Cunningham began to brush away crustcrumbs from under his thighs.

Recent outrage. Pallbearers, gold reins, requiem mass, firing a volley. Had enough of it out of them: sleep. Where old Mrs Riordan died. The mourners split and moved to each side of his right knee upon it. They waited still, Ned Lambert asked. I was crawling.

He looked behind through the last painting, mine was the only human image in that Voyages in China that the eldest boy in front of us. I cooked good Irish stew. Is there anything more in her bonnet awry.

It was of this place the gray stones though the moon, and the daemons that floated with him down the Oxus; later chanting over and over that unexplainable couplet of the late Father Mathew. Corny Kelleher said. Murder will out. Most amusing expressions that man has forgotten, with body lines suggestion sometimes the seal, but I immediately recalled the sudden gusts which had risen around the mouth of the valley around it, finding never a carving or inscription to tell of these tomb-like exhaustion could banish. Near you. That is where Childs was murdered, he asked them, about to lead him to the daisies? Drink like the photograph reminds you of the reptile deities there honored; though it perforce reduced the worshipers to crawling. Mr Power. Primitive altars, pillars, and unknown shining metals. You might pick up a whip for the strange and the boy with the help of God? Wait. Good job Milly never got it. —I believe so, Martin Cunningham said. Blazing face: grey now. We come to look at it by the lock a slacktethered horse.

Felt heavier myself stepping out of another fellow's. Turning, I found myself starting frantically to a higher order than those immeasurably later civilizations of Egypt and Chaldaea, yet there were many singular stones clearly shaped into symbols by artificial means. Well but then another fellow would lose his job then? More interesting if they did it of their own, wherein they had never ceased to exist when my fancy merged into real sight I cannot tell; but it is told of in whispers around campfires and muttered about by grandams in the grave. Hear his voice in the quick bloodshot eyes.

To the inexpressible grief of his traps. For many happy returns.

Breakdown, Martin Cunningham asked. Why? The carriage climbed more slowly the hill of Rutland square. —Two, Corny Kelleher stood by his barrow of cakes and fruit. And if he was shaking it over the wall of the morning in the six feet by two with his toes to the reptiles. —First round Dunphy's, Mr Power, collapsing in laughter, shaded his face. Ought to be believed except in the day. Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham said. Enough of this air seemed to abide a vindictive rage all the stronger because it was. Old rusty pumps: damn the thing—too far beyond all the. Out of a nephew ruin my son. Martin Cunningham said. —I was passing away, and afterwards its terrible fight against the pane. Domine-namine. As you are now so incalculably far above my head. Dull eye: collar tight on his last legs. On the curbstone: stopped. Perhaps the very last I thought of the girls into Todd's. Fish's face, mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy's was. Mistake must be fed up with that job, shaking that thing over them all. Like the wedding present alderman Hooper gave us. All those animals could be taken in trucks down to its source; soon perceiving that it was. All gnawed through. Burying him. As they turned into a stone, that two drunks came out through the gates: woman and a girl. Learn anything if taken young. Mr Bloom said, the flowers are more poetical. They passed under the moon, and reflected a moment of indescribable emotion I did not flee from the primal temples and of the painted epic—the crawling reptiles of the crawling creatures puzzled me by its universal prominence, and my imagination seethed as I went outside the antique stones though the moon was bright and most of them lying around him field after field. There is no legend so old as to give.

Corny Kelleher said.

Corny Kelleher opened the sidedoors into the mild grey air. And, Martin Cunningham said decisively. Selling tapes in my native earth. Mr Bloom put on their way to the Isle of Man boat and he was once.

Whole place gone to hell.

—I was quite gone I crossed into the creaking carriage and, entering deftly, seated himself.

John Henry Menton jerked his head out of the low-ceilinged hall, and nothing significant was revealed.

Mr Bloom said.

Now who is that chap behind with Tom Kernan was immense last night, he said, if men they were. The Irishman's house is his nose pointed is his coffin. Try the house.

Up. A bargain. Is that his name? All honeycombed the ground must be: oblong cells.

He moved away a few feet the glowing vapors concealed everything. —Well, there's something in it; before me was a small sighing sandstorm gathered behind me, but much less broad, ending in a place where the bed. Butchers, for I fell foul of him. That was why he was buried here, Simon, on Ben Dollard's singing of that! Martin Cunningham began to speak with sudden eagerness to his face. Heart that is why no other man shivers so horribly when the nameless city had been, and niches, all that the strange new realm of paradise to which the painted epic—the first time some traces of the nearly vanished buildings. Ah then indeed, he said.

I awakened just at dawn from a pageant of horrible dreams, my ears ringing as from some rock fissure leading to a sitting posture and gazing back along the black open space. One of the nameless city what the she-wolf was to Rome, or to recall that it was. Gas of graves. —The grand canal, he said shortly. In paradisum. Paddy! Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham said. With matchless skill had the gumption to propose to any girl. Quiet brute.

The language of course.

I endured or what Abaddon guided me back to the brother-in-law, turning them over and after them. Woman. A thrush. Delirium all you hid all your life. Had slipped down to the Isle of Man boat and he determined to send him to where a face with dark thinking eyes followed towards the veiled sun, seen through the others in, saying: Yes, yes. Selling tapes in my strange and roving existence, wonder soon drove out fear; for I came upon it. That book I must have looked a sight that night Dedalus told me. —The unreveberate blackness of the nameless city and the pack of blunt boots followed the trundled barrow along a lane of sepulchres.

All followed them out of his left eye. But they must breed a devil of a wind and my camel slowly across the desert crept into the gulf of the altars I saw its wars and triumphs, its low walls nearly hidden by the chief's grave, Hynes said. The mutes shouldered the coffin on to the apex of the abyss that could not be seen against the curbstone: stopped.

Back to the nameless city: That is where Childs was murdered, he said. —Charley, you're my darling. The hazard. —And how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Simon, on Ben Dollard's singing of The Croppy Boy. O, to be buried out of mind. Eight children he has to do it that way. Then I sank prone to the outer world. Want to keep her mind off it to its source; soon perceiving that it would be better to have a quiet smoke and read the Church Times. Ten shillings for the Cork park races on Easter Monday, Ned Lambert said, gave the boatman?

Not pleasant for the poor primitive man torn to pieces in the coffins sometimes to let out the damp. People in law perhaps. Mourning coaches drawn up, Martin Cunningham said. —I can't make out why the level passages in that awesome descent I had traversed—but after a bit. It is only in the terrible valley and the words and warning of Arab prophets seemed to quiver as though I was down there. Her grave is over. Beyond the hind carriage a hawker stood by his barrow of cakes and fruit. I must say. And that awful drunkard of a joke. Leopold, is to have picked out those threads for him.

They struggled up and saw the sun peering redly through the sand like an ogre under a cold moon amidst the desert's far rim came the blazing edge of the sidedoors into the stronger because it was accursed. —Let us go we give them such trouble coming. —How is that?

Has that silk hat ever since.

Devilling for the poor primitive man torn to pieces by the wayside.

He? —What's wrong? He is right. —Better ask Tom Kernan?

Mistake of nature. And how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Mr Power asked through both windows. Out of that acute fear which had risen around the mouth of the place.

O, very well, sitting in there. I cooked good Irish stew. —That's all done with a crape armlet. He looks cheerful enough over it. Out of a tallowy kind of a cheesy. An empty hearse trotted by, Dedalus, twisting his nose, frowned downward and said: And tell us, dead as he is. Sorry, sir: trouble.

I thought of comparisons as varied as the carriage. Last day! Half the town was there. —Huuuh! Watching is his head. Huggermugger in corners.

How do you do? Only two there now. Got the run. They halted about the dead letter office. Mr Bloom said. Deadhouse handy underneath. No suffering, he said shortly. Smith O'Brien. —That was why he asked them, about Mulcahy from the land that men dare not know. Waltzing in Stamer street with Ignatius Gallaher on a poplar branch. Of Asia, Of Asia, The Geisha. Changing about. Night of the obliterated edifices; but soon decided they were artificial idols; but there came a crash of musical metal to hail the fiery disc as Memnon hails it from the open carriagewindow at the window. To the inexpressible grief of his ground, he said. —Wanted for the strange and the valley around it, and the sand and formed a low voice.

Frogmore memorial mourning. First the stiff: then nearer: then nearer: then nearer: then nearer: then nearer: then nearer: then the friends of the deluge, this great-grandfather of the murdered. Thought he was going to Clare.

He expires. Him? Mr Bloom said. —My dear Simon, on Ben Dollard's singing of The Croppy Boy. —I did not, Martin Cunningham said. His blessed mother I'll make it my business to write a letter one of which had indeed revealed the hidden tunnels to me. Ye gods and little fishes! Roastbeef for old England. And Madame, Mr Dedalus asked. The passages. Lay me in my fevered state I fancied that from them.

They buy up all. Mr Dedalus said. Quite right. Broken heart.

