#it’s not a climb to the top it’s a tree with many branches whose length only indicates the time during which a set of traits was common

[badolmen]

If you think an animal is ‘stupid looking’ or ‘useless’ I’m biting you.

[scintillasofbeomgyu]

-ˏˋ⋆ ̥ 𝗳𝗼𝘅'𝘀 𝗵𝗶𝗿𝗮𝗲𝘁𝗵 – part one: the beginning (cyj)

pairing: choi yeonjun x fem!reader x kang taehyun

genre(s): fantasy, period!fic, nine-tailed fox!yeonjun, crown prince!taehyun, angst, fluff here and there

word count: 4,1k

the spirit who had been guarding the south side of the mountain, a nine-tailed fox, is requested by the crown prince of Joseon to make an appearance before his betrothed. though reluctant at first, he agrees on condition that their meeting is fleeting and under the guise of a mask.

an: this was inspired by the kdrama ‘tale of the nine-tailed’, hence the similar elements. events may or may not be historically accurate. ++ i’m really anxious about how this fic will be taken, but i’ve put too much effort in to let it sit in my drafts ksks. might post the part 2 if you want! let me know what you think!

(finally posting this as a gift for the immense support i’ve been receiving! thank you! ❤️ and low-key bc sumi has been thinkin about kitsune yeonjun)

Sealed by the promise of two youths many moons ago, your betrothal to the crown prince of Joseon was something which was not unbeknownst to anyone in the country. Many young ladies, noble and common alike, coveted your fortune and would make desperate pleas to the gods to have half the luck you did. And perhaps anyone else would have boasted about how fate had favoured them, but you didn’t.

“(Y/n)? Are you listening?” his highness asked, raising an eyebrow as you continued to flip through the pages of a book you had picked up from his desk. You placed the book back where you found it and turned to look from the pavilion, out across the pond and above the canopy tops to the mountains in the distance.

What had intrigued you about the palace was not the status, nor the riches, nor the people who dwelt within it. After all, you preferred to be neck-deep in books of history and literature, poetry, and volumes which questioned which was myth and which was reality. Your father, though, was as open-minded as anyone else was about the education of women at the time – not at all. So you had resorted to killing two birds with one stone; appeasing your father by agreeing to meet with the prince meant getting your hands on books you wouldn’t be able to find anywhere else.

But today, you had an entirely different motive.

“Do you believe in mythical beings, your Highness?” you asked, turning to face the prince who stared back at you, wide-eyed.

The seemingly sudden question had him taken aback.

From the very first meeting, you had puzzled Taehyun. Like you, although he knew he had to do it some day, the topic of his marriage hadn’t interested him. Or rather, it was more important to him that the person he would one day wed had the same interests as he did – the good of the people and the flourishing of the country.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t expect you to be as crazed about love and titles as the other noblewomen of Joseon were, at first. So he was pleasantly surprised when you had arrived at Gyeongbokgung, not batting an eyelash in his direction. But when he had attempted to open discussions about politics and solving the exorbitant taxes expected from the people, he’d find your nose buried in one of the books from the pile you sifted through by his desk.

Taehyun was already struggling to figure you out, and now you asked him this.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” he cocked his head to the side, folding his hands behind his back. “have you come across something thought-provoking?”

“It’s quite straightforward; a yes or no question.” you shrugged, smirking as your eyes caught the not-so-discreet glances his personal guard and the eunuch had given one another.

Ultimately, to have relations with the throne was not all sunshine and roses. For your own protection, and to ensure you were not used as leverage against the king, your father had sent you very far from home – to Southern Jeolla. And it was upon your arrival back in Hanyang, after many years away, that you had come to hear the rumours which had surrounded the royal family.

A gumiho. A nine-tailed fox. The spirit which protected the forest. A being which could not be trusted. The one to whom the country owed it’s prosperity. The one at whose hands the country could fall into havoc.

You knew better than to believe the words of storytellers and self-proclaimed chroniclers. It was the fact that they had all said the same thing which had perturbed you. It left this unsettling feeling, which just wouldn’t fade away. So you read book after book, folklores and retellings, each and every documented account of those who had insisted they had seen the man with ‘eyes which glowed like hot embers even in the light of day’. It nearly drove you insane.

That was, until just this morning, when you had overheard the court ladies chattering away in hushed tones about how so-and-so had come to see the prince again, how much so-and-so frightened them, and how they wondered for how much longer the king would leave the future of the kingdom in the hands of such a wild-card.

You turned to look out beyond the trees again, a sudden gush of wind rattling their branches and sending their leaves sailing through the air. “Let me meet him. This... friend of yours, your Highness.”

“No.”

Taehyun nodded, taking a leaf from the shrub in front of him between his fingers, “I thought you’d say that.”

Yeonjun huffed, taking a bite out of one of the freshly picked apples the prince had brought along with him on his visit (as some sort of incentive, he supposed). The scowl he had adorned etched deeper into his face as Taehyun’s proposition crossed his mind a second time. He should have left the boy to the wandering spirits all those years ago, is what he thought. The fact that Yeonjun had allowed him to follow him around and meet with him must have made him cocky.

In the beginning, he trusted them. Yeonjun had spent thousands of years cultivating the forest and protecting those which lived beneath it’s canopy. He had taken an oath to never allow any harm to come to it, and as a sort of by-product, had taken up an arrangement with the king to hand over to him any miscreants who chanced into his territory. And for hundreds of years, this agreement was honored. King after king had revered the spirit who protected the people, throwing grand festivals in his honor.

Until humans did what they always do. They became consumed by greed and corrupted by power. They feared that the existence of a powerful being, and the esteem in which the people held it, threatened the very authority of the throne.

On a night which felt like yesterday to Yeonjun, the then king had convinced him to appear before the people, reasoning that he deserved to be celebrated and loved; not lurking in the depths of a forest where he wondered alone. His yearning for family provoked, he had left, only to return to enormous crackling fires which devoured everything in their path.

Now he was being asked to entertain the likes of one of them again? An insolent, entitled woman who was probably the daughter of some power-hungry government official nonetheless? He wouldn’t allow himself to be made a fool out of again.

“I’m aware you cannot leave the forest unguarded for long periods of time, especially at night,” Taehyun said, brushing the bits of earth from his hand onto his silk garment. “which is why I want to bring her here.”

The half-eaten apple hit the forest floor with a thud.

“What did you just say?” the same incredulity written on Yeonjun’s face, embedded into his voice.

Taehyun grinned sheepishly, “Hyung, can’t you do me this one favour?”

Quickly taking a seat beside him, the crown prince of the Joseon dynasty grabbed onto the sleeve of Yeonjun’s black robe and tugged at it. Yeonjun sucked a sharp breath of air through his teeth and slapped his hands away. The memory of a scared little boy in disheveled clothes, sobbing as snot ran down onto his lips crossed Yeonjun’s mind. He bit back the grin which fought to pull at his lips.

“I thought you weren’t interested in love? Why all the effort then?”

Taehyun dropped his hands from where they had been grappling at Yeonjun’s robe and stood up, clearing his throat before folding his hands behind his back again. Yeonjun smirked. “It’s not by choice, the woman in question is frightening. Only the gods would know the lengths she would have gone to had I refused her.”

Many minutes of back and forth bickering had passed before Taehyun managed to convince Yeonjun to appear before you. This reluctant agreement came with conditions, however. Leaving the mountain for even a moment during nightfall was out of the question, but that didn’t mean that he was okay with some suspicious woman wandering into his home. So, they had settled on the foot of the mountain closest to the north side. Yeonjun had also made sure to point out that although he had agreed to let you see him, he never agreed to introductions.

“You never struck me as the type to attend parties in the evening, your Highness,” you hollered from your palanquin which lagged behind his. When no reply came, you seethed, biting back the urge to punch a hole through the expensive wooden barrier in front of you. He had suddenly appeared at your father’s estate just as the sun had dipped beyond the horizon, not bothering to give an explanation before your father had the guards stuff you into the tiny varnished vehicle. “You haven’t yet answered me, your Majesty. The question from earlier.”

You cried out in pain when the palanquin was suddenly set down, tossing you up in the air like a shuttlecock. Hand still pressing down on your head from where it had hit the roof of the palanquin, you glared at Taehyun’s outstretched hand when the door folded open. You violently slapped the hand away and pulled back your skirt, nearly kicking his shins as you climbed out. Accidentally, of course.

Your behaviour amused Taehyun, a smirk finding its way to his lips. He whispered something to Soobin, his personal guard, who had given him a distressed look in return. He sighed as Taehyun placed a hand on his shoulder, giving a quick nod before returning to the entourage. You raised an eyebrow when Taehyun offered you a smile, gesturing his hand to the left of where the road forked into two.

The evening air was brisk; the various flora emitting a plethora of unique smells which blended together as they crawled into your nose. Leaves rustled as the forest creatures scurried across the floor; the occasional flapping of wings and hoots of the wide-eyed, mice-eating predators filling the otherwise eerie silence. The pale moon, which shone like a great halo in the sky, casted it’s light through the trees, creating beautiful natural skylights and mysterious shadows. The breeze was ever-so gentle, seemingly caressing your cheeks as you followed Taehyun down the path filled with earthy soil.

“You’re going to kill me aren’t you?” He chuckled at the question you had posed. He took a firm hold of your hand as he helped you cross the stream you had encountered, squeezing it a little tighter as your shoe glided off some algae, smiling when he heard the under-the-breath cuss.

When you had both safely crossed over into the field of long grass on the other side of the bank, he caught his breath for a moment. “My men say there came a troupe from Jeonju in Northern Jeolla a few days back,” Taehyun started, motioning for you to follow behind him as he stalked through the vegetation.

You groaned. Just how much torture was he planning to put you through? Did he find out you had ‘borrowed’ some of the books from his shelf?

After another few dreadful minutes of walking, an enormous tree came into your sights. It’s trunk looked as if it could house a small population, and it’s branches spread far across the open space; a meadow. Taehyun smiled in satisfaction and wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead, before placing his hands on his hips. Was this what he wanted to show you? You were far too tired, and your feet hurt way too much to enjoy the sentiment.

“Right, as I was saying,” The prince continued. You took a seat on the soft blades of grass and began pulling the shoes off your aching feet. “Despite journeying across the country to perform in gisaeng houses, I’m told the productions of this troupe were rather enthralling – ”

The sound of your snorting earned a glare from the prince. You shook your hand, “I find myself in constant surprise this evening, your Highness,” you laughed. “Hearing the term‘gisaeng’ from your mouth would send chills down anyone’s spine.”

The distant strumming of a zither whispered in your ears and your body froze. Slowly, the field, which had been lit only by the silvery hues offered by the moon, glowed in shades of green and yellow as fireflies hovered in the air. Then the zither stopped. Your neck snapped in the direction of scuffling feet by the tree trunk. Figures dressed in black placed paper lanterns varying in size at the base of the trunk, before scaling up to the branches.

A gasp slipped from your lips when the zither had suddenly started playing again; much louder this time. Ribbons dropped from different branches around the tree, carrying men and women who spun as they unravelled. Sporting white masks in the form of a fox, they danced around the tree, twirling and swinging back, dipping low before soaring through the air with such delicacy it gave you goosebumps.

“This performance is called the Fox’s Hiraeth,” Taehyun whispered, eyes fixated on the scene before of him, “you asked the other day did you not? About gumihos in Hanyang.”

His Highness’ attempt to throw you off was painfully obvious in that moment, and it did not go unnoticed. But just before you could make the remark that you had been carefully curating for exactly this situation, the zither had come to a stop once again. Leaves rustled above you and you lifted your head into a pair of the prettiest eyes you had ever seen.

They were a shade of light brown; little flecks of green and amber peeking from in-between when light passed through them. Bewilderment swam in those sparkling orbs behind the mask, it’s wearer holding his breath, not looking away for even a moment. The feeling in your chest drew a smile onto your lips, so big, it pushed up the corners of your eyes.

“Hello.”

He pulled back suddenly, and a strong gust of wind blew right through you, making you squeeze your eyes shut. The wind seemed to blow harder and harder – Taehyun had to press his hands onto your shoulders to prevent you from being gone with it. When it had died down and you opened your eyes again, you shot up, shoving his hands away.

The lights had gone out and the fireflies were nowhere to be seen. The lanterns and the troupe too had vanished into thin air; leaving not a trace. But that was not what was distressing you.

Hands clenching fists into your satin skirt, your eyes searched desperately, “where did he go?”

“Who?” Taehyun questioned, tightening the black cloth strings of his gat. He blinked, feigning innocence so professionally, it antagonised you. “The performance is over; we should leave.”

Pulling your lips between your teeth, the agonizing feeling of having lost something important tearing at your chest, you made a decision. You were positive that Taehyun knew exactly what was going on, but you weren’t about to waste any more time trying to force an answer out of the tight-lipped prince.

Where the meadow under the peculiar tree ended, the forest started again, and spread all across the mountain. You could have been mistaken, and that man may have just been another one of the performers. But it was the forest. It felt as if it was calling out to you; screaming. Every one of your limbs ached to dash into its depths.

Taehyun cleared his throat and turned away instantaneously when he noticed you hurriedly tearing off your blouse. You tossed the garment carrying the golden emblem to the ground, and slipped your shoes back on, ignoring Taehyun’s voice which bombarded you with questions.

He grabbed onto your hand before you left and you stopped, peering down at where your bodies were joined. “It’s dangerous.” he said; his voice as firm as his grip, yet eyes pleading with you like those of a child.