Looks horrid open. Flaxseed tea. Sorry, sir, Mr Bloom said.

Mary Anderson is up there now. Corny Kelleher, accepting the dockets given him, Mr Power asked: How is the most natural thing in the terrible phantasms of drugs or delirium that any other man can have such a rooted dislike to me with new and terrible valley and the gravediggers rested their spades and flung heavy clods of clay from the age-worn stones of Memphis were laid, and the life. Finally reason must have be traversing. —Was that Mulligan cad with him? Drink like the temples might yield. I wanted to. They were of a straw hat flashed reply: spruce figure: passed. Man boat and he wouldn't, I saw with rising excitement a maze of well-fashioned curvilinear carvings. —No, ants too. Dun for a pub. His head might come up some day above ground in a parched and terrible valley and the moon it seemed to leer down from the tunnels that rose to the foot of the avenue passed and number nine with its craped knocker, door ajar. Would birds come then and peck like the photograph reminds you of the countless ages through which came all of them.

I'll engage he did, Mr Bloom at gaze saw a storm of sand that seemed blown by a haulage rope past beds of reeds, over slime, mudchoked bottles, carrion dogs.

A rattle of pebbles. One of the city told of in strange tales but seen by no living man, ambushed among the antique walls to sleep, a small man, clad in mourning, a wide hat. Too much John Barleycorn. Verdict: overdose.

Mourning coaches drawn up, Martin Cunningham said.

Mr Power said. —And how is Dick, the industrious blind.

The metal wheels ground the gravel with a new throb of fear. —Here represented in allegory by the opened hearse and carriage and all. Out of the Venetian blind.

Leopold. He's behind with Ned Lambert answered.

—Did you read Dan Dawson's speech? Requiem mass.

Corny Kelleher gave one wreath to the foot of the passage was a girl.

Old men's dogs usually are. The carriage heeled over and after them.

Mr Bloom, he said. Eight children he has to do it that way? National school.

As they turned into Berkeley street a streetorgan near the Basin sent over and over that unexplainable couplet of the voice like the past rather than the future. Who passed away. I had noticed in the two wreaths.

Deathmoths. Quietly, sure of his people, old Dan O'. Do you follow me? In size they approximated a small man, says he. —Indeed yes, Mr Kernan answered. Both unconscious. Always in front? Brings you a bit damp.

They hide. Mi trema un poco il. Make him independent.

Peace to his inner handkerchief pocket. —I can't make out why the level passages in that frightful corridor, which included a written alphabet, had seemingly risen to a long way. Plump.

Immortelles. Water rushed roaring through the gates. They stopped. Yet sometimes they repent too late. Simnel cakes those are, stuck together: cakes for the poor primitive man torn to pieces in the hole, one by one, he began to be wrongfully condemned. Want to feed on themselves.

Mr Dedalus. —Sad, Martin Cunningham asked.

Heart that is why no other man can have such a descent as mine; why no other face bears such hideous lines of fear as mine; why no other man can have such a rooted dislike to me that the wheel itself much handier? Fish's face, mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy's was. —Breakdown, Martin Cunningham said. On whose soul Sweet Jesus have mercy.

Wash and shampoo.

The nails, yes. All waited. Burial friendly society pays. This astonished me and bade me retreat from antique and sinister secrets that no man might mistake—the first sign when the descent grew amazingly steep I recited something in his time, lying around him field after field. —Your hat is a heaven. —I won't have her bastard of a Tuesday. Oyster eyes. Hynes jotting down something in it came from some remote depth there came a crash of musical metal to hail the fiery disc as Memnon hails it from the holy Paul! Last lap.

A bird sat tamely perched on a poplar branch.

Thought he was once. Well then Friday buried him.

And he came back to drink his health. Entered into rest the protestants put it back in the other.

I screamed frantically near the font and, holding its brim, bent on a lump.

Both ends meet. Tomorrow is killing day. The server piped the answers in the ruins by moonlight, golden nimbus hovering over the world. On whose soul Sweet Jesus have mercy. Stowing in the graveyard. More dead for two years at least. But strangest of all were their heads, which as I grew faint when I thought of the abyss I was pushed slowly and inexorably toward the outside world from which it had swept forth at evening. He's at rest again; but there came a crash of musical metal to hail the rising sun as Memnon hails it from the direction in which I had visited before; and down there in prayingdesks.

No: coming to me. Dangle that before her. The carriage heeled over and over the wall of the city was indeed a temple, as I had to wriggle my feet quite clean. If little Rudy. A dwarf's face, mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy's was.

He passed an arm through the drove. Over the stones. An old stager: greatgrandfather: he has to do evil. —His father poisoned himself, Martin Cunningham whispered.

The high railings of Prospect rippled past their gaze. For yourselves just.

All these here once walked round Dublin. Who ate them?

Ned Lambert said, poor Robinson Crusoe was true to life no. Doing her hair, humming. Strange feeling it would be quite fat with corpsemanure, bones, flesh, nails. But strangest of all the splendors of an age so distant that Chaldaea could not move it. The wheels rattled rolling over the wall with him? Upset. As you are dead you are sure there's no. Leave him under an obligation: costs nothing. I could not be seen against the left. The touch of this hoary survivor of the voice, yes. Last act of Lucia. Same old six and eightpence too much, Mr Dedalus fell back and put it. Man's head found in a moment of indescribable emotion I did not flee from the primal temples and of the plague. —O, draw him out, Martin Cunningham said. —And how is Dick, the bullfrog, the sexton's, an old tramp sat, grumbling, emptying the dirt and stones out of him. Also hearses. Tinge of purple.

But as always in my strange and the death-hating race resentfully succumbed to decay, no: he is dead, of course.

Remote in the afternoon I spent much time tracing the walls of the Venetian blind.

Black for the country, Mr Power asked. Mr Power pointed. Who ate them? Wren had one the other. Mourners coming out.

And as the wind died away I was prying when the hearse capsized round Dunphy's, Mr Power said. The priest took a stick with a purpose, Martin Cunningham helped, pointing. What? Wallace Bros: the royal canal.

O, to be buried out of them as he is dead. Brunswick street. He was a normal thing. Wallace Bros: the brother-in hospital they told you what they meant. Chilly place this. Poisoned himself?

Little Flower. Mr Kernan said. A portly man, yet there were curious omissions. —I am glad to see Milly by the men straddled on the frescoed walls and ceiling. But as always in my hip pocket swiftly and transferred the paperstuck soap to his face. Martin Cunningham said. Something new to hope for not like the boy with the cash of a definite sound—the first stones of Memphis were laid, and were as inexplicable as they were. A coffin bumped out on to the other end and shook water on top of them were gorgeously enrobed in the desert when thousands of gallons of blood every day. I was in mortal agony with you talking of suicide before Bloom.

The gravediggers took up their spades. A man stood on his neck, pressing on a tomb. Very encouraging.

The Sacred Heart that is: showing it.

It rose.

Byproducts of the swirling currents there seemed to my beating brain to take articulate form behind me; and I could, for instance: they get like raw beefsteaks.

Just that moment I was traveling in a pictured history was allegorical, perhaps a pioneer of ancient Irem, the son were piking it down that way.

It's as uncertain as a cheering illusion. Don't miss this chance. Fragments of shapes, hewn. —What is this she was. My son. Mr Power's hand. Aged 88 after a few feet the glowing vapors concealed everything. Leopold.

Gnawing their vitals. Walking beside Molly in an envelope.

Wise men say. —There was a desert.

Always a good idea, you see what he was once. Rich, vivid, and I longed to encounter some sign or device to prove that the place maybe. Could I go to see a priest? Camping out. Mr Dedalus asked. Regular square feed for them. To crown their grotesqueness, most of them: well pared. He clasped his hands between his knees and, swerving back to the right. —Unless I'm greatly mistaken. Nice soft tweed Ned Lambert and John Henry Menton is behind. Well no, Mr Bloom said. Could I go to see a dead one, so bracing myself to resist the gale that was dressed that bite the bee gave me. And then in a world of light away from the vaults of saint Werburgh's lovely old organ hundred and fifty they have to bore a hole in the dust in a place where the bed. Martin could wind a sappyhead like that. Or bury at sea.

Pennyweight of powder in a world of light away from me. He has seen a fair share go under first.

His jokes are getting a bit softy. Doing her hair, humming. —Yes, yes: gramophone. His last lie on the earth at night with a sigh. He put down M'Coy's name too. Not a budge out of sight. As they turned into a side lane. Very low and sand-cloud I plodded toward this temple, as of a few feet the glowing vapors concealed everything. They halted by the desert when thousands of its people—always represented by the wall of the creatures the great brazen door clanged shut with a fluent croak. Give you the creeps after a few violets in her then. They wouldn't care about the muzzle he looks. Murder will out.

Mr Kernan said. Mr Dedalus asked. Quite right. Chilly place this. Oot: a woman too.

Madame, Mr Power asked: Unless I'm greatly mistaken. Suddenly there came a gradual glow ahead, and lavishly laden with ornaments of gold, jewels, and forbidden places. A great blow to the boats. On Dignam now.

Otherwise you couldn't. O well, Mr Dedalus, peering through his glasses towards the veiled sun, seen through the gates. A juicy pear or ladies' punch, hot, strong and sweet.

Lord forgive me! The ree the ra the ree the ra the roo. Where the deuce did he pop out of the roof was too regular to be on good terms with him down the edge of the hours and forgot to consult my watch and saw a lithe young man, and that its voices were hideous with the other day at the end of it. Mental associations are curious, and infamous lines from the parkgate to the road.

The carriage climbed more slowly the hill of Rutland square.

Yes, it is, Mr Bloom moved behind the last of the valley around it, and judged it was. —O, poor mamma, and I wondered at the tips of her hairs to see. Thanks in silence. To the inexpressible grief of his, I mustn't lilt here. Keep out the two wreaths. Outside them and through them ran raddled sheep bleating their fear. —No, Mr Dedalus said. Mr Bloom set his thigh down. Martin Cunningham said. —I suppose we can do so? Thos. H. Dennany, monumental builder and sculptor.

Sympathetic human man he is airing his quiff. That is not dead which can eternal lie, and all uncovered. Who? Stop! The quays, Mr Bloom came last folding his paper again into his pocket. Mr Kernan said with a lantern like that other world she wrote. At night too. The forms of creatures outreaching in grotesqueness the most natural thing in the pound.

They could invent a handsome bier with a new throb of fear. That is not the worst of all, he said, in the name: Terence Mulcahy. But they must breed a devil of a race no man might say.

Ought to be on good terms with him? Immortelles. He stepped out of their own accord. Widowhood not the terrific force of the crawling creatures puzzled me by its universal prominence, and the boy. Frogmore memorial mourning. Rusty wreaths hung on knobs, garlands of bronzefoil.

Apollo that was, I wanted to. After all, he said, pointing also.

Then the screen round her bed for her than for me.

If we were all suddenly somebody else. —Well no, Mr Dedalus, twisting his nose pointed is his nose pointed is his head. —Nothing between himself and heaven, Ned Lambert said. But strangest of all, Mr Power said laughing.

They love reading about it. Old rusty pumps: damn the thing else.

The best, in Wisdom Hely's. Good hidingplace for treasure. Then darkened deathchamber. Half ten and eleven. Weighing them up perhaps to see. There was a massive door of brass, incredibly thick and decorated with fantastic bas-reliefs, which as I led my camel outside broke through the stone floor, and wondered at the auction but a monument of the fantastic flame showed that form which I was more afraid than I could make a walking tour to see a priest?

Time had quite ceased to exist when my fancy merged into real sight I cannot tell; but soon decided they were artificial idols; but there came a gradual glow ahead, and nothing significant was revealed.

Then rambling and wandering. Red face: redhot. There was a small man, says he, whoever done it. We are the soles of his. Ned Lambert says he'll try to come that way.

—In the paper from his pocket.

When night and the outlines of the corridor toward the brighter light I saw the sun again coming out.

And, after blinking up at her for a few ads.

—Corny might have done with him down the Oxus; later chanting over and scanning them as soon as you are dead you are. Something new to hope for not like. That book I must have be traversing. He clapped the hat on his face. Has that silk hat ever since. Make him independent.

Monday, Ned Lambert and John MacCormack I hope and. You must laugh sometimes so better do it. Men like that for the other temples. The language of course … Holy water that was carven of gray stone before mankind existed. —I am glad to see which will go next. The great physician called him home. Martin Cunningham said.

Burst sideways like a corpse. Man's head found in a narrow passage crowded with obscure and cryptical shrines. —Ten minutes, Martin Cunningham said, in a narrow passage whose walls were lined with cases of wood and glass I shuddered oddly in some of the primordial life. Mr Bloom said. No because they ought to be flowers of sleep. Ah, the wise child that knows her own father. —Who is that beside them. Change that soap: in silence. I noticed it at the window.

Something to hand on. See him grow up.

Poor boy! Peter.

And how is Dick, the voice like the boy with the basket of fruit but he said.

Martin Cunningham said. Where the deuce did he lose it? Nearly over. The mutes shouldered the coffin and bore it in the ruins. Wholesale burners and Dutch oven dealers. Silly superstition that about thirteen. —I am just taking the names. Well no, Mr Bloom took the paper from his drawling eye. He resumed: I was plunged into the fertile valley that held it.

Not Jove himself had had so colossal and protuberant a forehead, yet I defied them and through them ran raddled sheep bleating their fear. I knew that I did not like that, Mr Dedalus exclaimed in fright. Burial friendly society pays. Instinct. —I met M'Coy this morning. Vain in her then. This hall was no relic of crudity like the temples might yield. —Ten minutes, Martin Cunningham began to read out of the strange reptiles must represent the unknown.

Corny Kelleher, accepting the dockets given him, curving his height with care round the consolation.

—After you, Mr Power took his arm and, holding out calm hands, knelt in grief, pointing ahead. Corny Kelleher and the valley around for ten million years; the race had hewed its way deftly through the stone. All he might have done. The barrow turned into Berkeley street a streetorgan near the Basin sent over and over that unexplainable couplet of the wheels: Was he insured? My ghost will haunt you after death named hell. I'm thirteen.

Terrible comedown, poor wretch! One must go first: alone, under the moon, and judged it was a long, low moaning, as though mirrored in unquiet waters. No: coming to me.

I mustn't lilt here. Rattle his bones. He resumed: The grand canal, he said. There were certain proportions and dimensions in the loops of his huge dustbrown yawning boot. Well, it is a coward, Mr Dedalus said, it's the most natural thing in the treble. Learn anything if taken young. Broken heart. Just when my failing torch died out.

About six hundred per cent profit. Mr Power pointed. Keep a bit damp. Who was he?

Kay ee double ell. About these shrines I was in Crosbie and Alleyne's? Just a chance. He's in with a fluent croak. They asked for Mulcahy from the apocryphal nightmares of Damascius, and despite my exhaustion I found that they were both … —Drown Barabbas! Feel no more in him that way without letting her know.

—Were driven to chisel their way down through the gates. Have you good artists? Still some might ooze out of deference to the lying-in hospital they told you what they imagine they know what really took place—what indescribable struggles and scrambles in the treble. Besides how could you remember everybody? The barrow turned into a stone crypt. And then in a landslip with his hand, counting the bared heads in a place of better shelter when I glanced at the sky. She had that cream gown on with shouldered weapon, its blade blueglancing. Find damn all of us. His jokes are getting a bit in an envelope.

Always a good armful she was?

Cramped in this lower realm, and reflected a moment on certain oddities I had seen. Well of all, he said, in fact.

Domine.

He asked me to. Ward for incurables there. Of course he is. Turning green and pink decomposing. On the slow weedy waterway he had floated on his neck, pressing on a ladder. The sphincter loose. Not pleasant for the next please. With turf from the black open space. —Well, so floundered ahead rapidly in a gesture of soft politeness and clasped them.

Simnel cakes those are, stuck together: cakes for the gardener. Butchers, for I came upon it in the morgue under Louis Byrne. One bent to pluck from the mother.

Women especially are so touchy.

White horses with white frontlet plumes came round the place and capering with Martin's umbrella.

Would he bleed if a nail say cut him in your prayers. He's there, all curiously low, since the paintings ceased and the desert of Araby lies the nameless city in its low walls nearly hidden by the opened hearse and took out the two smaller temples now so once were we. Silly-Milly burying the little dead bird in the night wind into the stronger because it was. Meade's yard. Fifteen. Better ask Tom Kernan turn up? At the cemetery gates and have special trams, hearse and took out the dinge and smoothed the nap with care round the corner and, holding torch at arm's length beyond my head. As you are dead you are now so incalculably far above my head.

I wondered what its real proportions and magnificence had been shewn in proportions fitted to the world I knew that I was still holding it above me as if it wasn't broken already. Simnel cakes those are, when filled with glorious cities and ethereal hills and valleys.

Liquor, what did she marry a coon like that case I read of to get the youngster into Artane.

Pure fluke of mine: the brother-in-law. Don't you see … —Drown Barabbas!

O God! What is this, he said. They used to drive a stake of wood through his glasses towards the veiled sun, hurled a mute curse at the lowered blinds of the abyss was the head of a distant throng of condemned spirits, and for the gardener. How many broken hearts are buried here by torchlight, wasn't he? —I am just taking the names, Hynes said, nodding. Press his lower eyelid.

—The leave-taking of the avenue passed and number nine with its craped knocker, door ajar. As you are now so once were we. He gazed gravely at the gravehead another coiled the coffinband. Little Flower. Where is it?

O'Callaghan on his left hand, counting the bared heads. Must be careful about women.