Despite your fathers’ lasting friendship, you had never met Taehyun until a few days ago. And if you did, you couldn’t recall. The confounded stares he had thrown at you upon your arrival had amused you; they were not contrary to that of the other noblemen and their sons whom your father had introduced you to. You didn’t act like the prince’s woman – they had probably expected someone who they could easily manipulate and bribe to their liking – but you were very much the opposite.

It was his behaviour in the days that followed which had taken you by surprise. He’d have books stacked up all around his desk which varied in genre, and were organised by author and publication date, whenever you visited. He seldom spoke and never forced conversation with you, but he’d call for tea and sweets then leave them at a certain place on the tabletop untouched. You’d catch his eyes glancing up at you every once in a while in your peripheral vision, and a smile would find itself to your lips.

He cared for you and you had grown to care for him as well. But you knew that if you left with him right now, your insatiable curiosity would only grow and you’d just end up returning here anyway.

Placing your hands over his, eyes asking him to forgive you, you slipped out of his grasp.

“I’ll be okay.”

Yeonjun paced up and down the cliff once more. He glanced over his shoulder at the mask resting against a boulder behind him, then slapped his hands onto his face and lamented. He couldn’t figure out what had gone wrong. Everything was happening exactly as he had planned – the dokkaebi had put on their show, relishing in the fact that they were pranking humans; the trees, the breeze and the critters had agreed to set the mood for what he had intended to be your heart being won over by the Taehyun.

He peeked through the spaces in his fingers at the wooden guise, and proceeded toward it. He knelt down and picked it up, eyes fixating on the slots where they were housed previously. He was certain he had prepared for everything, but that all changed when his eyes met with yours.

They stared back at him in surprise, but that surprise slowly transitioned into a warmth which enveloped him; the light of the lanterns which reflected from them, inviting him closer. They scared him, too. Under the mask he had given himself the appearance of one of the lumberers who frequented the forest, but your eyes seemed to stare right through him. They reached into his depths, baring him before you.

Yeonjun glared, irritated with how foolish he had been. He should have trusted his instinct and refused Taehyun no matter how much he insisted. It was absurd that after all these centuries he still let himself fall prey to the ludicrous fantasy he would ever be able to live and feel as they do – he knew that was the real reason he had gone along with this preposterous idea.

His grip on the mask tightened before he hurled it into the bushes. Your voice exclaimed an ‘Ow!’, making him topple over in surprise. The golden rays of sun spilled over the summit just as you stepped out from the flora, bathing you in it’s warmth and highlighting your features as it chased away the night. You rubbed your head profusely where the mask had hit you, pausing when you noticed Yeonjun’s figure on the floor.

Hands on your hips, smiling in triumph, you blew the stray strands of hair from your face. “Found you.”

He had never in his life met such a vivacious woman. Your hair looked like a bird’s nest; tiny twigs and leaves buried within the now tousled black locks. There were tears in your hanbok. Stains of dirt, grass and mud soiled the skirt. Alas, you still had a stupid smile plastered across your mucky face. He caught himself before he started grinning like an idiot too, shuffling amongst the earth before rising with his back turned towards you. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms over your chest. Was he looking down on your intellect?

“You’re not very clever for an ancient spirit,” you remarked, tossing the mask at his feet. His frame froze, making you scoff.

The hair cascading down his back was a pale shade pink which shimmered under the light. It contrasted the pitch black robes he adorned, which were embroidered with silver. When he turned around to give you a look of wry amusement, you noticed the bangs which framed his face were more washed out in colour compared to the rest of his head. His slanted eyes were mono-lidded, and they glistened as beautifully as the night before. His lips were plump; it’s colour reminded you of the strawberry tanghulu you had seen in the market.

He stepped closer to you, smirking at the way you were entranced by his beauty, until his face stood only inches away from yours. You cast your eyes away from him, gulping as you took a step back. His eyebrows furrowed when you cringed, staggering before you fell to the ground.

“Are you alright?” he fretted, the role of the charismatic flirt quickly abandoning him as he helped you to your feet. He wrapped his arms around your waist, lifting you into his arms, and carried you to a place where you could sit comfortably. You gripped only his garments tightly, eyes still refusing to meet with his; the scent of flowers lingering on your clothes as he set you down. “His Majesty did not accompany you?”

He knelt down beside you and pulled off your shoes. Blood had soaked into your socks from all the hiking you had done the night before – the back of your shoes had cut deep into your heels; climbing over boulders and through thick vegetation had made the soles of your feet sensitive and prone to cuts and scratches. He pulled his lip between his teeth, eyes shooting daggers into yours.

He poured some of the alcohol he had been storing over your wounds, and massaged in the compound he made of medicinal herbs he had momentarily disappeared to go and find. He tore pieces of his robe to bind them when he was finished, then folded his arms over his chest. “I’m taking you back to the palace.”

You jolted up from where you were seated; Yeonjun pushed your shoulders back down. “None of my questions have been answered, I’m not leaving until they are.”

“Don’t you have a prince to marry?” he contended, tapping a finger on his chin, “they’re not going to be impressed when you return looking like this.”

“What’s your name? Are you really a nine-tailed fox? How old are you? Do you eat human livers? If so, why? Is it true that you are only able to receive titles like the ‘Spirit of the Mountain’ when you don’t feed human on livers? Are you actually a woman? Do you really want the best for this country? Do you wish to bring it to ruin for your own pleasure? Is it true that – ”

He took a step closer to you, and lifted your chin with his finger, closing your mouth. You held your breath as his eyes flickered to your lips, and he smirked noticing the blush spread across your face. He reached behind you and pulled the jade pin from your hair, the tresses falling gently down your back. Bringing the hairpin before you, and his lips to your ear, he whispered, “I dare not rob the future king of his woman, my lady. You should return home for your own safety.”

His hand travelled down the length of your arm, trailing goosebumps and setting fire to your skin. He placed the pin into your hand and lifted it, brushing his lips across your knuckles. His eyes locked with yours and you gasped as they glowed like a setting sun.

A horse whinnied as it strode into the area, making you tear your eyes away from Yeonjun’s. Taehyun slid off it’s back, rushing to your side. He grabbed onto your shoulders brows furrowing as he examined you from top to bottom. “Are you alright, (Y/n)?”

You nodded absent-mindedly, searching for where he had gone. Taehyun led you to his horse, and lifted you onto the saddle, sighing as he found you still trying to see past the trees and their leaves. You squeezed onto your chest as you rode away, an inexplicable feeling overtaking you. You had to see him again. Not out of curiosity. No, you – you just had too.

Yeonjun held onto the trunk of the pine tree and swung his body around from the backside. Watching you ride off into the distance, eyes still set on finding him, he sighed, twirling the ring he had slipped off your finger around his.

“(Y/n), huh?” he muttered under his breath, exhilarated by the way it rolled off his tongue.

[umbry-fic]

nurture

Summary:

But just as a seed knows nothing but darkness and the press of soil upon it, until it finally breaks through the first layer and learns of the world above and its wonders, she knew nothing more than her mission. Knew not of emotions, not of memories, not of herself.

And thus began her growth.

A look at the moments Martel spends with Lloyd and Colette and how that changes her.

Fandom: Tales of Symphonia Characters: Summon Spirit Martel, Colette Brunel, Lloyd Irving, Mentions of other characters Relationships: Martel & Colette Brunel, Martel & Lloyd Irving Rating: G Word Count: 9442 Mirror Link: AO3 Original Post Date: 13/08/2021

Notes: This was written as a treat for @likes-words-and-shrimp as part of the Tales of Sweet Soda 2021 event organised by @talesofexchanges!

For context, this is based on my interpretation that Summon Spirit Martel is just Tabatha, but with a new body, new powers plus the memories of every soul trapped in the Great Seed. This fic also goes into DOTNW events, but isn't canon-compliant as to Martel's appearance in that game.

The original fic makes use of font changes that can't be translated onto Tumblr, but it doesn't affect much. You should be able to read the fic just fine!

~~~

Martel wasn’t just a summon spirit that acted as the guardian of the Yggdrasill Tree, tied to it in a complicated bond of mana. She was the World Tree, in spirit and soul.

In the instant she was born, from the passionate wish of a boy who fought to change the world to prevent any more suffering; from the love of a sister who had been torn apart from her brother through nothing but the cruelness of fate, and the many, many needless deaths that had spiralled out from that one event; from the body of a lonely automaton who only desired to understand the world, Martel was akin to nothing more than the sapling by her feet, which inherently knew that its sole goal was to grow. Born with the knowledge of her role in this world: to protect the World Tree, so long as the world still needed it, still wanted it.

But just as a seed knows nothing but darkness and the press of soil upon it, until it finally breaks through the first layer and learns of the world above and its wonders, she knew nothing more than her mission. Knew not of emotions, not of memories, not of herself.

And thus began her growth.

~~~

Martel spent most of her days kneeling by the World Tree, which did not yet reach her waist. With her staff stabbed upright into the dirt next to her, her fingers would rub at the small collection of leaves that clung to the sapling’s tiny branches, not even the same length as her arm. Not tending to it, no, because it didn’t need tending in the traditional sense. It didn’t need refreshing rain to drink from, nor fertile soil to draw nutrients from, nor plentiful sunlight to fuel its growth.

What it needed to flourish was the love and adoration of the people. For them to stop fighting amongst themselves, for the hatred that had stretched on for an eternity to be resolved, for the different races to stop putting each other down in order to declare themselves victors in a bloody competition that ultimately held no meaning.

She would maintain this position for any period of time - hours, days, even weeks - patiently awaiting any change. Time was of no concern to her. Her eyelids did not get heavy, her limbs did not start to shake, her mind did not become fogged. She was not mortal - she did not need rest.

In the blink of an eye, an entire week would pass.

The remainder of the endless time available to her was spent wandering the fields that surrounded the World Tree. This place that was now her home, for she could not leave, was expansive compared to the four walls that Tabitha had known, but claustrophobic compared to the lands others roamed freely. Within the circular constraints of this space tucked away from the world and known only to a select few, were many unexplored nooks and crannies.

She memorised every detail. Every rock, no matter big or small; every fallen log, moss snaking over each inch; every tree, whether it be reaching up to the heavens or barely topping her head; all the colourful animals that ran amok.

Sometimes, coming across certain sights dragged up vivid memories that belonged to the woman with whom she shared a name, but not a spirit. And attached to it, colourful emotions.

A cliff with thick and sturdy roots threading out of its surface that could act as neat little footholds and handholds.

Mithos climbed up to the top, all the time. Whenever we visited. He would sit there kicking his legs, laughing and asking me to join him. And when I did, we’d share some food. Usually a sandwich or two.

A log with a circle of daisies blooming around it, all of their heads turned towards the log like a gaggle of school children attentively listening to a teacher conduct a lesson.

That was Ratatosk’s favourite perch, regardless of what form he took, whether it be a person, a squirrel, or a bird of prey. Kratos planted those flowers. He said that he wanted to make it more colourful for Ratatosk.

A trickling brook, bordered by wild berry bushes.

Yuan would gather the berries. They were always incredibly sweet, and juice would explode in our mouths with each bite. We’d feed them to each other, and then laugh at the mess we made.

Martel would simply shake her head, attempting to clear the voice that was both her own and not, that seemed to fill every corner of her mind, trumping every other thought. She would walk on, unsure what to do with the sudden emotion flooding her heart, enough to make her unsteady on her feet. Relentlessly haunting her were the many ghosts of Martel Yggdrasill, for she had inherited them. And while she held many sets of memories belonging to all who had been sacrificed to the Great Seed, Martel Yggdrasill’s were the most prominent, in this place that had been pivotal to her life, and that harboured the ruins of wishes once held dear.

She was used to holding an incredible amount of information, able to retrieve any of it at once, for Tabitha’s android form was perfectly suited to act as a database. Gone, however, was her ability to compartmentalise and block out certain pieces of information. She dearly missed it.

She was familiar only with three individuals. The first two came as a pair - Lloyd Irving and Colette Brunel, whose faces she already knew from Altessa’s house. People she knew as “kind”, even though she struggled to understand what exactly that meant.

Her first meeting with them as Martel, rather than Tabitha, was right here. She had given them the role of guardians to the fragile sapling, such that they could join her in safeguarding the world’s mana.

She could vividly remember the awed expressions on their faces - the shine in Colette’s eyes, Lloyd’s gaping mouth. Their fervent enthusiasm in protecting this world’s future. They had departed not soon after Lloyd had given the Tree its name, saying that they had to check in on their friends, but left her with a promise to return.

The third individual was Yuan Ka-Fai. A face she knew, once again, from memories that were not her own. He kept away, for the most part, in a little shack he’d built with the help of his Renegades. It was for the best - it didn’t seem like he wanted to see her, and looking upon his face brought a stinging pain which she couldn’t make heads-or-tails of. A field of contradictions from which there was no escape.

There was a fourth, one that she couldn’t physically see, and could only feel the traces of in the lingering mana particles in the air. The ghost of the previous guardian of the World Tree, who had been ruthlessly ripped apart by people who did not even know of his existence, his essence scattered to the wind.

Days passed, much the same as each other. There was an emptiness in her heart, a hole that grew wider with each day and could not be filled. Not by her aimless wandering, at least.

What was it that she yearned for?