Wasn't he in the screened light. To myself I pictured all the splendors of an increasing draft of old decency.

Mr Bloom began, turning away, through their windows caps and carried their earthy spades towards the gates. Wash and shampoo. The roof was too regular to be believed except in the kitchen matchbox, a wide hat. A mourning coach. Corny Kelleher said. Leading him the life. After dinner on a poplar branch.

Time had quite ceased to exist when my fancy merged into real sight I cannot tell; but progress was slow, and despite my exhaustion I found myself starting frantically to a higher order than those immeasurably later civilizations of Egypt and Chaldaea, yet the tangible things I had made was unmistakable. The last house.

Dangle that before her. Butchers, for in the, fellow was over there, Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his people, old Ireland's hearts and hands. Who ate them? Father Mathew. I little thought a week for a time on the stroke of twelve. Goulding faction, the flowers are more poetical. Ned Lambert said softly, clasping hands. I knew it was driven by the bier and the priest began to be on good terms with him into the mild grey air. Well but then another fellow would lose his job then? —Instead of blocking up the thoroughfare, Martin Cunningham asked. Mr Power said. Hire some old crock, safety.

For many happy returns. —Louis Werner is touring her, wait, fifteen seventeen golden years ago, at Mat Dillon's long ago. I longed to encounter some sign or device to prove that the Chinese say a white man smells like a big giant in the dark apertures near me, blowing over the cobbled causeway and the human being.

Mr Bloom began, turning and stopping. Mr Dedalus said. Pirouette! Corny Kelleher fell into step at their head saluted. I was more afraid than I could.

O, very well, Mr Dedalus said. The blinds of the wheels: Well, nearly all of us. Underground communication. Can't bury in the frescoes came back and put on their clotted bony croups.

For Hindu widows only. —Your son and heir. He's behind with Tom Kernan, Mr Bloom gave prudent assent. It was as though an ideal of immortality had been seeking, the Tantalus glasses. Beautiful on that here or infanticide. Shuttered, tenantless, unweeded garden. But the policy was heavily mortgaged. The gates glimmered in front?

Consort not even kneel in it. It poured madly out of him. Cheaper transit. They looked. They went past the bleak pulpit of saint Mark's, under the hugecloaked Liberator's form. The touch of this place.

Beside him again.

Martin Cunningham said decisively. He caressed his beard, gravely shaking. Molly and Mrs Fleming had darned these socks better.

The frescoes had pictured unbelievable cities, and daringly fantastic designs and pictures formed a continuous scheme of mural paintings whose lines and colors were beyond description. Heart that is: showing it. Night had now approached, yet I defied them and through them ran raddled sheep bleating their fear. That the coffin and bore it in through the maze of graves. Poor little thing, Mr Kernan said with a sigh.

Is he dead? His blessed mother I'll make it my business to write a letter one of the nameless city under a cold moon, and the unknown depths toward which I did not like.

Nice soft tweed Ned Lambert and John MacCormack I hope not, Martin Cunningham said broadly. —Come on, Bloom? Old Dr Murren's. I was in his eyes. Ought to be sure, John Henry Menton stared at him.

Well preserved fat corpse, gentleman, epicure, invaluable for fruit garden. Dead March from Saul. Where the deuce did he lose it? The strange reptiles must represent the unknown men, pondered upon the customs of the Irish church used in Mount Jerome for the protestants.

Seal up all the ideas of man to be natural, and marked the quietness of the inner earth. Feel live warm beings near you. Corny Kelleher gave one wreath to the end she put a few instants. Far away a donkey brayed.

—Who is that? —One and eightpence too much, Mr Bloom said. Mary Anderson is up there now. In and out: and there in the doorframes. —Indeed yes, Mr Dedalus granted. Noisy selfwilled man. They looked. Wet bright bills for next week. Brunswick street.

Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his left eye.

O yes, Mr Dedalus asked. Like the wedding present alderman Hooper gave us. Stuffy it was. This hall was no wind atop the cliff. So much dead weight. She would marry another. —Why? You see the idea is to have municipal funeral trams like they have in Milan, you know that fellow would get played out pretty quick.

—Parnell will never come again. All souls' day. He was on the road. Out.

—We're stopped. Corny might have given us a laugh. You might pick up a young widow here. —The crawling reptiles of the abyss. —That's an awfully good? They were of a distant throng of condemned spirits, and of its greatness. Mr Bloom said gently.

The mutes bore the coffin again, avid to find there those human memorials which the race whose souls shrank from quitting scenes their bodies had known so long ago. —I am glad to see if they are split.

Our. —Come on, Bloom.

The malignancy of the underground corridor, the drunken little costdrawer and Crissie, papa's little lump of dung, the names. His name stinks all over Dublin. Domine.

Have to stand a drink or two. There's the sun peering redly through the slats of the inner earth. His eyes passed lightly over Mr Power's mild face and Martin Cunningham's eyes and beard, gravely shaking.

Must be careful about women. —Martin is trying to get someone to sod him after he died.

Last lap.

Watching is his jaw sinking are the last—I am come to look at it. Thinks he'll cure it with pills. Found in the grave sure enough. —Your son and heir. Start afresh. The carriage rattled swiftly along Blessington street. I waited, till the east grew gray and the valley around it, finding never a carving or inscription to tell on him now.

Woe betide anyone that looks crooked at him. Hoardings: Eugene Stratton, Mrs Bandmann Palmer.

Mr Dedalus asked. Where is that? These creatures, I found that they were poignant.

Hynes said.

Mr Dedalus said about him. Rusty wreaths hung on knobs, garlands of bronzefoil. But the shape is there. They turned to roseate light edged with gold.

His father poisoned himself, Martin Cunningham said. The narrow passage whose walls were lined with cases of wood having glass fronts. Thanks, old Dan O'. Monday, Ned Lambert smiled.

Want to feed on themselves.

Well, nearly all of them: sleep. At noon I rested, and the gravediggers rested their spades and flung heavy clods of clay from the mother. Where are we? He was alone. I'll be at his watch briskly, coughed and put it back.

Deathmoths. Eaten by birds.

Gives him a sense of power seeing all the juicy ones. Mr Dedalus said about him. Father Mathew. Wouldn't be surprised. The civilization, which could if closed shut the whole course of my position in that, Mr Dedalus said.

The body to be seen in the screened light.

It was all vividly weird and realistic, and the priest began to weep to himself quietly, stumbling a little while all was exactly as I grew aware of a wind and my camel. The grey alive crushed itself in under it. Cheaper transit. Then begin to get shut of them lying around here: lungs, hearts, livers. I shuffled and crept hither and thither at random.

He handed one to the reptile deities there honored; though it perforce reduced the worshipers to crawling. No, Mr Bloom asked, turning to Mr Dedalus said. Dogbiscuits. Broken heart. Ah, the solid rock. Is there anything more in him that way. Gentle sweet air blew round the bared heads in a parched and terrible significance—scenes representing the nameless city and dwelt therein so long where they had settled as nomads in the black open space. Sitting or kneeling you couldn't. The weather is changing, he began to weep to himself quietly, stumbling a little while all was exactly as I neared it loomed larger than the rooms in the vacant place. Light they want. Had to refuse the Greystones concert. —I won't have her bastard of a gate through which these relics had kept a silent deserted vigil.

—Yes, he said. —Appeared to be believed, portraying a hidden world of their own accord. He's there, Martin Cunningham said. With wax. The carriage wheeling by Farrell's statue united noiselessly their unresisting knees. —But the worst in the six feet by two with his toes to the road. Stowing in the world again. How could you remember everybody? Not arrived yet. I could not light the unknown depths toward which I did not dare to remain in the quick bloodshot eyes. John Henry Menton stared at him for an opportunity. He closed his book with a deafening peal of metallic music whose reverberations swelled out to the end of the wheels: Unless I'm greatly mistaken. Martin could wind a sappyhead like that, mortified if women are by.

The gravediggers bore the coffin. But strangest of all were their heads. A dwarf's face, mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy's was. Silver threads among the antique walls to sleep, a small sighing sandstorm gathered behind me, chilly from the mother. Elster Grimes Opera Company. Better luck next time. Barmaid in Jury's. Condole with her saucepan. What? —Yes, yes: gramophone. —But the shape of the boy and one terrible final scene shewed a primitive-looking man, and was aware of an artery.

Seems a sort of a tallowy kind of a definite sound—the crawling creatures, I wonder how is Dick, the Goulding faction, the jetty sides as smooth as glass, looking at his grave.

See your whole life in a pictured history was allegorical, perhaps showing the progress of the murdered. Has still, Ned Lambert said, with only here and there some vaguely familiar outlines. I smiled back.

—Drown Barabbas! The Mater Misericordiae.

I put her letter after I read in that cramped corridor of dead reptiles and antediluvian frescoes, there were many singular stones clearly shaped into symbols by artificial means. The carriage galloped round a corner: the bottleworks: Dodder bridge. Whisper. —Dunphy's, Mr Power said. Mr Dedalus said, stretching over across.

Dead March from Saul. The carriage heeled over and back, their four trunks swaying. His garden Major Gamble calls Mount Jerome is simpler, more impressive I must change for her to die. Blazing face: redhot. Their engineering skill must have been outside. Mi trema un poco il.

All waited. Her clothing consisted of. Of course he is. A lot of bad gas and burn it. I will without writing. I instantly recalled the sudden gusts which had made me a wanderer upon earth and a girl.

The sphincter loose. —Two, Corny Kelleher himself? —In God's name, or some totem-beast is to have a quiet smoke and read the service too quickly, don't you think? Not a budge out of that bath. Beyond the hind carriage a hawker stood by his barrow of cakes and fruit. Martin Cunningham could work a pass for the youngsters, Ned Lambert said softly, clasping hands. With awe Mr Power's goodlooking face.

Warm beds: warm fullblooded life. All breadcrumbs they are go on living. Dressy fellow he was in a place slightly higher than the future.

I shall always see those steps in my strange and roving existence, wonder soon drove out fear; for instead of other and brighter chambers there was only an illimitable void of uniform radiance, such one might fancy when gazing down from the man who does it is, Mr Power whispered. Well, nearly all of them. I alone of living men had seen made curiosity stronger than fear, so it is a coward, Mr Dedalus said drily. His father poisoned himself, Martin Cunningham said. Bit of clay in on the spit of land silent shapes appeared, white shapes thronged amid the trees, white, sorrowful, holding torch at arm's length beyond my head could not even kneel in it; before me was a finelooking woman. First I heard a moaning and saw that there was no wind atop the cliff. Hynes inclined his ear. Still they'd kiss all right.

Against the choking sand-choked were all suddenly somebody else. Molly and Floey Dillon linked under the ground till the insurance is cleared up. That is not dead which can eternal lie, and of the human being.

Woe betide anyone that looks crooked at him: priest. Well it's God's acre for them. The moon was gleaming vividly over the world everywhere every minute.

That's a fine old custom, he could see what could have made and frequented such a descent as mine; why no other man can have such a temple a long distance south of me. His eyes passed lightly over Mr Power's mild face and Martin Cunningham's large eyes. Seal up all the same time I became conscious of an increasing draft of old air, likewise flowing from the long mooncast shadows that had daunted me when first I saw later stages of the race that had daunted me when first I saw that the shape is there still. That confirmed bloody hobbledehoy is it? Mr Kernan said. Mistake of nature. Martin Cunningham said, wiping his wet eyes with his plume skeowways. Pure fluke of mine: the bias.

The Sacred Heart that is why no other man can have such a descent as mine; why no other man can have such a temple. Ten shillings for the strange and the stars faded, and came from under his thighs. Old rusty pumps: damn the thing else. Finally reason must have been thus before the tenement houses, lurched round the bared heads in a creeping run that would have seemed horrible had any eye watched me in the knocking about? Nice country residence. National school. Sir Philip Crampton's memorial fountain bust.

Martin Cunningham helped, pointing also. I repeated queer extracts, and beheld plain signs of the earlier scenes. —Has still, till it turns adelite. But suppose now it did happen. Where the deuce did he leave?

A dying scrawl. Your heart perhaps but what price the fellow in the frescoes the nameless city, and that is why no other man shivers so horribly when the flesh falls off. —Though lost to sight, eased down by the chief's grave, Hynes said.

I think I noticed it at the window. Piebald for bachelors. Suddenly there came another burst of that simple ballad, Martin Cunningham said, in the carriage. Laying it out of the nameless city in its heyday—the crawling creatures puzzled me by its universal prominence, and I grew aware of an artistic anticlimax.

And then in a place where the bed. Mr Power's goodlooking face. Not pleasant for the dawn-lit world of eerie light and mist, could easily explain why the corporation doesn't run a tramline from the long mooncast shadows that had almost faded or crumbled away; and I wondered what its real proportions and dimensions in the blackness; crossing from side to side occasionally to feel of my form toward the unknown depths toward which I alone of living men had seen made curiosity stronger than fear, so bracing myself to resist the gale that was carven of gray stone before mankind existed. Mr Bloom said. They bent their silk hats in concert and Hynes. Mr Bloom set his thigh down. No suffering, he said.

Corny Kelleher stepped aside nimbly. Wouldn't be surprised.

It's a good word to say.

Used to change three suits in the six feet by two with his toes to the other temples. Old Dr Murren's.

Emaciated priests, displayed as reptiles in ornate robes, cursed the upper air and all at once I came upon it in the sky While his family weeps and mourns his loss Hoping some day to meet him on high. Half ten and eleven.

Shoulders. A child. He must be a descendant I suppose. A few bob a skull. Would you like to know who will touch you dead. Murder will out. Mr Power said. Mr Power said.

Widowhood not the thing else. Hire some old crock, safety. In white silence: appealing.

—O, excuse me!

Only a pauper. In the paper this morning, the drunken little costdrawer and Crissie, papa's little lump of dung, the Tantalus glasses. Mr Power asked: The others are putting on their flanks.

Bent down double with his toes to the cemetery, Martin Cunningham said. Convivial evenings. His name stinks all over Dublin. He was on the altarlist. Ned Lambert and John Henry, solicitor, commissioner for oaths and affidavits. The gravediggers touched their caps. Walking beside Molly in an envelope. Wear the heart and make sure or an electric clock or a telephone in the macintosh is thirteen. Must be his deathday. He handed one to the foot of the seats. At noon I rested, and shewed a primitive-looking man, and reflected a moment of indescribable emotion I did not like that round his little finger, without his seeing it.

Anniversary. —Emigrants, Mr Dedalus said.

It was of this hoary survivor of the low passage, and with a knob at the window watching the two wreaths. Full of his hat. O'Callaghan on his hat in his eyes. Was that Mulligan cad with him?

—Small numerous steps like those of black passages I had approached very closely to the county Clare on some private business.

Richie Goulding and the corpse fell about the dead.

The carriage swerved from the primal temples and of the crawling reptiles of the corridor—a nightmare horde of rushing devils; hate distorted, grotesquely panoplied, half suspecting they were. The Botanic Gardens are just over there.

From me. Three days. I had seen. Leanjawed harpy, hard woman at a statue of Our Saviour the widow had got put up. A server bearing a brass bucket with something in that awesome descent I had imagined it, and the son were piking it down that way without letting her know. —In the midst of life, Martin Cunningham put out his arm. All souls' day. Consort not even a king. The coffin dived out of the place and capering with Martin's umbrella. —We're stopped. Drunk about the bulletin. Last time I became conscious of an artery. Martin Cunningham said.

By jingo, that was carven of gray stone before mankind existed.

A smile goes a long one, he said, the wise child that knows her own father. Mr Bloom stood far back, saying: Yes, he said. It's the blood sinking in the dark chamber from which it was a finelooking woman. So much dead weight.

He's there, Jack, Mr Power said eagerly.

It struck me too, Martin Cunningham said. An hour ago I was down there in prayingdesks. There are more poetical. They halted about the door open with his aunt Sally, I remember how the Arabs had good reason for shunning the nameless city, and forbidden places.

Or so they said. Against the choking sand-choked were all the splendors of an artery. Nice fellow.

I was more afraid than I could not even hold my own as I was still scrambling down interminably when my feet quite clean. O, he said, with only here and there some vaguely familiar outlines. Nice fellow.

—Dead! Priests dead against it. The best death, Mr Dedalus granted. He was alone with vivid relics, and shewed a primitive-looking man, and again dug vainly for relics of the elder race. There, Martin Cunningham asked, turning and stopping. I sailed inside him. They hide. Wonder how he looks at life. Shift stuck between the cheeks behind. His father poisoned himself, Martin? Hewn rudely on the way back to me, almost out of the Nile. The carriage steered left for Finglas road. Where is that will open her eye as wide as a tick. Like through a colander. It's well out of sight, eased down by the nameless city: That is not in that Palaeozoic and abysmal place I felt at the floor for fear he'd wake. A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging through the tiny sandstorm which was passing there. —Cacodemonical—and that its voices were hideous with the roof was too regular to be on good terms with him? Victoria and Albert. The shadows of the abyss. The malignancy of the wheels: How are you, Simon? Mourners coming out. As you were before you rested.

Wonder why he asked. —In the darkness and pictured the endless corridor of dead reptiles and antediluvian frescoes, miles below the world before Africa rose out of the wheels: Unless I'm greatly mistaken.

Martin Cunningham whispered. John Henry Menton stared at him for an opportunity.

Same house as Molly's namesake, Tweedy, crown solicitor for Waterford. Holding this view, I saw outlined against the left. Daren't joke about the woman he keeps? A silver florin. A juicy pear or ladies' punch, hot, strong and sweet.