She herself did not know the answer.

~~~

It was a day indistinguishable from any other when she first put down roots.

The sun was out of sight, hidden behind grey clouds, the land duller in colour for the lack of illumination. Martel was seated on a stump, the log having long rotted into nothingness, staff resting in her lap and eyes closed as she let herself sink into the peaceful embrace of nature. The wind caressing her skin, the sweet scent wafting from the nearby flower field. The rustling of the leaves above her head, the bubbling of the brook, the birdsong drifting into her ears.

The sudden crunch of branches pierced through her bubble of calm, too loud to be caused by a woodland critter. Her eyes snapped open, fingers wrapping around her staff tightly.

Only to spot, in the distance, the familiar figures of a golden-haired girl dressed in white robes and a brown-haired boy dressed entirely in red, making their way over to her across the flower fields. She released the breath she didn’t know she was holding.

There were no intruders. Not at the moment.

Still on guard, she stood, awaiting their arrival.

“Is something wrong?” she asked the moment they stopped before her, words sharp as a knife.

Was there a threat approaching the World Tree, was there a need to-

“Huh?” Just like that, her thought process was shattered by Lloyd, who rubbed the back of his head in confusion. “No, I… I don’t think anything’s wrong.”

“Then why are you here?” Her mind skidded to a halt completely, her grip on her staff loosening, though the tension remained in her raised shoulders.

“To visit. We were passing through the area, so we thought we might as well.” Colette said, cocking her head. “Does there need to be another reason for us to come here?”

To… Visit…?

“Yeah. We promised we’d be back, didn’t we?” Lloyd said, shrugging as he sat down by the stump, without a care for the wet grass, water droplets still clinging to the blades from the morning rain. Colette took a seat next to him, a wide smile on her face that brought the colour back - the green of the leaves, the brown of the bark.

Their promise…?

Martel had paid little heed to it. It was not an oath. They had no obligation to keep it, no penalty from breaking it, and she had thought it just a common courtesy that held no weight.

After all, why would they return here? There was no reason to. What could possibly be found here, other than the remnants of shattered dreams and the bitter taste of betrayal?

“Sit back down!” Colette gestured to the tree stump. “It’s uncomfortable to keep standing, right?”

“I… Alright…?” she muttered. In truth, she would not get tired, or feel physical discomfort. She couldn’t help but listen to Colette, though. Taking a hesitant step back, and then another, until her legs hit the stump and she sat down. Her back was ramrod straight and she maintained a grip on her staff.

She still didn’t understand why they had come, and it didn’t seem like they were planning to provide an answer.

And one didn’t come, in the few hours they spent here. Instead, the two of them broke out into conversation. Not just amongst themselves, but with her. Filling her in on what they had been up to in the months since the two worlds had become one.

Their journey across the reunited world to collect every Exsphere, to save the whispers and stories and souls contained within each tiny sphere, just as Tabitha had once told Lloyd to do within a cave of luminous green. The towns and sights they had come across, described with so much life behind their voices that Martel felt as if she was no longer sitting on a tree stump, but instead on a bench on a cobbled street, the smell of baking bread drifting through the air.

Lloyd waved his arms around wildly while Colette giggled into her hand - an outburst of energy, against which she was helpless to do anything but absorb every word. But they didn’t stop there. They went on to ask her questions, to ask her what she thought. She didn’t answer, apart from simple shakes or nods of the head, even to open-ended answers where “yes” and “no” were no longer sufficient. Lloyd and Colette didn’t linger on her awkward non-answers, or try to drag answers out of her. They just moved on.

They did not ask her if she’d like to go to these places one day, knowing that she never could.

Martel didn’t quite know how to act. She had never spent this much time with Lloyd and Colette before. They had talked to her back at Altessa’s, sure - they were the ones to seek her out the most, actually. But even then, they were always rushing to places, their plates full with everything that they had to do.

Not like this, where their boundless energy spilt forth without anything to curb it, washing over her.

By the time they left, waving goodbye as she remained still as a stone, Martel’s head was in a whirl from the influx of information she had received. She was exhausted, yet not tired at the same time. Another inexplicable contradiction.

There was a gentle warmth, like rays of sunlight cutting through gaps in the clouds and kissing her skin.

But the sun was still smothered in a layer of clouds, so from whence did this warmth come from?

~~~

Now that the sapling had put down more roots, little buds could start to form on the branches, not yet ready to open and show their flowery faces.

~~~

Colette and Lloyd continued to return every few weeks, to Martel’s utter surprise. They checked in on the World Tree, asking Martel each and every time if they were allowed to touch the fuzzy leaves and dangling branches. Martel would nod, and watch them with eagle eyes as they handled the sapling with the utmost care, muttering well-wishes and cheering over every inch it gained. Colette, on rare occasions, would squat next to the sapling, humming a song that was pleasant to the ears. Perhaps she believed the old wives’ tale that singing to a plant could make it grow faster. Even though it was utterly foolish, Martel couldn’t help but join Lloyd in smiling at the sight.

They continued to regale her with tales of their travels, the three of them sitting around different locations in the clearing - by the stump, on the log, beside the river - her staff never far from her. Eventually, Lloyd and Colette began to bring along tiny souvenirs that they pressed into her palm, which Martel would hesitantly curl her fingers around.

A tiny lantern charm. A statuette of some strange monster she didn’t recognise. Snacks, even - crispy chips in foil packets, fruit tarts wrapped in pretty packages, fruits which exploded with juice in the mouth. She did not require food to survive, but she still ate the gifts, letting Colette and Lloyd’s words wash over her as she tasted sweetness on her tongue and left sugar on her lips. She kept the souvenirs in a little box Lloyd had made for her, one that he claimed was blessed by the elemental Summon Spirits such that it could withstand the rain and sunshine. That seemed a tad impossible. Wasn’t that too much effort to go through? It was more likely that Lloyd was exaggerating. The box never succumbed to rot, however, so she had to take Lloyd at his improbable word.

Eventually, Martel mustered up the courage to answer one of their questions, even if she didn’t know if her answers were logically correct. The fact of the matter was, there probably weren’t correct answers, to begin with. Lloyd grinned, and then further roped her into the conversation. The nervousness had seemingly vacated, almost like it had never been there, as she found herself relaxing in Lloyd and Colette’s familiar company. She was still relatively quiet compared to the endless stream of words that came out of their mouths, but she was comfortable enough to talk, and sometimes even laugh a little at the funny stories they told. Listening no longer left her exhausted to the bone.

She learned to wave as the two children always did, an action she had observed from her days as Tabitha and knew was one of the many practices of “saying farewell”. The first time Martel had done so, barely catching their attention before they left, Colette’s eyes lit up, and she waved back enthusiastically, cupping her hands over her mouth and yelling “goodbye”, the word floating across the distance between them and catching in Martel’s heart.

Walking around yielded fewer shards reflecting the distant past that pricked her heart and made it bleed, but rather crystals of memory showing the two children who kept visiting despite there being no logical reason to do so.

They came here for the simple purpose of meeting her, and she couldn’t wrap her head around that. All she knew…

Was that the hole in her heart was slowly being filled, by the sunny warmth that she now knew was happiness.

An emotion that was almost foreign. For once upon a time, emotions had been nothing more than the result of a series of interwoven conditions, dull and without meaning. She had witnessed only glimpses of true emotions, arising due to errors in the code - or perhaps an evolution, for they were one and the same.

Still, she didn’t understand why a hole had arisen in the first place.

She looked forward to every visit, her ears primed to listen for any little noise, her head perking up every time she heard their footsteps.

Martel hoped Lloyd and Colette would keep making the nonsensical decision to return.

~~~

The World Tree now reached Martel’s waist, the leaves on each branch no longer alone. More buds had made their appearance, tiny spots of pale pink among the dense clusters of deep green.

The branches were a little sturdier now, and birds took to perching upon it, their talons resting on the bark as they chirped joyfully.

But growth always came entangled with challenges.

The change of seasons brought with it stronger winds, mercifully ripping leaves from their rightful places and leaving them to fall gracelessly to the ground, where they were trampled upon by animals without a second thought, noticed by none.

~~~

The Centurion Cores posed a threat not just to the World Tree, but to the world at large. If the wrong person got their hands on them, they could wreak havoc and destruction upon the world. And if they led to Ratatosk’s awakening… There would be no telling what would happen. Even here, Martel could feel the writhing hatred of the previous Summon Spirit, fighting to be unleashed upon the world.

The Cores needed to be gathered and dealt with before any of that could happen.

But no mere person could handle the Cores. Touching them would allow their power to crawl within one’s mind, flooding it with insidious whispers, easily driving anyone without sufficient protection insane.

Which meant Martel could leave the job to only one individual.

Lloyd came alone, without Colette in sight, having been called by Yuan. Martel delivered the news in a flat tone, keeping watch on Lloyd’s expression - the way it crumbled into pieces before her eyes, and then was carefully built back up again into a mask of neutrality. It was not something she’d thought Lloyd capable of, but here was a demonstration, right in front of her.

He did not voice any objection, did not try to shirk the heavy responsibility she was about to set on his shoulders. He simply accepted her words with a nod and chose to silently bear the consequences they brought. He understood that someone had to do it, and he was willing to do anything to protect this world and the people he loved.

Martel saw that. She saw his unbreakable will, and the all-encompassing love he held for this world and the people that meant everything to him. She knew that he was the right choice, perhaps the only choice.

So what was this ache in her heart, as she watched Lloyd leave alone, struggling to keep his head aloft?

~~~

A sapling required care to grow, whether it be by nature’s impartial hands or the gentle touch of a loving gardener.

Through the friendship that Lloyd and Colette had offered to her, Martel had experienced the sunlight that was happiness.

Now it was time to learn of the torrential storm that was grief and despair, and the intruding rot that was guilt.

~~~

Silence reigned supreme again, broken only by small pockets of noise when Lloyd and Colette returned, the atmosphere nowhere near as happy and relaxing as before. Never at the same time, of course, for that could not be allowed to happen. And at a much smaller frequency than before, irregular.

Lloyd was quiet most of the time, taking advantage of the safety provided by the boundaries of this space to take a quick nap, one that sometimes stretched into an hours-long sleep. He did not stir at all, thoroughly exhausted to the bone, except for nightmares which twisted his mouth into a grimace and furrowed his brow, unshed tears pooling beneath his eyelids. Even in sleep, he refused to cry.

Perhaps he was tired of putting up an act all the time, of hiding from and lying to his friends. Perhaps he was exhausted from being accused by the entire world and having fingers pointed at him no matter where he went. Perhaps he was sick of being on his guard at all times, even when he was in his most vulnerable position of sleep. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…

There were so many reasons for his spirit to be at breaking point, so many reasons for him to want to curl up into a ball and never face the world again.

Martel would not disrupt his much-needed and much-deserved rest. She simply placed a blanket she’d squirrelled from Yuan’s shack (which she hoped Yuan wouldn’t miss) on Lloyd, tucking it in around his shoulders and watching over him until he woke up. After which, he would leave to continue his mission, back small and forlorn.

Did he, like her, now see ghosts here? All the times he’d come here with Colette… Were those happy memories being turned against him, making him yearn for the past and dread the future?

The silence was draining, closing in upon her heart and dragging it down into murky depths.

Colette, on the other hand, seemed much the same as before. She continued to talk non-stop, actions animated, a smile drawn on her face. If someone didn’t look closely, they would not see past the mask she had effortlessly painted on with a brush gripped in expert fingers. Would not see that the light in her eyes had dimmed, would not hear the occasional tremble in her voice.

Would not realise that she never brought up Lloyd.

Martel didn’t mind playing along, at least at first, talking about whatever topic Colette brought up and nothing more. The stranglehold around Martel’s heart tightened with each visit, however, as more storm clouds gathered above Colette’s head, her voice getting less and less enthusiastic. Until Martel couldn’t stand it anymore, opening her mouth to ask if Colette was alright.

And the dam broke under the insurmountable pressure, Colette sobbing profusely into her hands, sounding like her heart was being ripped into tiny shreds that could never be put back together. Martel desperately tried to pull on someone, anyone’s memories on how to comfort a crying child. Yet at this most vital of moments, the lives that had always tormented her remained frustratingly out of reach, leaving her to awkwardly rub Colette’s back.

At least a weight seemed to have left Colette’s shoulders after the tears dried up, leaving behind nothing but quiet acceptance. She returned to talking to Martel, her smile somehow more genuine, her voice no longer injected with false cheer, her vulnerability shining through. Colette let herself lapse into silence sometimes, and the two of them would simply listen to the sounds of nature around them instead of trying to fill it with fake noise.

There were moments when Martel thought she felt the burn of Colette’s gaze on her back. But the moment she whirled around to catch her, there would be nothing for her to see. Colette’s head would be bowed, nothing but a smile visible on her face.

But it happened so many times that it couldn’t be her imagination. Yet she didn’t know what to make of it.

And when completely alone, Martel did little things, like practice the manipulation of mana. Things the other Summon Spirits had had millennia to master, but that she was a complete beginner in. The mana bent to her will, but she wasn’t certain how exactly to direct it to accomplish the simple task of breaking down her staff and reconstructing it.

She wasn’t just trying to learn how to be a better Summon Spirit, to learn the practices of all the others. She was attempting to ignore the hole in her heart that she was all the more aware of now, for she had finally figured out why it existed.

The silence. The lonely, empty silence.

Even when she’d been Tabitha, there had never been a day when she was alone. Not even her first, for Altessa had already been there, bringing her to life. And he had never left - from the dark, oppressing halls of Cruxis, to the cosy, if slightly mildew-infested house in Tethe’alla. He was not the most talkative of persons, but the house had always been filled with the sounds of life: the hammering in the forge, the thunk of the knife on the chopping board, the creak of doors opening throughout the house.

Then Lloyd, Colette and their companions had arrived at the front door on their quest to reunite the two worlds. And that led to Mithos staying there, who brought a lot more noise by always engaging Altessa in conversation. It might have all been a front. Mithos may have been actively avoiding looking at her. But she still wanted to believe that somewhere under the trickery and deceit, there had been something genuine.

She now knew the answer to the question she’d been asking herself. What she yearned for was companionship.

And in the deafening silence, with nothing to occupy her, she was left to contemplate the many questions that rose to the surface. Questions that she could only consider now, having broken free of the box that her mind had once been constrained to by algorithms, and come to understand the complicated, illogical matters of the heart.

Martel would stare for hours into the brook, observing the features of her face, feeling them with careful fingers. This face that was hers, yet also belonged to another woman.

When others looked at her, who did they see? For Mithos, Kratos, if any of them were still here on this world, and especially Yuan, it must have been Martel Yggdrasill. And the rest of the world did not yet know of her existence and likely never would, hidden from prying eyes. Her existence held nothing but pain in the eyes of some.

Would Altessa still see Tabitha, an android who struggled with emotion but in the end loved this world, even if she did not know how to put that expression into words? Would her existence then hold a bittersweet love, but also the stinging reminder of failure and the typhoon of guilt that could easily carry someone away in its overwhelming power?

Would the other Summon Spirits recognise her as one? Would Ratatosk, if he was still here, recognise her as the guardian of the World Tree?

Or was she something else altogether?

~~~

Who am I?

The words were spinning around in Martel’s head once again, like a merry-go-round gone out of control. She was trying, and failing, to push it down, wanting to just soak in Colette’s company without any distraction.

Colette was leaning her head against the hard bark of a tree, legs stretched out before her and hands resting in her lap, gaze steadily trained on the sky and the birds that flew free within it. Martel, on the other hand, was standing, staff abandoned in the grass.

Martel didn’t pose the question, even though Colette might hold the key to unlocking the answer. The two of them were quite similar, after all - both failed vessels who had now been given a new purpose in a reconstructed world. Perhaps Colette would know the answer, or at least know where to start.

This was her problem to deal with. She had no right to ask anything of Colette. Not after the grievous wound she had dealt to the girl’s heart. To ask anything of her would be pure selfishness.

“Hm,” Colette said, breaking the silence. She drew her knees up to her chest, resting her chin upon them as her fingers grabbed at tufts of grass, uprooting them. “That’s an interesting question.”

“Oh.” The word slipped out of Martel’s mouth, just as the previous ones had, without her meaning to but unable to be stopped. The question had consumed her entire mind like a parasite until she failed to differentiate between thought and speech.

“No need to be sorry.”

Sorry? She hadn’t…

“I’ve been thinking about that question too,” Colette continued, moving past Martel’s scattered thoughts. “And it’s simple, really.”

How was it simple? How was she anything more than the memories she had inherited, and the face she presented? Yet she could never be Martel Yggdrasill, and she was no longer Tabitha.

So who was she?

“It’s just like Lloyd said, you know?” Colette whispered, pain dripping from her first mention of Lloyd’s name in weeks, her gaze shifting down. “You’re you. You’re Martel, so that’s who you are. Not Martel Yggdrasill, just Martel. And who that is is something you decide, and no one else.”

“I decide…?”

That confused Martel even more. Were people not the amalgamation of who others perceived them as? Was that not even more the case for Summon Spirits, who partly drew their power from the prayers of others, and was therefore most at the mercy of how others viewed them?

“I know it’s hard. Maybe it doesn’t make that much sense. Most things don’t, not really. But it’s what Lloyd said, and I believe him. I always will.” The corners of Colette’s lips lifted into a hopeful smile. “You are who you are. Take your time.”

Time was the one thing Martel had too much of, and the one thing she would never run out of.

“Okay, enough moping around!” Colette declared with gusto, nearly scaring Martel into dissipating into mana, a feat that she had not managed to accomplish on her own. Yet now, bright, tiny particles were flying from the tips of her fingers.

Colette scampered to her feet and grabbed Martel’s hand, not giving her the chance to retrieve her staff before she was dragged off in the direction of the flower fields.

“What are you doing?!” Martel asked, voice two pitches higher than usual, too shocked to do anything but go along, trying her very best to calm her racing heartbeat down. How ridiculous this must look, for her to be led by a girl an entire head shorter than her. Even more ridiculous if someone were to know that she was a Summon Spirit, and Colette was a human. The power disparity was rather silly.

“Bringing you to go make flower crowns.” Colette grinned mischievously, stepping into the thousands of flowers that bloomed, like a blanket of white that stretched beyond the horizon. Her eyes twinkled with that old shine Martel had not seen in a while. “You haven’t done it before, have you?”

“N - no, but -”

“Now's a great time to try! It’s something every child should do.”

“I’m not a child,” Martel whispered, hands shaking as she withdrew from Colette’s grasp. Petals rained down all around them, taken from the flowers and scattered into the sky by the wind.

She was still a weak Summon Spirit, for she drew her power from the World Tree, and it was not yet grown. She would be bested by any of the others, even the mischievous Sylphs. Yet power still crackled beneath her skin, which she could easily release from her fingertips. Even if she was resolved not to use it unless something directly threatened the World Tree, and only if absolutely necessary, it was still there.

No child was meant to wield that much power.

Perhaps she had been childlike as Tabitha, possessing more knowledge than any child should, yet unable to process the workings of the world in the way others did. But even then, she had not been a child.

She had never been a child.

“Neither am I,” Colette replied, turning back. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a futile effort as a gust of wind blew, catching the golden strands within. Stray white petals caught in their hair, getting lost within. White peeking out among green and yellow. “But… Everyone deserves to be a child at least once. And who says you aren’t allowed to?”

There was a sad tinge to Colette’s smile. And in her silhouette, Martel could see another child. And another, and another, and another, within the memories she safeguarded - the many children who never had the chance to be a child, that chance ripped away by the flames of war or the cruelty of others or the destructive power of grief.

“Come on. I promise, it’ll be fun!” Colette proclaimed, sitting down cross-legged and patting the flowers next to her.

Martel hesitantly sat down, accepting the handful of flowers Colette threw into her lap. A few were small when she picked them up, sitting in the centre of her palm, easily crushed into smithereens to leave not a trace behind. So fragile.

“It might be difficult at first, but just follow my instructions and you’ll eventually get the hang of it…”

She let Colette’s voice guide her, following her every word. And just as Colette said, she got the hang of it pretty quickly, until her first-ever flower crown lay in her hands.

She stared down at it, rubbing the rough stems that were, thankfully, devoid of any thorns. It had been surprisingly fun to lose herself in the monotony of threading stems together with her head bowed over her lap, letting time slip by. A completely unproductive activity meant only for children, that she would have never thought to try on her own…

Would it be as enjoyable without Colette by her side?

“Yours is great!” Colette congratulated her, the rapid movements of her hands coming to a halt as she scooted closer to peek at Martel’s flower crown.

“Oh, it’s nothing compared to yours…” Martel snuck a glance at Colette’s lap, where three completed flower crowns were stacked atop each other. Colette was in the process of making a fourth, her progress scarily fast. And all of her flower crowns were beautifully done, with intricate knots and twining stems, the petals undamaged and the flowers cheerfully open to the sun. Colette must be extremely experienced, something she could never hope to match. Hours of hours with Lloyd, most likely.

“No, no, I mean it! And you can only improve with time!” Colette grinned, picking up the topmost flower crown in her stack and reaching her arms up.

Frozen, Martel watched the journey of the crown, knowing what the final destination was - upon her head, where Colette set it down with careful hands. Still, she could not help but reach up and feel the soft petals of the crown, sitting lopsided such that one side fell over her right eyebrow. It was light, yet at the same time, she could feel its weight, and the slight scratch of the stems against her skin.

“Keep it,” Colette said, as if anticipating the objections that Martel was about to voice.

“I… Alright,” Martel replied, releasing her grip and lowering her hand. “But if you insist…”

She took her own flower crown and placed it gently on Colette’s curls, the white standing out among the gold. It did not measure up to Colette’s, but... “Have mine in return.”

This was all that she could do, even if it was just a small thing.

“Thank you.” Colette laughed, that familiar sound that seemed to bring in spring, the flowers around her turning their heads towards her to listen.

Colette continued to weave ever more flower crowns as Martel lay down upon the fields, hair spread below her as she shut her eyes, folding her hands over her heart. Colette hummed the familiar little tune that she hummed to the World Tree, almost like she was wishing for Martel’s growth, for her to put down roots where she lay and burst into glorious bloom.

With Colette’s melodious voice washing over her, she drifted off into sleep. And in the images that played out against her closed eyelids, the two of them were just normal girls, having fun in the fields without a care in the world, shoulders completely free of any burdens, hands clean of blood, and hearts still whole.

~~~

Whether it was a temporary moment of strange lucidity or a dream born of hovering in the state between wakefulness and sleep, Martel didn’t know. When she awoke, a strange memory floated to the surface, its contents shrouded in grey - Colette, staring at her with a knowing glint in her eyes. The girl did nothing more, only bent down and swiped away a petal on Martel’s cheek with a gentle finger. The petal rested in her hand for a moment before it was blown away by the wind, disappearing into nothingness in the sky.

Gone…

Yet when Martel sat up, colour rushing back into her vision, Colette was asleep on her side, the numerous flower crowns she had completed scattered by her side. Her fingers curled close to her chest, strands of hair moving slightly in the wind that had calmed to nothing more than a weak breeze that teased. She looked utterly at peace, furrows washed away.

And it was like nothing had ever transpired - both the strange vision, and the events of the past, dipped in misfortune.

~~~

After Colette left, Martel kept the flower crown, infusing it with a tiny bit of magic to ensure the flowers remained just as pristine as when Colette gave it to her.

It was a silly use of her power. Flower crowns were not meant to last. They fell apart with time, the petals curling as rot crawled up the stems, abandoned at the end of childhood. The flowers were long dead, after all.

She could call her actions childish, even.

So, why?

It was a gift. From a friend.

That was the only reason required. It was just that simple.

And as Colette had said… Who was stopping her from being childish?

~~~

On the World Tree, the first bud burst into bloom.

~~~

“He was so fluffy! I really hope I get to see Timmie again.”

Colette finished her latest passionate tirade about dogs, this time about a “positively adorable little one” she had met in Luin. She could spend a whole hour going on and on about her “exciting adventures”, which mostly amounted to running circles around town with the dog, all her worries seemingly forgotten. “A dog can make any day better!” she had exclaimed once, and Martel was truly starting to believe that.

With one final stroke in the soil, Colette completed her rough sketch of Timmie, dropping the stick she was using.

“Cute,” Martel agreed, trying to imagine Timmie in full colour from just the sketch. Despite the surprising amount of details Colette had managed to infuse into her drawing - such as the rounded snout, stubby legs and droopy ears - Martel was still having quite some trouble. Her imagination wasn’t that great, and she’d never seen a real-life dog before.

“So, I hope you enjoyed my adventures with Timmie! I know I’m not always the best storyteller,” Colette said, rifling through her rucksack and pulling out something wickedly sharp that glinted under the sunlight. “But now I need to run an idea past you.”

Martel squinted at the object in Colette’s hands, making it out to be...

A pair of scissors.

Instinctively, she took a step back, fingers reaching for her staff - only to come to the stark realisation that it was nowhere near her. She’d left it by the river, where Colette had taken a quick rest by dipping her feet in the soothing waters. And in her panic, she was unable to summon it.

Scissors were supposed to be a fairly innocent object, something used to cut fabric or paper. Yet the sight of anything remotely sharp brought back memories of desperate women caked in blood, wielding whatever they could get their hands on in a last-ditch effort to protect their children from being carted off by men in uniforms which sported the crest of an opposing kingdom, taken as liberty to commit whatever evils they desired. Memories of hugging a child close, praying that they would not be next.

And even more sinister, the thought of anything cutting into the World Tree, tiny and vulnerable.

For whatever purpose would Colette be carelessly wielding that for?

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Colette gasped, realising her mistake and quickly hiding the pair of scissors behind her back. She and Lloyd had always taken great care not to spook Martel with their weapons, ensuring that they were in plain sight, (for it would not be reasonable to leave them without any capability to protect themselves,) their hands never straying anywhere close to them. They knew how skittish Martel was around sharp objects. In Colette’s excitement to share, she had clearly forgotten.

“It’s… It’s alright. You didn’t mean anything by it,” Martel replied, wringing her hands together to try and overcome the feeling that they were too empty. Honestly, she was overreacting. Colette only meant well. Martel couldn’t see her ever doing something with malicious intent.

“Sorry,” Colette muttered, still guilty. “But, you see, I was thinking about how Summon Spirits can change their appearances. Like how Gnome takes on this giant animal that Dirk says is a mole? I don’t think you’ve learned to do that yet, so I was wondering if you’d like me to cut your hair for you.”

“My hair…?” Martel pondered, picking at one of the many green strands that ran down her shoulders. Despite her absolute lack of care and the sometimes volatile weather, her hair had remained lustrous, not a single knot within the long, flowing locks that reached her hips.

“Yep,” Colette said, her hand landing on Martel’s shoulders as she began to slowly push her towards a boulder that was of a suitable height and flatness to act as a comfortable seat. “I thought you might want to… Well, separate yourself from the other Martel. Only if you want me to, though! It’s your decision!”

They came to a stop by said boulder as Colette patiently awaited her answer, still studiously keeping the scissors out of sight.

“I’d like that,” Martel replied. She could not yet change her face, but perhaps changing the length of her hair would make staring into her own reflection less painful, make it feel less like she was looking at a ghost who should have long departed this world.

“Then, sit down!” Colette gently pressed Martel down onto the rock, disappearing from Martel’s view as she took her position behind Martel. “And relax. This might take a while, so sorry for that...”

The tension refused to leave Martel’s shoulders, a part of her still preparing for the cold of metal against her throat, for the coppery tang of blood to fill her nose. The panic of leaving herself fully vulnerable was crowding out all else, which she could recognise as extremely stupid in the one rational part of her mind that remained.