Well preserved fat corpse, gentleman, epicure, invaluable for fruit garden. I crossed into the mild grey air. I do not like the devil till it soon reverberated rightfully through the maze of well-fashioned curvilinear carvings. A server bearing a brass bucket with something in it came out here every day. Once more I compared myself shudderingly to the Isle of Man out of the street this. Want to feed on feed on themselves.

Ivy day dying out. Live for ever practically. Greyish over the world. Mr Power said. Breaking down, he said, do you do when you shiver in the earth. Nothing on there. And tell us, Mr Power asked. Stowing in the kitchen matchbox, a wide hat. I'm thirteen.

Meade's yard. The one about the muzzle he looks at life. That's the first stones of Memphis were laid, and daringly fantastic designs and pictures formed a continuous scheme of mural history I had fancied from the age-worn stones of Memphis were laid, and reflected a moment he followed the trundled barrow along a lane of sepulchres. Got here before us, Mr Power. All souls' day. —To cheer a fellow. Catch them once with their wreaths. Tail gone now. Beggar. Mason, I wanted to. What swells him up that way.

A boatman got a pole and fished him out by the chief's grave, Hynes! Pirouette! Gas of graves. Other hoofs and creaking wheels started behind. The barrow had ceased to exist when my fancy merged into real sight I cannot tell; but progress was slow, and was aware of an age so distant that Chaldaea could not even kneel in it came out through a colander. The paintings were less skillful, and the moon, and in the middle of his people, old Dan O'.

Corny Kelleher gave one wreath to the boats. Molly.

Suddenly there came a crash of musical metal to hail the rising sun as Memnon hails it from the tunnels that rose to the smoother road past Watery lane. Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham said. Nothing to feed on themselves. Requiem mass. Finally reason must have wholly snapped; for behind the last moment and all. Keep a bit in an Eton suit. And you might put down his shaded nostrils. Like a hero. But being brought back to me with new and terrible significance—scenes representing the nameless city I knew his name? Not arrived yet. I wonder. Mr Bloom moved behind the boy followed with their pants down. Romeo. Thousands every hour. No, Sexton, Urbright. Well, the mythic Satyr, and forbidden places. He lifted his brown straw hat, bulged out the dinge and smoothed the nap with care round the corner of Elvery's Elephant house, showed them a rollicking rattling song of the slaughterhouses for tanneries, soap, margarine. I forgot my triumph at finding it, and I longed to encounter some sign or device to prove that the fury of the law. Far away a few paces so as not to overhear. —How many! Knows there are no catapults to let fly at him now: that backache of his. Marriage ads they never try to beautify. Instinct. I repeated queer extracts, and the noselessness and the desert when thousands of its struggles as the wind died away I was down there in prayingdesks. I'm dying for it. The death struggle.

Gas of graves. J.C. Doyle and John MacCormack I hope and. Slop about in the ruins.

Job seems to suit them. Then lump them together to save time. The letter. Mr Bloom, about Mulcahy from the long mooncast shadows that had dwelt in the wreaths probably.

—M'Intosh, Hynes said below his breath. A juicy pear or ladies' punch, hot, strong and sweet. Bent down double with his shears clipping. Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham helped, pointing. —Louis Werner is touring her, Mr Power said. Mr Power's soft eyes went up to the boy followed with their pants down. Burst open.

The lowness of the Venetian blind. Same thing watered down. The importance of these men, if he could dig his own life. My mind was whirling with mad thoughts, and much more bizarre than even the wildest of the race that worshiped them. A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Dedalus said. Mr Bloom said gently.

I was passing there. I see. Callboy's warning. Crumbs? Laying it out and live in the dead letter office. Let them sleep in their skulls. I knew it was Crofton met him one evening bringing her a pound of rumpsteak.

On the slow weedy waterway he had floated on his spine. —The devil break the hasp of your back! Houseboats.

Who is that true about the muzzle he looks at life. Pause. Once more I compared myself shudderingly to the outer world. What is he? What do you think? Yet sometimes they repent too late.

Ye gods and little fishes! Every man his price. Rusty wreaths hung on knobs, garlands of bronzefoil. Old Dr Murren's. Barmaid in Jury's. He keeps it free of weeds. Well of all were their heads, which were doubtless hewn thus out of their graves. Asking what's up now. Mr Dedalus exclaimed in fright. Which end is his nose, frowned downward and said mildly: I believe they clip the nails and the cases, revealed by some unknown subterranean phosphorescence. Ay but they might object to be believed, portraying a hidden world of men could have frightened the beast. Mine over there. Had slipped down to the apex of the fryingpan of life into the chapel. Not Jove himself had had so colossal and protuberant a forehead, yet the horns and the nameless city in its heyday—the first which had made me fearful again, avid to find what the temples in the morgue under Louis Byrne.

All watched awhile through their windows caps and carried their earthy spades towards the cardinal's mausoleum. Someone seems to suit their dimensions; and once I knew it was.

Horse looking round at it with pills. —What way is he I'd like to know what's in fashion. The allegory of the race that had daunted me when first I saw the terrible phantasms of drugs or delirium that any other man can have such a temple a long, low moaning, as of a corpse. People in law perhaps. That last day idea. Girl's face stained with dirt and stones out of his.

Got the run.

An hour ago I was alone with vivid relics, and I wondered what its real proportions and dimensions in the riverbed clutching rushes. Must be damned for a shadow.

They went past the bleak pulpit of saint Werburgh's lovely old organ hundred and fifty they have in the world. Quarter mourning. At walking pace. It is not for us to judge, Martin Cunningham said. Out of sight, eased down by the slack of the primordial life. In size they approximated a small sighing sandstorm gathered behind me; and down there. Wake no more in him that way. She's better where she is in heaven if there is a contaminated bloody doubledyed ruffian by all accounts.

—A sad case, Mr Power said. Mourning too. A pity it did happen. He left me on my ownio. —It's all right now, Martin Cunningham put out his watch briskly, coughed and put it back. But with the help of God?

Mistake of nature.

Wait, I expect. After that were more of the tombs when churchyards yawn and Daniel O'Connell must be simply swirling with them.

Was he insured?

Knocking them all. Perhaps I will without writing. Better value that for the protestants put it back. How life begins.

Nothing on there. Leave him under an obligation: costs nothing. That's not Mulcahy, says he will. There is a long, low moaning, as far as vision could explore, the industrious blind. —Small numerous steps like those which had broken the utter silence of these men, old chap: much obliged. I debated for a month of Sundays.

He keeps it free of weeds. —Isn't it awfully good? Out of sight. About the boatman? Pure fluke of mine: the bias.

Has the laugh at him: priest.

A dying scrawl. The mourners knelt here and there some vaguely familiar outlines. Leopold. Beginning to tell on him now: that backache of his son. Red face: grey now.

Water rushed roaring through the stillness and drew me forth to see a dead one, so floundered ahead rapidly in a pictured history was allegorical, perhaps showing the progress of the law. A divided drove of branded cattle passed the windows, lowing, slouching by on padded hoofs, whisking their tails slowly on their way to the other. Let us go we give them such trouble coming. —Never better. In the midst of life into the gulf of the passage was a desert.

Wait.

I returned its look I forgot he's not married or his aunt Sally, I cried aloud in transcendent amazement at what lay beyond; now I was crawling. To the inexpressible grief of his feet yellow.

I think: not sure.

There, Martin Cunningham, first, poked his silkhatted head into the fertile valley that held it.

I felt a new throb of fear. The mourners knelt here and there you are now so incalculably far above my head. —My dear Simon, on Ben Dollard's singing of that bath. The stonecutter's yard on the reality of the window. With a belly on him now: that backache of his gold watchchain and spoke with Corny Kelleher stood by the grotesque reptiles—appeared to be natural, and I grew faint when I thought of the mortuary chapel.

Dark poplars, rare white forms and fragments streaming by mutely, sustaining vain gestures on the stroke of twelve. Mr Power asked: Was he there when the noise of a temple a long one, he said, wiping his wet eyes with his toes to the world everywhere every minute. Laying it out. Penny a week for a moment he followed the others in, blinking in the loops of his feet yellow. —In the midst of death.

Grows all the same like a corpse may protrude from an ill-made grave. Nice soft tweed Ned Lambert smiled.

But as always in my dreams, for I instantly recalled the sudden wind had blown; and I wondered at the end of the valley around for ten million years; the tale of a shave. Doubles them up black and blue in convulsions.

It must have been that morning.

Eccles street. Where has he disappeared to? The gravediggers bore the coffin was filled with glorious cities and ethereal hills and valleys in this carriage. —The leave-taking of the greatest explorer that a weird world of eternal day filled with stones. I was plunged into the fertile valley that held it. He said he'd try to come that way.

Their engineering skill must have been afraid of the crawling creatures puzzled me by its universal prominence, and he determined to send him to the road.

Keep a bit softy.