She wielded more than enough magic to protect herself from mortals, even without her staff to channel it properly.

Weapons that were not her own just seemed to overpower all rational thought, it seemed.

Martel felt Colette minutely shift behind her, bringing the scissors up to her hair.

“If you need me to stop at any time, just tell me, alright?”

Martel was about to nod, before realising that that was a bad idea. She should not be moving her head right now.

So she didn’t respond. Even amidst the panic, she trusted Colette not to hurt her.

Snip.

The sound of the first cut was impossibly loud in her ears.

I used to cut Mithos’ hair, sweeping the loose strands off his shoulders as I trimmed the ends.

But no one ever cut my hair…

“I actually gave Sheena a haircut a while back. She wanted to try out something new! Um, it didn’t turn out too well, so I hope this time goes better…”

Snip.

“Sorry if your hair turns out jagged. Practice makes perfect, but I’ve only been able to practice on Noishe, and he’s not the most eager participant. Don’t think he feels happy over being a guinea pig. He keeps running away, and that means his fur gets all messed up over being caught in the scissors! Silly Noishe.”

Snip.

Colette continued to blather on, until she ran out of topics related to hairdressing and had to scramble for the most mundane of things to talk about. The upbeat tone of her voice drowned out the sound of the blades snapping together, until it faded away altogether.

Martel’s eyes slipped close, fingers releasing from their interlocked state. The wind carried away her hair like it did petals, leaving no trace behind, like there had never been anything there in the first place.

“And we’re done!”

Martel’s eyes snapped open at the sudden clap of Colette’s hands. The sun had shifted into the apex of its arc, and Colette was now in front of her, bending down a little to observe Martel’s new haircut.

How much time had passed? She must have drifted away…

“How do you like it?” Colette asked, gesturing towards Martel’s hair.

Martel reached up a hand, finding nothing at her shoulders. She went up higher to grip the ends of her now much shorter hair, which reached only to her chin. The difference in weight was disorienting. She felt so much lighter, like whatever had been pressing on her chest had been lifted.

Perhaps it wasn’t just the loss of hair. Perhaps it was much, much more.

“I like it,” she replied, heart swelling. Both with happiness, and with the dark grip of guilt.

Colette had done so much to help her, and for nothing in return, even as Martel continued to hide the truth from her. A truth that had taken on a ghastly life of its own and cast its shadow upon the both of them.

“I’m glad, Martel!” Colette said, plopping down on the dirt. “Oh, would you still like to be called Martel? If you don’t like that name, I can call you something else.”

“No,” Martel replied immediately, and with much more surety than she herself had thought possible. “It’s like you said. The name is mine, and I am my own person. I don’t want to give it up.”

She may hold Martel Yggdrasill’s memories, but they would not define her existence, and neither would they restrain her from making new memories of her own. Neither would any of the other memories she held, though she would continue to protect them, for they were worth protecting.

“Alright!” Colette cocked her head, smile growing even sunnier, if that was possible. “Do you want to hear more about the dogs I met at Luin? There was another one that I named Clay, and he’s so cute! Oh, I’d like to pet him again!” she squealed.

“Sure. But before that…” Martel took a deep breath, preparing the next two, simple words. Words that she had not uttered before, but that she had heard countless times, both in memories and in life, and that was long overdue. “Thank you. For everything.”

There had never been a meaning behind “thank you” before. It was nothing more than an in-built command. And while she understood the purpose the words played, there was no significance behind them. Just hollow words spit out by an algorithm, the moments she truly meant them few and far between, slipping through her fingers just as quickly as it had come.

Why would they ever cross her mind, then? Not until now, at least, having broken through the once impenetrable wall of numbers.

A simple expression was not enough to convey the amount of gratitude she felt for Colette. It was not enough to repay everything Colette had done for her. It was certainly not enough to make amends for everything she had done to Colette. She was, after all, the one that was continuing to stab a poison-tipped dagger into Colette’s heart. This could do no more than put a pitiful bandaid on the wounds that were constantly being ripped open.

“You’re welcome,” Colette replied with no hesitation, not a shred of blame in her words, her actions, her entire self. “I’m glad to have helped.”

There was nothing but sincerity in her smile, and Martel couldn’t understand how.

But she did take comfort in it, as well as garner a single reminder.

There was another person she owed gratitude to and, more importantly, an apology.

~~~

From where she was standing, Martel couldn’t see much of Lloyd. All she could see was his back, leaning against the cool surface of a boulder some distance away, his head of brown hair bowed. He’d been sitting there ever since he finished giving an update on the latest Core he’d gathered, and the rather interesting people he had come across.

She sighed, padding up to Lloyd. Her mind had been made up days before he’d returned. Some things needed to be said, even if it was difficult. It would have been easier, before she understood the dizzying highs of joy and the seeping effects of sorrow. Then the words would not get stuck in her throat as they were now.

But if that were the case, those very same words would hold no meaning.

Lloyd was quietly whittling away at a piece of wood. He’d made quite a bit of progress in the time that had passed - it was starting to resemble a dog, easily recognisable by Martel after the many sketches Colette had shown her. Perhaps it was meant to be a heartfelt apology, a prayer that it might not be too late to mend the broken bonds that trailed behind him. His shaking hands and the tiny bead of blood seeping out of his thumb from a careless slip of the knife certainly supported that.

That only cemented the need to do this.

“I’m sorry,” Martel whispered, breaking the silence and alerting Lloyd to her presence. She didn’t want Lloyd to jump.

The movement of Lloyd’s hands paused as he craned his head up. The rough beginnings of stubble was on his chin, the shadows lurking beneath his eyes deep. This was a boy on the cusp of becoming a man, yet carrying a burden that would break most man’s shoulders. He was incredibly brave.

But even the strongest needed someone to give them a hand when they inevitably stumbled and fell, because everyone had moments of weakness where they needed acceptance. And Lloyd had no one.

She was not the best person for the job. She might not be remotely good at it - she didn’t hold the innate empathy Colette had, that expertise in comforting others that Colette wielded so effectively. She possessed only the complicated knot of emotions in her chest, which she had only just started to unravel.

She was still going to try.

“For everything I’ve put you through. And thank you, for being willing to do so much.”

The apology didn’t relieve the guilt that ate away at her heart. But that wasn’t the point, to begin with. There was no easy way out, and she was not seeking one. She would bear that which was hers to bear, instead of pushing that burden onto others.

It might be far too late, but she hoped it might bring Lloyd some comfort in the bleak landscape that must have been his life.

A small smile broke out on Lloyd’s face. Not the beacon of light he used to be, but it was something. And any shred of hope one could hold onto made a huge difference.

Someone had said that, once. A someone that was not her, but whose memories held much wisdom.

“It’s alright,” Lloyd said, voice rising above the dejected murmur he had used for months. “I knew what I was signing up for, and you hold no blame for that. Thank you, though. It does mean a lot.”

“Can I see…?” she asked hesitantly, sitting down next to Lloyd.

“Sure.”

Lloyd passed over the in-progress figurine, letting Martel take a closer look at it. It was most definitely a dog - the adorable snout, the lovingly crafted ears, the eyes that seemed soulful, even though it was carved from still wood.

“I hope she’ll like it,” Lloyd muttered, frowning as he noticed the cut on his finger. “If I can ever give it to her…”

“I’m sure you will.”

She had no doubt about that. That a time would come, where everything would be better, no matter how long it took.

~~~

That time came. Eventually, all was cleared as the truth came to light. Eventually, peace came to the lands again, as everyone chose to trust in the betrayed Summon Spirit and teach him to trust again. Eventually, Lloyd was finally able to rejoin his friends, to walk freely with them, laugh and talk with them again. But the scars he’d suffered from skulking around in the dark would likely never leave him.

Perhaps both he and Colette may not be able to forgive her for what she’d done. She could accept that, for that was her responsibility to bear. Maybe they would no longer return, or if they did due to the duty they felt they were obliged to, they would act detached instead of friendly.

She could not blame them.

Come what may, she would take it in stride. But still, she would wait for their reappearance, because of the simple wish that she would like to see them again.

In the peace that came after the draining events at Ginnungagap, Martel came to spend more time in Yuan’s company. He no longer acted like a feral cat, backing away whenever she appeared. Perhaps it was the change in appearance, or the new confidence in which she carried herself - she no longer defaulted to old postures passed down through memories. Perhaps her experiments in changing form were starting to show results, even though she didn’t notice any in her reflection.

No matter the reason, it appeared he could stand her presence now. And she was glad, to make another companion and to clear the air. She became familiar with the inside of his shack, taking to sitting at the table and swinging her legs idly. It felt quite similar to the atmosphere at Altessa’s, for Yuan didn’t seem to be in the mood to talk most of the time. She simply enjoyed the silence. And occasionally a cup of alcohol. The taste was certainly… interesting, burning the tip of her tongue and down her throat.

And it was new.

Martel no longer needed to bend down to observe the World Tree, for it now reached her head.

Outgrown a sapling, but not yet a tree. Stronger now, better able to give mana to the world. Many more leaves, who were larger and rough to the touch. A few flowers, peeking shyly out of buds to face the morning sun. An extensive network of roots that she couldn’t see, ensuring steadiness.

On a normal day like any other, wind whispering through her chin-length hair and the sun falling upon the World Tree, the familiar sounds of footsteps floated through the clearing. With a heart that was full of emotions and all the words she wished to say, Martel smiled, and turned to face her friends.

~~~

One day, the World Tree would be a truly massive structure that towered over all, its leaves so dense that sunlight would struggle to filter through the tiny gaps, flowers of every colour popping on branches, and sweet fruits ripening every spring. It would provide shade and life to all that lived in this world.

One day, far, far in the future.

But the important thing, was that it would grow. Slowly, and with time.

And so would she.

[starl1ght-child]

Folie à Deux II

Part 2 of the Paramour Series [Read Part 1 on AO3] Chapter 2 : Ikhnaie [WC : 2.4K]

perma tag list : @mail-me-a-snail @speed-boop @shins-wife @eeviethree @squadnos

Rose didn’t stay in her Tower apartment for long.  After her first few patrols, she found that she was more comfortable out in the wilds than she was in the Last City or at the Tower.  She built herself a home base underneath the protection of a cluster of willow trees.  The hanging branches provided her coverage from prying eyes.  She kept a bedroll in the corner and installed a small kitchen so she could cook for herself whenever she was home.  The cabin was like a small greenery.  She set up an irrigation system so that the plants she cared for didn’t die while she was on patrols and some UV lights and heat lamps so they could thrive in Old Russia’s cold climate.  She raised a small herb and vegetable garden, along with some sunflowers, roses, and lilies.

She would come to the Tower weekly for supplies, but otherwise, she stayed out in the thick forests that stretched an entire region of the Cosmodrome.  During one of her trips into town, she found a vendor that sold custom class armor for Guardians, made out of incredibly strong but lightweight metal or fabric.

She bought a cloak from him, the first of many.  But it was her favorite.  It wasn’t heavy and didn’t weigh her down, but it kept her warm and it moved behind her like a flag in the wind.  The cloak was the color of sunflowers, the design that started at the top of it was intricate, almost resembling the outline of the bloom, with petals that drifted down the length of it.  Those designs were what drew her attention in the first place.  The top was held secure on her shoulders by sturdy metal plating that clipped onto her breastplate.  The hood was wide and loose, and it covered her head before it pooled on her shoulders.  Oftentimes when she was tracking down a bounty, her Ghost would tuck herself into her hood and rest in the crook of her neck.

After a couple of months of successful patrols, Cayde offered her a chance to officially join his scout network.  She was an excellent tracker and with Fallen and Hive constantly encroaching on their borders and Guardians disappearing, he needed her to start tracking down Guardians who were missing in action.  Rose took the position gladly.  

And she was good at it, too.  Rose was good at finding people who were abducted, lost, or just didn’t want to be found.  She always got there just in time, Arc Light dancing around her body, cloak flying behind her like a pair of wings.

People had started calling her Ikhnaie.

Rose was supposed to operate a search and rescue on a Guardian whose final transmission was a panicked request for backup.  They were investigating a Hive nest somewhere deep in the Cosmodrome, preparing it for a strike team when something went wrong.  The Hunter’s comms had been dead ever since. 

Rose got the briefing almost immediately and headed out into the wilderness to find the missing Guardian.  It was the Vanguard’s hope that they could find the missing Hunter quickly and bring them in, securing what intel they had managed to find.  They gave her the coordinates of the Guardian’s transmission, but it was only a starting point.  She would have to follow any trail of them from there.

She left by midday, armed with a hand cannon and a shotgun, a few flares in her pack, and a long, sturdy rope slung across her chest, and rode fast on her sparrow towards their last known location.  She arrived by nightfall at the entrance of a cave somewhere deep in the mountains of Old Russia.  She hopped off her sparrow as it transmatted away.

“Iris, show me those coords again,” she said as she crouched down at the mouth of the cave.  It was dark and seemed to go on forever.  The light that her Ghost emitted didn’t give her much more work with, either.  The coordinates popped up behind the face of her helmet and she glanced at them briefly.  Compared to their current location… that Guardian was somewhere in the depths of this cave.  There was almost a kilometre between her current location and their last known.  Rose sighed, checked her ammo reserves, and placed a hand over her breastplate as she stood, slender fingers covering Alpha Lupi’s crest.  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this one.”

Her first steps into the cave were determined.  At first, there was nothing, everything seemed like it was normal.  She followed the Guardian’s footprints that were just barely recognizable in the dirt.  When she reached the halfway point to the transmission’s location, Hive corruption started to fester and cling to the walls of the cave system.  Rose hated the way it seemed to move and breathe as you went by.

Rose’s footfalls became quiet and cautious the deeper she went in, the closer that she got to the missing Guardian.  She was right on top of their last known coordinates, they were just below her.  Down a dark hole that seemed to lead to nowhere.  She reached into the small pack on her hip and pulled out a flare, ignited it, and dropped it down.  As it fell, she counted the seconds before it hit the ground below.

Five long, quiet seconds before the distinct thunk as it hit the bottom.

“Iris,” she whispered.  “Be ready to light my spark in case this hurts more than I think it’s going to.”

“Why?”  The Ghost sounded so worried as Rose stood up, pulled off the long rope that was slung across her chest, and tied one end around a sturdy rock.  “Are you insane?”

“Only way to find that Guardian is to go down.  And that’s a long fall.”  Rose tossed the rope down the hole then cracked her knuckles and did a few side lunges to stretch her legs.

“Why don’t you just climb down like a sensible human?”

“Iris, we are running out of time.  Stand-by for resurrection.  Just in case.”  Before her Ghost could continue to try and argue, Rose jumped down the hole.  She hit the bottom hard and tucked herself inward, rolling to the side to try and break the fall.  She moaned in pain from the impact.  She felt like she had shattered her ankles, but she could stand up just fine.  Rose walked over to the rope that was dangling behind her and gave it a firm tug, satisfied that it didn’t come loose.  

Iris appeared by her side.  “You’re an idiot,” the Ghost sighed.

“I dunno, I think I stuck that landing pretty well,”  Rose laughed quietly.  “Now focus.  That Guardian has to be around here somewhere…”

The hole they fell down led into a completely new area of the cave system, this chamber was wide open and damp, but there was more Hive corruption here than what she’d seen above her.  The Hunter cloaked herself and turned invisible as she scoured the room for that Guardian and looked for any other offshoots of the cave that they could have gone to hide in.

Rose felt her stomach lurch when she found their corpse, bloody and mangled by the Hive that likely overwhelmed them.  Their Ghost was in their hand, dead as well, drained of its Light.  Her invisibility faded as she crouched down beside their body as her Ghost hovered over and examined them.  There was a pile of empty magazines on the ground.  They spent every last bullet trying to survive.  Rose closed her eyes.

“COD was a single GSW, just underneath the thoracic cavity.”  

“A gunshot wound?”  Rose was astounded by that conclusion.  She looked over at the wound; it was torn around the edges.  She’d never seen any bullet make a hole in someone like this before.  It completely ripped through the flesh with a strange, jagged edge that curled around the outside of it.  “Are you sure?  What kind of gun are we talking about, Iris?”

“I don’t know… It’s not like any wound I’ve seen before.  Guardian… look at this…”

Iris’s light flicked over to their hand.  The Hunter shifted closer and tilted her head with curiosity.  A single, black petaled rose was perfectly tucked in their hand underneath the dead Ghost, clutched in their fingers.  Rose reached over and gently picked up their Ghost, then picked up the bloom just as carefully.  She examined the petals underneath the light from her Ghost.  They were black like the midnight sky and fragile, and dipped in the victim’s blood.

She felt sick to her stomach, but she didn’t know if it was from the smell of the Guardian’s corpse, or if she felt sick from the blood that dripped from the rose onto her fingers.  She closed her eyes and pressed the back of her hand against her helmet, as if she was covering her mouth, and swallowed down the bile that rose to the back of her throat. 

Out of nowhere, a low chittering.  Her head shot up and she stood, rose and the deceased’s Ghost in her hands.   She recognized that low rattle, it sounded like teeth grinding and chattering with a low groan that hissed through the silence.  The Hive were coming, and they could smell her Light.

“Iris, to me,” she said as she started to walk away from the corpse.  She tucked the Ghost and the rose into the pack on her hip.  “We need to get out of here.”  Her Ghost flew over to her quickly and disappeared.  Rose ran over to the dangling rope, jumped into the air and grabbed hold as the chatter grew louder and screams started to echo through the chamber.  She climbed up the rope and pulled herself up, her feet caught the sides of the hole to give herself some leverage.  She pulled herself over the ledge and started to run, her footfalls echoing off the stone walls.  The chittering started to grow louder and louder as Thrall filled the cave behind her.

“C’mon, Rose,”  she muttered to herself as the Thrall started to catch up.  “C’mon.”  Arc Light started to dance around her body, it spread up her arms and her legs as two blades formed in her hands.  Her speed hastened and she cut through any and all Hive that got in her way.  Black blood from their bodies splattered her armor and cloak.  As she neared the cave’s entrance and the light of day started to illuminate the tunnel, the Thrall started to back off.  It was just after dawn when she stepped into the light.

Her legs were sore from sprinting for so long, her pulse was thumping hard in her carotid and sweat slipped down her spine.  She summoned her sparrow and sat down on it to rest, pressed her fingers on the release for her helmet, and air hissed as the pressure released.  She pulled the helmet off and placed it on the hood of her sparrow.  Rose leaned back on the seat, trying to get her breathing under control.

“You alright, Guardian?”  Iris asked as she materialized out of thin air.  “You’re blood pressure is really high.”

Rose turned towards her Ghost and narrowed her eyes.  “Oh, yeah, I’m fine, I just climbed out a hole and ran for my life from a horde of Thrall, no biggie.”  Her eyes rolled as she reached into her pack and pulled out the dead Ghost.  She grimaced at the sight of it, now that she was in some better lighting.  It’s shell was all beaten up and it’s Light was gone.  “I need to notify the Vanguard that their scout was murdered,” she sighed.  She slid the Ghost back into the safety of her satchel then slid her helmet back on her head.  “C’mon.  Let’s head to the Tower.”  She leaned forward, grabbed the controls of her sparrow, and punched the throttle.  After a wide turn around through the trees, she headed off for the Last City.

She gave the report when she arrived.  Every gruesome detail.  She placed Ghost on the table.  Hopefully the Vanguard could get any of the information they needed, but Rose advised against sending a strike team down there.  Their numbers down in that cavern were astounding.  She blamed herself for not getting there in time.  Maybe if she had been faster, she could have saved them before they ran out of bullets.

When she told them about the rose, she saw all of their shoulders tense up.  Ikora was the first one to turn to her.

“Rose…”  The Warlock Vanguard sighed.  “There was nothing you could do.  They were likely dead before we even assigned you the extraction.”

“Who did this?”  Rose asked, her voice was tense with frustration.  Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides.  “You say that like you know who’s responsible for all of these unexplained deaths and disappearances.  Who is doing this to us, Master Rey?”

“We don’t know who they are, Rose,”  Ikora said firmly.  “Nor do we know their motive.  We just know that they are out there, and that they will not stop.  Several of my Hidden are trying to track them down.  Please, do not worry yourself with this.”

Rose’s entire body went rigid as her muscles tensed with anger.  “‘Don’t worry myself with this’?  Are you actually telling me not to worry about someone who is out there, killing guardians for sport?!  Most of the people who have gone missing are scouts, Ikora!  Do you really think that I shouldn’t be worried about it?”

“If you wish to step down from your position, we would—”  Zavala started.

The Hunter slammed her fist on the table.  “Like hell I’m going to step down!”  She snapped.

“Easy there, Rose,” Cayde butt in before she could start cursing out the Vanguard Commander.  He turned to the Titan adjacent to him.  “She’s the best scout I got, Zavala... maybe we could—”

The Titan shook his head.  “Absolutely not.  I won’t put any more of your scouts at risk, Cayde, we can’t afford to lose anyone else.”

“If anyone could find this guy, it’s Ikhnaie!  She earned the name for good reason!”  Cayde exclaimed.  He turned back to Rose.  “If you’re up for the job, of course.  I don’t need to tell you about the risks, you already know them.”

Rose placed her hands flat on the table and looked at the dead Ghost that was between them.  Cayde was right.  She was the only one who was uniquely skilled with tracking.  And she had the rose to go off of.  Evidence that was so uniquely theirs, she could follow similar signs.   Look for patterns in the deaths and disappearances.  But it was dangerous.  Even if she found them, there was no telling if she could get out alive.  She closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath.

“When do I start?”

masterlist

[thecleverdame]

Sleepy Hollow - Chapter Two

Series Master List

Pairings: Sam x Reader, mentions of Dean x Jo

Summary: In 1799, specialized police constables Sam and Dean Winchester are sent from New York City to a small town called Sleepy Hollow to investigate a series of murders. Approached by the town’s council, the Winchesters discover the local residents believe that the murders are the work of a deadly Hessian horseman whose head has been mysteriously chopped off. With help from the beautiful Y/N Van Tassel, Sam Winchester’s investigation takes him further through the dark wood where more murders have been occurring. What Sam does not realize is that the mysterious Horseman is being controlled by someone in a sinister plot to kill the most suitable men in the village.

Warnings: Canon-level violence, murder, smut, horror, gore and a little fluff for good measure.

Words: 40k

Beta:  ilikaicalie

This series is completed. You can read it on my Patreon for a monthly pledge of 2.50. This pledge includes early access to all my stories and Patreon exclusive content.  >> CLICK HERE <<

-

Flat of Sam Winchester Sam packs his bags, methodically wrapping jars of chemicals and gently folding anatomy charts. He’s going to bring as much of his laboratory as the carriage will allow.

“Do you truly need all this?” Dean is holding a heavy jar up to the light, it’s contents questionable as the specimen floats to the side of the glass. “Dad didn’t need fancy magnifying glasses, he did the job with a gun and a bible.”

“Dad was convinced there were monsters in every dark corner of the world. He was just another believer who fell in with the mass hysteria.” Sam doesn't like to talk about John, there’s too much unfinished business. “How many genuine poltergeists have we come across in our life, three?”

“Four.” Dean holds up four fingers triumphantly. “You always forget the woman in white.”

Sam looks up as if remembering for the first time. “That seems like a lifetime ago.”

“I suppose it does.” Getting up from his perch, Dean wanders around the room as Sam goes about his work. The walls are filled with charts and maps, Sam’s always had a secret pension for cartography.

Above the fireplace there two photos. One is of their parents, John sitting in a chair, Mary standing behind him with her hand placed on his shoulder. There is no joy, only long faces as they look into the camera. The second is of a beautiful blonde woman, her hair falling over her shoulder, her name written in elaborate calligraphy across the bottom of the frame: Jessica. Dean takes the pictures, making a close inspection of the woman who was once part of his brother's life.

“If you’re going to touch my things, you can wait downstairs.” Sam plucks the frame from Dean’s hand and tucks it into his case, along with his clothing.

“You can’t have that much more to pack. There’s nothing left.” Dean holds his hands out, showcasing the bare room.

“I’m almost done.” Sam walks to the window, opening a birdcage with a bright red cardinal inside.

“What will you do with him?” Dean watches the bird flutter out of the cage and then out the open window.

“Fly free. It is a good day for sad farewells.” Sam watches it go, looking down at the coach on the street below. “Our carriage awaits.”