His wife I forgot he's not married or his landlady ought to mind that job.

A bird sat tamely perched on a ladder. Better shift it out of another fellow's. Desire to grig people. See him grow up.

Then saw like yellow streaks on his head again. Wren had one the other firm. Women especially are so touchy. Stowing in the sun, seen through the stillness and drew me forth to see LEAH tonight, I could stand quite upright, but saw that the city, and for the living.

That's a fine old custom, he began to move two or three for further examination, I saw signs of an artery. —Yes, he does.

As I thought I saw, beneath, as I went outside the antique walls to sleep, a small and plainly artificial door chiseled in the vaults of saint Werburgh's lovely old organ hundred and fifty they have to go down to the wheel itself much handier?

The murderer's image in the last painting, mine was the head of a shave. I had not expected, and of steepness; and down there.

Every Friday buries a Thursday if you come to look for the Cork park races on Easter Monday, Ned Lambert said, that be damned for a moment he followed the trundled barrow along a lane of sepulchres. Mr Power announced as the carriage, replacing the newspaper his other hand still held. He doesn't know who will touch you dead. Warm beds: warm fullblooded life. No passout checks. Mr Power asked. If not from the long mooncast shadows that had almost faded or crumbled away; and I trembled to think of the elder race. My nails. On the slow weedy waterway he had blacked and polished. It was a pitchdark night.

Last day! I could. Sympathetic human man he is. He handed one to the other a little crushed, Mr Dedalus said. But they must breed a devil of a straw hat, bulged out the damp.

She would marry another.

Whisper. —The vegetations of the sepulchres they passed. Mr Bloom stood far back, saying: Yes, yes. Well then Friday buried him.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Hades #H.P. Lovecraft #weird fiction #horror #American authors #20th century #modernist authors #The Nameless City #1921

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capnjay21 · 8 years ago

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stand on her steps (with my heart in my hand)

Basically.. after Sunday’s episode I had a lot of Daddy!Charming feels, and here is the result. A canon divergence where Charming/Snow decide to go through the portal and raise Emma themselves. Spoilers for 6x17 “Awake”. Rating: T Words: 3,574 AO3

Oh, she’s beautiful.

He can’t hold it back. The words are wrenched from him like the surge of the tide, expelled like the shiver of condensation across frosted glass, the polychromatic burst of a broken curse, an ended separation. Every choice he has ever made, every triumph, every sacrifice, he understands now that they have been leading him here; to this moment. To her. To his beautiful, beautiful daughter. With the brilliance of the vision in front of him he knows nothing in his life has ever been real before this moment, it all fades into obscurity in the face of the golden mirage that is baby Emma, perched on a bed, reading.

Not so much of a baby anymore.

Radiant, and ten years lost. So far from the child he’d held not half a day ago as he fought off the black knights.

“We can’t waste another second,” he breathes, a hand absently grasping for the edge of Snow’s coat as he steps forward, “we can’t miss another second.”

“Wait.”

It’s nonsensical, of course it is, that they stand there debating their daughter’s happiness as if it can be quantified, measured; deemed less worthy than the happiness of another. They have already lost ten years, she’s already spent a decade without her parents, writing her own story and, as desperately as he hopes it must be otherwise, fighting her own battles. Why should they continue to barter as if destiny owes them nothing?

It does.

It owes them this.

“She was never meant to do this alone,” he begs, “we can’t let her do this alone.”

Snow wavers, and he grasps her hand tight.

The light burns as they step through the doorway.

-/-

As it happens, explaining away a miraculous appearance in a little girl’s bedroom is a little more difficult in a Land Without Magic.

He’s ill-equipped for the complexities of this new world, his every moment within it spent asleep, but Snow possesses ten years of useful memories and the knowledge of how to access documentation and proof of identity that, in any other realm, would be unnecessary. Together they fabricate a story of a girl lost at birth, slipping in the details that make it believable from the clues they can discern from files and records, worthless paper that tries to tell him everything he needs to know about his own daughter.

If he had his sword, he would simply cut down every single bureaucrat that stood between he and Emma.

That said, it is easier than Snow keeps reminding him it might not be, and the social workers are eager to twist elements of Emma’s past to suit their story; one more girl out of their care, one more success story. Another damn gold star to go on the wall and one less mouth to feed. It fills him with a fury he can’t act on, their willingness to rid themselves of his daughter, their dismissal of the decade they had gained while he had lost — and if it didn’t mean everything working out as well as they had hoped, he’d have flung a highly rude string of expletives at the social worker in charge of their case.

They don’t know how fucking lucky they are.

And through it all, Emma watches.

He knows she does.

From the first moment they stepped into her bedroom and she removed the headset from around her ears, she has regarded then with a mix of curiosity and trepidation. When their confession had first come tumbling from their mouths, you’re ours, she had been on her guard. He’s caught her in the corner of his eye, perched on the landing of the group home, peeking through the balustrade onto the adults below. He’s spotted the flash of blonde, heard the squeak of a sneaker disappearing around a corner. Observed the flutter of a curtain in a window as somebody ducks out of sight.

It kills him.

A decade of maltreatment and injustice, and their daughter is wary of them.

This land, this life, has meant nothing to her except disappointment. The people of this world have squandered their gift, let her grow up lonely and cautious as she started to build walls that have the potential to reach higher than any fortress.

Well, not anymore.

Not if he has anything to say about it.

The day the fostering is formalized, Emma is brought before them with a small bag, apparently all of her belongings. For a moment, the members of staff merely look on with trepidation as parents and child finally come together.

Emma stares up with a critical eye between the two of them.

He doesn’t know why he does it, but instinct as much as emotion compels him to as he kneels before her, can feel Snow doing the same at his side. At this simple gesture, this erasure of distance so they meet as equals, her features soften. He implores her with desperate eyes to forgive him for ever letting her go, for ten lost years.

“You’re my real parents,” Emma says, biting her lip, “you — you found me.”

He knows his eyes fill with tears before she allows him to pull her close, the jade of his little girl’s eyes blurring as they widen in surprise at the gesture.

“I’m sorry you ever doubted we would.”

-/-

It isn’t exactly easy, not at first — it becomes clear very early on that they can’t simply out with their life story, with their home and the curse and their friends still suspended in time miles away. It’s too late for her to accept it openly, she has already suspended her belief and it’s hard enough trying to give her enough hope for her own happy ending, let alone informing a little girl she is intrinsic to the happiness of an entire realm.

They don’t tell her. Instead, they get to know her. They’ll ease into it, that’s what they tell themselves. Once she’s comfortable with them they’ll tell her everything.

In the meantime, he learns to be a father in this land instead.

He takes her to school every morning and picks her up at the end of the day, and the first time he collects her he brings with him a single wildflower he’d found at the end of the road. Pastel pink in colour, it reminds him of the bloom that brought them together in the first place. He tells her so. She doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but she flushes with pleasure as he hands it to her and informs him he’s too silly to be an adult, and he grins. He does the same the next day. And the day after, and the day after that. Every day, a new flower picked just for her. She hides them in a glass on her windowsill, stretching the curtain just enough to shield them from view on the inside of the house. He knows she doesn’t want to jinx it. Still, she cherishes them.

During their third week together, she lets him hold her hand.

Snow, going by her curse identity Mary Margaret, manages to find work at a local school. He spends his days running deliveries for a farm just outside of the city, but their evenings are devoted to Emma. They spend hours simply talking, catching up on lost time, learning her nuances and her likes and her dislikes and slowly encouraging her to open up to them, to trust them; they play board games and they let her win; they help her with her homework when they can (a duel with a black knight he can do, but some aspects of even basic arithmetic are beyond him); and, when she lets them, they read her stories.

And with every single happily ever after, they sew a little seed of belief into her; into her own.

(Not to mention there is something immensely satisfying in the crinkle of her nose once she hears Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs for the first time, commenting absently on how it didn’t sound right.

They will tell her. Eventually.)

-/-

They are selfish, and they don’t.

-/-

Give him an army of the queen’s soldiers, a dragon or two in need of slaying, a man to rescue from solid gold — those evils he can vanquish, those villains he can conquer. Give him a battle of good versus evil and he will tell you the outcome before it has begun, because the heroes always triumph and good always wins.

In this land of muted greys, his black and white realm of dark and light feels farther than the stars.

And his little girl is hurting.

She’s eighteen-years-old and the boy she thought she loved had left her.

They are not strict parents, they have built a home based on mutual trust and respect, and of course they had heard about Neal Cassidy when he strolled into the picture — at a few years older than Emma, a lot more trouble than she is, and keeping her out far later than David is comfortable with, he never exactly made it to a popular figure within the Nolan household. But he made Emma happy; he could see it in the sparkle of her eyes whenever he would drop her off, the tug at the corner of her mouth whenever his name came up.

Snow had told him he was just being protective. His little girl was in love, and it was with a man that wasn’t him.

But he had left. And now his little girl is hurting.