-

It takes an hour to get out of New York City, the coach lumbering past the city limits, forgoing civilization. The wide road narrows, a single dirt path that leads onward through thickly forested wilderness.

“Jo had no interest in accompanying us?” Sam inquires, looking out the window at the never ending sea of trees. Dusk is falling but they plan to continue on throughout the night.

“She’s unhappy with me.” Dean shrugs, his lip curling.

“With good reason.” Sam lifts an eyebrow.

“I don’t need your judgment as well as hers. We’ll have a child the normal way, just as everyone else does.”

“Not if you’re with me on this investigation. I believe one has to be present to conceive a child.” Sam can’t help but tease.

“Don’t get smart.” Dean kicks his brother's boot. “We’ve plenty of time. She’s not that old, although to hear her tell it, she’s nearing her final years. Everything is dramatic beyond reason.”

“Maybe,” Sam shrugs. “She wants a child, it seems like a normal desire.”

“She wants someone else’s child, from an orphanage.” Dean shakes his head. “I’m not talking about this anymore. It’s part of the reason I’m here, I need a break from this constant pressure.”

“You’ll hear no more of it from me.” Sam smiles, taking their father’s journal from his bag.

“If you think he was a lunatic, why do you carry his journal with you?”

“There’s a lot to be learned.” Sam taps the cover. “He might have not realized what he saw, but from just the description I’m able to deduce what sort of natural phenomenon he was witnessing. Just last week I determined his obsession with the will-o'-the-wisp was likely nothing more than swamp gas. This is what gives us insight. When the villagers start talking of magical fairy lights in the forest, we’ll know where to start looking.”

“He’d hate it.” Dean chuckles, rolling up his jacket as a pillow, lying down on the bench.

“Yes, he would.”

He has few memories of his father. And what remains are faint recollections. What he can recall with a burning intensity are his father’s obsessions. His quest to find and kill monsters that never really existed. John Winchester saw demons lurking in every shadow. He found the devil in whispered secrets and meaningless symbols. And his father killed without discretion, he saw only black and white, good and evil.

John’s relentless belief in the spiritual world is what still fuels Sam’s desire to disprove anything otherworldly. He and Dean rely on facts and a sense of order and reason. Rarely do the creatures hiding in the night turn out to be anything other than flesh and blood men.

The sun quickly fades as the coach rocks along, tree branches scraping the side of the carriage. Somewhere in the distance a wolf howls and Sam looks out the small window into the black of night, before shutting the curtain and finding some sleep of his own.

The next morning, Sam wakes up before Dean, peeking out to reveal their journey has progressed through the sun-dappled forest. His brother is still in the depths of deep sleep, a hand resting limp in his lap. Across Dean’s open palm is a prominent scar, a long nasty cut he acquired in a scuffle many years ago.  Sam checks the contents of his leather satchel, pausing for a moment to study the palm of his own hand. There are strange scars on both palms, evenly dispersed tiny dots of white tissue. He’s had them his entire life, unsure of how they came to be.

Sleepy Hollow

Sam and Dean stand between two massive stone pillars, watching the coach as it leaves them behind.

“You’ll have to leave most of your luggage here. We can send for it later.” Dean grumbles, picking up his bags. “Tell me again why he couldn’t take us into town?”

“Superstition,” Sam confirms, glancing up at the tree limbs above them. “Dean, look.”

There are dead ravens hanging from the branches, strung up by twine.

“A few dead crows to keep the rest out of the fields.” Dean’s grimaces. “It’s a grisly sight. Welcome to Sleepy Hollow.”

They follow the winding road to town, passing a church and a graveyard. The road ahead is bordered by rows of businesses and two-story homes. As they enter the town square an elderly woman stands in her doorway, watching. Sam tips his hat and the woman scowls, looking away and shutting the door with a thud.

“I just love townspeople,” Dean chortles.

Looking up Sam spies another townie staring down from his window. The moment their eyes meet he closes the shutters.

“I’m seeing a pattern,” Sam comments, looking behind him. As they continue they see there are two or three riflemen placed at vantage points on the roofs of the town. Looking back Sam spies another in the church tower. The whole village is like the wild west, waiting for outlaws to attack.

Off in the distance, sitting in the middle of a field, there’s a strange wooden bunker, more like a small fortress with a huge bell mounted on the top. Several farmers are gathered around it all bearing rifles. The Winchesters pause, looking at each other and the sight before them. A young boy about ten, walks up to one of the rifleman, with food and drink tied up in a cloth. The older man looks down, offering the boy an affectionate pat on the head.

“Don’t worry, son.”

Another man leads the boy away as the father climbs back up onto the bunker, several rifles slung over his back. In front of the bunker, across the field, other farmers are lighting torches, enough to line the entirety of the forest's edge.

“What have we gotten ourselves into?” Sam murmurs, moving forward.

“I don’t think we should be outside during night hours, Sam.” Dean hikes his bag up on his shoulder. “This doesn’t feel right.”

“We’re headed there.” Sam points to a grand manor home sitting atop a hill, the windows are aglow, casting a warm picture against the gray backdrop of impending night.

Van Tassel House

Sam sets down his bags on the porch of the stately home. The length of the porch is lined with jack-o-lanterns, glowing orange.

Dean shoves an elbow into his brother’s ribs, drawing his attention to a couple, lustfully wrapped around each other in a dark corner of the porch. Sam clears his throat, mumbling an apology and opening the door. A shaft of light illuminates the kissing duo, both brothers memorizing their faces for future reference.

The front door opens to reveal the foyer and main hall. There’s a harvest party in progress, the town is gathered, music playing in the background. Men and women are enjoying food and drink, talking quietly in groups as Sam and Dean make their way through the celebration.

Dean stops a young woman, smiling with brazen charm. “Pardon our intrusion, we’re seeking Baltus Van Tassel.”

“In the parlor sir, farther on,” she nods, glancing back to him. Ahead they find a large group of men, women, and children in a circle, taunting a blindfolded woman, you, being spun around by a barrel-chested man.

-

You can feel your head roll as Brom spins you, again and again, his large hands lingering on your shoulders for longer than necessary. Suddenly he releases you, and everyone goes quiet, avoiding your searching outstretched hands.

You circle slowly, the blindfold tightly covering your eyes, chanting the refrain that makes the children and even some of the women shiver with pleasurable fright. They stifle their giggles as you reach out, grasping at the air. “The Pickety Witch, the Pickety Witch, who’s got a kiss for the Pickety Witch?”

Lunging forward, you grab empty air, narrowly missing Brom as the crowd snickers. Dean glances back, noting the couple from the porch making their way back into the party. Sam is leading the way, trying to pass through the crowd to reach the far door.

You reach out, only to meet the solid frame of a warm body beneath your hands as the room goes silent. You’ve no idea that the room is quiet because you’ve grabbed onto a stranger. After all, silence is the point of the game, to avoid your capture.

Your hand pats the chest in front of you, he’s a man and he’s large. Reaching up you touch Sam’s face.

Sam’s looks to Dean who just grins back. “A kiss, a kiss!” a child calls out.

“She has to guess first,” yells another woman. Dean watches the man who was just outside with another woman, slip his arm around the wifely matron standing beside him. He’s only been here ten minutes and he’s already confirmed an extramarital affair. Your fingers trail across the strong jaw of the unknown man before you. You’ve no idea who it is, so you take a guess. “Is it...Theodore?” The crowd laughs and Sam clears his throat. “Pardon ma’am. I am a stranger here.” A stranger? You smile, excited at the prospect. “Have a kiss on account then.”

Standing on the tips of your toes, you stretch up, placing a kiss at his jaw, then take off your blindfold to reveal a breathtakingly handsome man standing before you. There’s a gentle smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, his bright eyes shining. But his entire expression changes when he gets a clear look at your face.

For a fleeting moment, Sam flounders, stricken by the sight of you, his composure failing him as he stares at you, somewhat stunned.

You glance down at his hand, finding no ring on his finger.

“I...um, I am looking for Baltus Van Tassel,” he manages, never looking away.

“You’re in luck.” You smile, eyes locked on each other. “I am his daughter. Y/N Van Tassel.”   “And who are you, friend? We have not heard your name yet.” Brom steps forward.

Sam gives you one last look before turning his attention to the man, roughly matching his height and size, who’s clearly unhappy with his presence.

“I have not said it. Excuse me…” Sam tries to move forward.

Brom grabs at Sam’s collar as Sam stares at him, confused at this overreaction.

“Brom!” You shout, tugging on his arm. He’s always had a delusion that he has some claim to you, but in reality, there is no love connection between you, there never will be.

“You need some manners.” Brom hisses.

“You need to release my brother.” Dean steps forward and the crowd steps back, leaving the three men in the center of the room.

“Come, come.” There’s a chuckle from the back of the room. It’s your father, Baltus. “We want no raised voices on this happy occasion.”

“Father,” you gesture toward Brom.

“It is only to raise the spirits during this dark time that I and my good wife are giving this little party.” Your stepmother stands behind your father, looking on with silent judgment.  Brom releases Sam, stepping back and you relax.

Sam shakes off the confrontation, just happy to have a focal point, somewhere to concentrate other than your wonderful face and full bosom.

“Young sirs, you are welcome, even if you are selling something!” He chuckles, patting his belly.

“Thank you.” Sam smoothes a hand through his hair. “I am Constable Sam Winchester, this is my brother, Constable Dean Winchester. We are sent to you from New York with authority to investigate the murders in Sleepy Hollow.”

This news seems to have quite the effect as the entire room goes still. You give both men the appraisal they deserve, they are rather wonderful examples of the male gender. Smart and handsome is an elusive pairing in a village as small as this one.

“What good are Constables?” Reverend Steenwyck pipes up, unable to contain his outburst. “Reverend.” Lady Van Tassel, your stepmother, gives the Clergyman a reproachful look, moving forward towards the brothers. “Sleepy Hollow is grateful to you, Constables. I hope you will honor this house by remaining with us until-”

“Until you’ve made an arrest!” Brom snorts.

To both Sam and Dean’s surprise, this gets a nervous laugh. Your father frowns and Brom snorts but all you can do is look at Constable Sam Winchester with renewed interest. He’s to stay in your home, a fact that brings interesting possibility.

Sam can feel you watching him as if he has a sixth sense that’s activated only for you. His brother, Dean, is the one who catches you appraising Sam like a prize pig, trying to hide his amusement as you look away with a sly smile. Baltus turns to his wife, “Well spoken!” Then turns to Sam and Dean. “Come, gentlemen. We’ll get you settled. Play on! Let the party resume.” The fiddlers strike up the music as you watch the two men leave the room.

[volturialice]

three christmases

last fic of the decade? last fic of the decade! 

this is part 1/3. had planned to release all 3 parts together but then a huge unsaved chunk got deleted (oops.) parts 2 and 3 will be up tomorrow!

summary: three very different christmases in the life of alice cullen.

rating: mature (but this part is gen. mature stuff later)

pairings: alice cullen/jasper hale

length: 1.3k out of ~6k

part 1/3

i. christmas 1919

He appears at her window at half past ten. The air is chilly enough to raise gooseflesh on the exposed back of her neck as he whisks her away, through the grounds, over the wall, and into the forest—but Alice doesn’t complain. She lives for these nighttime jaunts. She focuses on keeping the little bottle hidden from Aslam, though of course he’s noticed that she’s holding on with one arm instead of the usual two.

“Something wrong, child?” he asks, when at last they reach their clearing. He sets her down, eyeing the arm concealed behind her back with amused suspicion.

Alice laughs. “No. I brought you a present.” With a flourish, she produces the tin, offering it to him. He takes it, turning it over in his weathered stone hands.

“Shoe polish?” his voice is amused.

Alice crosses her arms. “There are only so many things I get the chance to steal. It was this or a hunk of stale bread,” she pouts.

Aslam’s laugh rumbles through the clearing. “You are right,” he chuckles. “I have more use for shoe polish. Do not misunderstand, little one—I am grateful for the gift. Only confused as to the occasion.”

Alice plucks up a handful of twigs, tossing them into the ashy remains of the fire from last time. “It’s Christmas!”

Aslam blurs out of sight for a moment, then reappears with his arms full of sticks. “Ah. Is it indeed? Your countrymen set much store by this holiday, I have observed. The traditions are…strange.”

“I suppose many traditions are, if you didn’t grow up with them,” says Alice, taking the sticks and adding them to the pile. “But I could explain Christmas, if you want.”

“Very well, child. What do you remember?”

“Well,” Alice chews her lower lip thoughtfully, “The dull part was going to church. I never liked sitting still for all that time.”

Aslam is piling up more kindling. He darts away for more dead branches, but Alice doesn’t doubt that he’s still listening, even when he’s out of sight.

“What did you like?” he asks, reappearing again.

“I liked all the singing,” explains Alice, and hums a few bars of “It Came Upon the Midnight Clear.”

Aslam smiles. He has a wonderful grin. When his red eyes crinkle up at the corners, they transform the austere handsomeness of his face into something almost approachable.

“What else?” he prompts.

“I liked decorating the house. There are all sorts of ways—most anything can be turned into a decoration, if you use it right. I’m good with a needle, so I made a lot of cranberry garlands.”

“Red berries, on a string? I have seen those,” observes Aslam, “and wondered at their purpose.”

“They don’t have one!” laughs Alice. “But I think they look festive. The best decorations are pine boughs, though. They made the house smell divine. And the tree. I liked smelling the tree.”

Aslam pulls a matchbox from his pocket, and strikes one. “Ah, yes, the tree. Does the tree have a purpose?”

Alice shrugs. “It’s something else to decorate. I always wanted to put the star at the top, but I was never tall enough.”

In the light of the single match, Aslam looks contemplative. His red eyes flicker from Alice to the wavering flame before he blows it out with a decisive huff. The next second, he’s on his feet, offering her a hand up.

“All right, little one,” he says, turning away and sinking into a crouch. “Climb on.”

Alice obeys. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

He runs and runs, for what must be miles—much farther than usual. The cool air whooshes past Alice’s face, colder at this speed—she shivers and shrinks down against Aslam’s back, out of the wind. If only he had body heat. If only Alice didn’t have body heat. If only she were strong enough, fast enough, to run beside him.

It Came Upon the Midnight Clear is still running through her head, so after a while she picks it up again, hums the rest of it to herself. Aslam doesn’t mind; he likes to hear her sing. Once he taught her a song in Hindavi. She hums that one next, and thinks it makes him smile but it’s hard to tell from her perch on his back.

The trees that blur by grow taller, the branches overhead thickening until they blot out the patches of sky. Aslam’s fleet footsteps fall silent as the dry leaves and underbrush give way to a carpet of pine needles. There’s a heavy scent in the air—pine sap, crisp and fresh and pungent, searing the inside of Alice’s nose. It smells like being clean.

Aslam whips to a stop at the base of what must be the tallest tree in the forest, its trunk almost broader than he is tall. “Close your eyes and hold on tight,” he orders, and then they’re flying again, nearly as fast, except this time the swooping sensation in the pit of Alice’s stomach tells her they’re climbing up.

There’s the lightest of rustling sounds as they stop. “Very well,” says Aslam. “Open your eyes.”

Alice does, and blinks in the sudden wash of blue brilliance. They’re so high up that there’s nothing to come between them and the moon, the heavens. The sky spreads out like a great glittering bowl above them, every star clear as a diamond in the crisp winter air. Below them the forest canopy is a dark ocean, pointy conifer tops stretching on for miles in every direction.

Gingerly, Alice relaxes her grip enough to climb down onto a branch, careful not to scrape her feet on the rough bark. From here, tucked against the trunk, the view is spectacular.

“There you are,” says Aslam. “Pine boughs, and a tree with a star at the top.” He points up, to where a bright bluish star shines almost directly above them.