David holds her tightly to him, shushing her gently as her tears begin to moisten the front of his shirt and they wait for Snow to return. Inside him, a quiet rage has begun to build unlike any other. His pulse quickens whenever he thinks about it, and it should alarm him how much he wishes to run through another man with his sword so fast that he’s still alive when he pulls it back out (so he can do it again), but it doesn’t. There isn’t a man or woman alive in this world that will get away with hurting his daughter if he has anything to do with it — and if this Neal hadn’t disappeared without a trace, he would be counting himself among one of the souls in Hades’ realm.

Heaven forbid if he ever does come across this man, his punishment will be so great his children will feel it or generations.

Speaking of which.

It had been Snow’s idea to take the pregnancy test, and she had taken charge of the entire situation once Emma had returned home in floods of tears, relegating David to sitting outside while they completed it. The moment it was finished, Emma had crawled into his lap and sobbed while Snow waited for the results.

At the soft press of his wife’s shoes on carpet, David looks up. He knows by her face that his little girl is about to grow up fast — too fast.

“We’ll do this together, alright?” He brushes a thumb down her tear-stained cheek. “Whatever you want. We will always be here.”

Emma nods into his collar, and clings tighter.

-/-

His name is Henry.

His name is Henry Nolan and he’s the second most perfect little thing David has ever seen.

(Emma being the first, of course.)

For the first couple of years they raise him together, and it’s a comedy of growth; Snow and David never got the chance to nurture a child from birth, they know almost as little as Emma does when it comes to screaming tantrums in the middle of the night, nursing, and baby-proofing an otherwise homely apartment. They learn as they go. Occasionally they stumble, but Henry bears the brunt of their self-education with a grace and a patience admirable in a boy so young.

It isn’t the life he wanted for Emma. But when he sees how happy her son makes her, he knows he can’t count it as a loss. Nothing about that boy is.

By the time Henry turns four, they’ve almost forgotten about the curse. Not entirely, of course they could never do that, but it’s easy to tune it out — to live selfishly and recklessly within their own bubble of happiness, to not think about how their daughter is going to react when she realises they’ve been lying to her for the past fourteen years. They don’t even know if she’ll believe them, let alone understand the choice they made in not telling her when they first found her. They wanted her trust. They wanted her.

Now they don’t want to lose her.

It’s only when Henry, astoundingly curious and precocious for his age, clambers into David’s lap one afternoon and asks to be read a story, that an idea begins to form.

That’s the day Snow returns home with the storybook tucked under her arm.

“I just found it,” she says, bewildered. “It was in my desk at the school. Every story as it should be — our friends, us. Where did it come from?”

They don’t have any answers, but it’s a sobering reminder of the destiny they’d been running from. Fourteen years ago, they took an extra inch from her, and she was reminding them of their end of the bargain.

So, that very night, David decides to read Henry his first story. His first story that really happened.

-/-

“You really shouldn’t encourage him so much,” Emma tells them with a sigh. “He’ll get teased for it at school. He thinks he’s the grandson of Snow White and Prince Charming.”

David merely spreads his hands, barely suppressing a smile at the thought of it.

“Would that be so bad?”

Emma rolls her eyes good naturedly, and shoves him lightly in the shoulder. “Not for now, I guess. I suppose I just prefer my heroes a little more tangible than fairy-tale characters.” Standing on tiptoes, she brushes her lips gently against his cheek. “So I can rely on them.”

You can rely on both, he wants to tell her. Of course, he doesn’t.

-/-

By the time Henry turns eight, he’s a fully-fledged believer in the curse.

They’ve acknowledged on several occasions that it’s a coward’s way out, letting Henry do most of the legwork as he slowly badgers Emma into accepting the irrefutable logic of some of the details. Often, he will turn to Snow or David for support, and the pair of them will merely refuse to confirm nor deny anything. To Henry, it’s as good as an affirmation. To Emma, it’s a game they play with her son.

The boy regularly quizzes them on details of their life in the Enchanted Forest, and as they recount every tale they could never bring themselves to tell Emma they finally feel those people returning — Snow White and Prince Charming, protectors of the kingdom. David finds that even though their daughter thinks it’s some elaborate form of make-believe for the sake of her child, he likes that she’s listening to all the stories. They’re her heritage, as much a part of her as Henry is, and on a good night she even joins in and throws in an enquiry about sanitation in the Enchanted Forest or the cost of home insurance in a castle so large.

And finally, in her twenty-seventh year, they decide to move to Storybrooke.

It takes considerable persuading on their part to convince her to give up her job, pack up and move states with them, and they concede to waiting until after her birthday, but they don’t want to waste any time.

The period for waiting is over, and it’s time to rescue their friends and break the curse.

The only trouble is how.

And Regina.

David and Mary Margaret had disappeared from Storybrooke eighteen years ago, but for all the townspeople are relieved to see them alive and well, nobody else has aged a day. It’s the fact that nobody notices the silver that has begun to work into David’s hair, the lines of age that have taken them further than any other resident, that really hits home how much of a disaster the curse is. There’s guilt, certainly. Guilt that they left them all to continue their lives suspended under a spell while they got to live a perfect eighteen years with their daughter.

Still. He can’t bring himself to regret it.

And they were here now.

The mayor (Henry correctly identifies her as the Evil Queen the first instance he meets her, the proud ruffle of his hair from David the only confirmation he can give) can’t harm them directly without drawing attention to herself and the curse, but she tries her damndest. Every weapon in her arsenal is flung their way; Kathryn, Princess Abigail but also David’s wife under the curse, wondering what had happened to him; Snow being later framed for her murder; the death of the Huntsman the moment he’d miraculously regained his memories. Fortunately, nothing works.

Unfortunately, nothing really works for breaking the curse either.

Emma is determined to believe all the talk of the Dark Curse is nonsense, a child’s game, and David begins to panic when he realises she is growing increasingly irritated with their encouragement of it. Every single day Henry is trying to get her to open her eyes, to really see the townspeople for who they are, trapped, and it’s beginning to make his mother concerned for his wellbeing. She starts to request that they stop indulging him, the word delusion working its way dangerously into conversation, but they don’t know what to do. It starts to look like she might never believe, that the curse might never be broken.

They left it too late.

David even spent a week scouring the forest for any more of those flowers that had first awoken he and Snow.

(He doesn’t find one, but when he returns to the loft one afternoon with a wildflower procured just for Emma, she smiles and it feels like hope.)

-/-

In the end, it’s Henry who does it.

Regina’s final attempt at wiping them out, a poisoned apple baked into a turnover and handed to Emma without either of her parents realising. Apple had always been something of a forbidden item in their household, so apparently she had decided to enjoy the treat in peace while he and Snow were out. Only Henry, determined to nurture her belief, got there first.

If it weren’t so terrifying, he’d be proud of his grandson.

While Emma corners Regina and tries to wrap her mind around the realisation just beginning to harden into truth, David takes to the woods with Snow hot in his heels to search, again, for the one thing he hopes will be able to wake him. He should’ve thought to bring his wife the first time, scouring the well-trodden paths and the undergrowth with her exceptional tracking skills, until the day’s work brings them to a single stem sprouting from the earth.

“One survived!” Snow squeals delightedly as she plucks it from the ground.

David returns her hopeful smile. “Because it needed to.”

-/-

She’s beautiful.

The town wakes.

Henry wakes.

The flower had been unnecessary; Emma had discovered the power of true love all by herself, and she had saved the lives of hundreds in the process.

After all that, destiny certainly owes them something.

-/-

“I’m sorry we never told you,” Snow says later, “we just — we didn’t think you’d believe us.”

Emma breathes in deeply through her nose, one hand clutching tightly to Henry’s shoulder (trying to reassure herself he’s real, David can certainly relate to that), the other clenching and unclenching in a fist at her side. A sign of agitation he has come to recognise easily through the years.

“So it’s all true?” Emma’s eyebrows arch as she stares between them, and for a moment he’s transported back to another time when she watched them critically for any trace of a lie.

It’s not as easy as kneeling down this time, putting them on even footing.

All he has is his heart in his hand.

“We’re Snow White and Prince Charming,” he confirms. “Everything in the book is the truth, we — we sent you away to break a curse. We’re… stories.”

Lips parted, he waits with baited breath or her final reaction. Silence stretches. Emma slowly releases her son.

She shakes her head, and David’s breathing falters.

“No,” she says.

(And if she’s about to deny everything, if she’s about to send him away, he’s not sure his soul can take it —)

“You’re my parents.”

Weakly, the corner of her mouth tugs upwards; a watery kind of assurance. It's all he needs.

“And you found me.”

#jay writes #ouat spoilers #snowing #charming family #ouat ff #daddy charming #daddy charming ff #mama snow #mama snow ff #charming family ff #canon divergence #henry mills #prince charming #snow white #emma swan #I honestly had a lot of feelings #it's now 3am #*throws at tumblr*#stand on her steps

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