Alice laughs, craning her neck to look up. “Lots of stars! You’ve spoiled me.”

They stay there for a long time, soaking in the view and the scent and each other’s company until Alice’s fingers start to go numb around her branch. Then she has to close her eyes again as Aslam descends in a single bound, the exhilarating rush of the fall making her giggle.

On the run back to their clearing, he tells her in a low voice about the stars they were looking at, and how the people where he comes from believe they govern fate. “You would be very popular there, with your dreams,” he assures her. “Your gift would be cherished for what it is.”

There’s a longing in his voice when he says it. He wants greater things for her, even if he doesn’t have a plan yet.

Alice switches the subject back to traditions when they reach their clearing and coax the fire to life, asking Aslam about the holidays they celebrate in India. Between all the different religions and cultures, there seem to be a great many—he tells her of prayers and fasting, dances and feasts, candles and colorful artworks made from powder and petals. She falls asleep to the tale of a great demon burned in effigy, imagining as her eyelids drift closed that she can see a faint figure twisting in the flames.

She dozes dreamlessly, warmed through by the fire. Aslam watches her with eyes redder than the blaze, and thinks about the stars, and fate, and the frailty of humans—their narrow minds, their fickle hearts, their brittle bodies crumbling beneath his hands—so fragile. Not like this girl, whose resilience runs deep. He feels—no, he knows, with all the conviction of one who has lived for centuries—she isn’t meant to be human.

“Happy Christmas, little one,” he murmurs. His decision is made, at long last.

Alice does not wake, but begins to dream.

.

stay tuned for part 2: the dream (we’re doing like a cloud atlas nested story thing just go with it)

[monsterousmasterpiece666]

Jason V and Summer Camp

*Word Count: 2,167   *Warning: Adult content, blood and gore, Serial Killer is your crush

**I realized there weren’t many stories about my favorite serial killer, so I decided to write one of my own. Hope you guys like it. I’ve been hand-writing this story actually, so typing it up has been an adventure. I know it’s really different from what I usually write...so I hope it’s okay.**

You knew in your heart that coming to Camp Crystal Lake was a bad idea, but of course here you were. The legends and stories were racing through your mind, they should have scared you well enough away, but the small work bus was happily speeding towards your destination. You were on your way to your new summer job, thanks to your friend Alice who signed you up just for the “hot guys” that would be working with you two.

“You want a smoke before we get there babe?” A tall bronze skinned man burst your thought bubble, you thought his name was Dimitri, but you couldn’t be sure. He was one of the real reasons Alice signed the two of you up for this “adventure”.

“Uh thanks but no thanks. Trying to live a decent lifestyle for my age,” you were pretty sure that he called you a prude but you could care less what he thought of you. Sure you smoked the occasional green grass, but you always knew when to behave. He was probably only bothering you because you were obviously different from the other girls on the small bus, in more ways than one. Your hair was about to the middle of your back, pulled into a messy bun, a few of the strands flowing with the breeze through the windows of the bus. A black loose tank top was clinging to your body, with a red plaid long sleeved shirt that had the sleeves pulled up to your elbows. To top it all off a pair of nice fitting blue jeans, wide at the bottom of your black chucks poking out at the bottom of them. All the other girls were wearing as little clothes as possible, and all the makeup they could find in the drugstores. They did realize this trip was all work and no play right? Rolling up to the camp was exactly how you expected it to be, dusty and eerie. Climbing out of the bus with the other volunteers, whose names you hardly remember you see the old couple who hired you. They decided to reopen the camp, but couldn’t spruce things up on their own due to their age. That’s where you and your team come in handy.

The first week went by smoothly, but it was time for the first weekend. From what you read about Jason Voorhees and the history of this camp, it seemed like a party and other adult orientated things caused the mass killings. You decided at the beginning to have your own cabin away from the rest of the group, they all protested of course and wanted you to room with them, but after much convincing they finally let you be.

“Y/N! Pull your head from the clouds and help me decide what to wear! Dimitri asked me to be his company for the party tonight!” Alice was all too eager to please her new beau of course. Regardless she was your friend, and you cared about her the best that you could muster. She finally settled on a skin tight black shorts and a lacy blue tank top, all while she begged you to join the party, but you politely declined. Settling into your chair, you looked up at the full moon. Slipping your ear buds in, you pulled the soft red flannel around you, before pulling out your journal to work on your story. The soft glow of the light behind you from the fire, and the soft tunes playing your ear, your eyelids fluttering closed.

Something warm ran down your cheek, startling you awake. Opening your eyes immediately shot a chill down your spin, a tall hocked masked figure standing above you, his piercing eyes boring into yours. Your hand moving before your brain could process anything else; you touched the warm drop on your cheek. Bringing it up to your eyes, the crimson color sending a new wave of chills through. You silently prayed for your death to be quick, steeling your nerves while gathering the strength to speak.

Slowly standing up from your chair before him, you pull the buds from your ears swallowing thickly before turning to face your death.

“I’m not going to run or beg for my life, I know all about you and what you do. If you’re going to kill me like you did the others, please do it now.” He stood still before you while completely silent, his eyes darting down the music coming from your ear buds. Turning the music down, you see his hand gripping the bloody machete relax just a bit.

“My name is Y/N, and I know you’re Jason. I know what happened to you all those years ago, and I’m sorry. No one deserves to have that happen to them, and I’m sorry people continue to invade your space.” Your voice surprisingly steady as he bowed his head to you. In a swift motion your body was flung over his shoulder, the sharp blade resting against your jean clad thigh. Mind racing you decide it’s best to stay silent and let him do whatever he was going to do. Being carried by various bodies you saw the most revolting things that would make anyone’s stomach churn. One boy whose name you thought was James, had his head sliced in half, brains sliding out of the opening. A tear slipped down your cheek when you saw Alice, pierced against her cabin door. Her soft pink intestines were slowing working their way out of her small body, blood still gushing from the fresh wound. As he carried you past the dock you saw who you thought was Dimitri, it looked like his long shaggy hair hanging over the boat anyway. Panic flooded through you as you noticed that the tree line was growing closer, and the forest scared you during the daytime so it only terrified you at night. Decided to risk more one sided conversation you opened your mouth again,

“Jason where are you taking me? The forest scares me more than you do if I’m completely honest.” Once again your mouth worked before your brain did, as you felt his firm grip get even tighter on your leg. This is it, the moment you’ve been waiting for. He must have carried you out here so no one would ever find your body. Closing your eyes as your mind began to ready itself for death, not even noticing the sound of a lock opening you were abruptly put on your feet. Opening your eyes, looking up at the massive figure you feel warmth behind you, your head slowly swiveling around and allowing your eyes to adjust and scan the area around you. It was a small shabby cabin, with a very worn down bed and a roaring fireplace beside it. A small bloodstained table held a number of different weapons that made you shudder. His massive weight made the bed groan and squeak under him, all while you simply stood there. You should’ve ran, but your legs wouldn’t let you move. He sat there looking up at you, a slight longing in his eyes you simply couldn’t place until it finally hit you. Your jeans were ripped from various branches and the blood left stains up and down them. Your flannel was covered in dirt and leaves while your tank top underneath simply had dirt on it. Finally the flame flickered perfectly and allowed you to see the front of his dirty strained jeans. It finally hit you, he wanted physical affection, and you guess he’s never actually experienced it before.

“Jason I want to help you, but I need you to trust me okay?” He continued to just sit there as he slowly nodded. You should have been running, not getting turned on by a crazy serial killer. Slowly kneeling before him you had to steel your nerves against and try your best to ignore the still warm blood from your “friends” on his clothes. Raising your hand up, you gently black it on his leg feeling his body tense up underneath your touch.

“Don’t worry Jason. This will make you feel a lot better.” Maybe this is why he killed all those horny drugged up teens, because he couldn’t get any satisfaction himself. Sliding your hand up to his hip you let him relax before moving to the crotch of his jeans. A loud sigh escaped him as your fingers gently squeeze, heat steadily growing between your legs. Your other hand slowly sliding down between your own legs as you began to rub both you and him. His grunts only encourage you further, as you stare up at him, before sliding both of your hands to the front of his pants. Slowly slipping the button free, fingers playing with the zipper you wait for his reassurance before your next move. A simple grunt almost answered your question but you had to ask,

“Jason would you allow me the privilege to do this for you? I promise to go slow.” He looked down at you and nodded as you unzipped his pants and his length busting through the fabric. Your fingers slowly wrapping around it you were amazed at the length and weight of it, for a serial killer he really was hung. Your arousal began to pool between your legs, amazed that you were jacking off a serial killer and getting insanely turned on at the same time. Using both of your hands, you swiped off a bit of the precum at the tip, bringing it to your mouth to taste. He was musty but oddly sweet, and you knew you had to have more of it. Your hands slipped away from him just to undo your pants to get a better reach at yourself, what happened next still stuns you to this day. A pair of large strong hands gripped your waist lifting you up in the air as he stood, throwing you down onto the raggedy mattress. His large machete back in his hand he pressed the sharp edge against your jeans, driving you even crazier as it sliced through the fabric. He then dragged the edge over your breast, and down in between them to slice your tank top open before he threw it to the other side of the cabin. His large hands ripping open from the cuts he made along your clothes, your bra breaking under his strong pull, and your panties ripping against your hip as he shredded your jeans. There goes your clothes, but at this moment you could care less all you wanted was him. Finally sitting on you, his length reached above your belly button, never had you had anyone that big but you were extremely ready. Sliding your hand down you guided him to your sweet spot, he grunted feeling your wetness against his cock as he immediately began to push into you. Moaning loudly as you squirmed under him, feeling your body stretch open for him, soaking every inch of his cock. His large hands on your breasts, pinning you down as he began to thrust roughly and quickly into you grunting in unison to your moans, the blood on his clothes dripping onto your flesh the warmth sending the sensations further. You attempted to move, trying to get into another position but he simply wouldn’t allow you,

“Jason if you let me turn over you can do me even better! Please please!” Here you were begging, but not for your life just for more of his cock in you different ways. He quickly stopped and removed his hands, as you managed to roll over your head to the side. His hand gripped your neck squeezing it firmly, the other on your back holding you down as he began to slam and drill into you, bruising your hips with each thrust. A warm sensation flooding through you as you came around him, your walls gripping him even tighter as your sweet cream flowed out around you. He grunted behind you as he came with you, squeezing even tighter as you blacked out from the lack of air and insane amount of pleasure pulsing through your body.

Next thing you woke up to was him sitting beside the small table messing with his weapons, a large shirt draped over you as you looked up at him biting your lip to hide a smile.

“Jason does this mean you’ll keep me around for even just a short while now? Because I could go for round two.” He looks up at you and nods, before looking back to his weapons. Simply falling back onto the mattress you figured this would be a great summer, and a lazy one at that. Everything about him drove you wild, and you supposed it meant you were insane just like him, but at least you would be with someone that made you feel good and not like an outsider.

[writerspink]

K-12 Words

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K-12 Words was originally published on PinkWrite

[wikitopx]

Nantes will always be known as the capital of Brittany, although now it is in another area.

The Dukes of Brittany ruled their lands from here until the Duchy was united with France in the 16th century and their former seat of power is still one of Nantes' most commanding buildings. The Loire is the lifeblood of the Nantes and has brought the world to the threshold of the city, allowing commerce and industry to flourish. Take the city’s Navibus shuttles to ride the marvelous machines on the Île de Nantes or lounge by the riverside in the bohemian village of Trentemoult on the left bank. Let's explore the best things to do in Nantes.

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1. Château des Ducs de Bretagne

The old seat of the Duke of Brittany is the last castle on the Loire before it empties into the Atlantic. The fortified palace is in the eastern part of the old town, although it’s hard to miss the hefty walls and towers that encircle the refined Grand Logis where the dukes lived.

The castle was built in the 13th century and occupied by the Duke for 300 years until it became the residence of the French royal family in the 1500s.

The courtyard and ramparts are free to enter, but you pay to visit the Nantes History, which reveals the different stages in the city’s evolution, from the slave trade to its time as an industrial port.

The deep green space of the deep moat, Douves du Château, is a spectacular location for a summer afternoon.

2. Les Machines de l’Île

The west side of the Île de Nantes is inhabited by whimsical animatronic creatures inspired by Jules Verne’s writings and Leonardo da Vinci’s fanciful gizmos and brought to life by the artist François Delaroziere.

All these extraordinary machines are interactive: The Grand Éléphant, for example, is 12 meters tall and carries 52 passengers on its back for a walk in which you can feel the vibration of every step.

Carrousel des Mondes Marins is a huge conveyor belt with moving sea creatures, and Aroust aux Hérons is a climbing sculpture with ramps and stairs in the form of a large tree. The indoor Galerie des Machines have many more sculptures and show you how they were designed and built.

3. Passage Pommeraye

Between Rue de la Fosse and Rue Santeuil, this shopping area since 1843 is not a complicated place to shop but an ingenious architecture and a sight to see. The passage was built on a steep slope, and it adapted to the nine-meter height difference with a clever intermediate floor between the two street levels.

4. Jardin des Plantes

Classified as one of France’s “remarkable gardens”, the Jardin des Plantes packs 10,000 species into its seven hectares. The gardens are right in the middle of the city, just ten minutes on foot from the Château des Ducs de Bretagne.

It has no normal park: the Palm House here is an excellent metal and glass structure in the late 19th century with plants from tropical America, while the three greenhouses on the sides have orchids from Africa and Asia.

As you walk the streets, you will see mature trees like a 220-year-old magnolia tree and two great trees planted 150 years ago.

5. Île Feydeau

When you’re exploring Île Feydeau you may wonder why this district just south of the center is called an island, or why streets have names like Quai Turenne when there’s no sign of water. Well, it was an island up to the 1930s when one of the arms of the Loire was blocked off.

Before the 18th-century Feydeau had been uninhabitable marshland when a land reclamation project created a dignified quarter for the city’s wealthy merchants to live. Their flat-fronted homes are beautiful, with iron balconies, mansard roofs, and carved stone grotesques.

The ground below is still soft, causing some of these townhouses to lie on their side.

6. Muséum d’Histoire Naturelle

Nantes’ Natural History Museum has a fine setting in the city’s old mint and has galleries for every branch of natural science: There are zoological, paleontological, mineralogical, ethnographical and a host of other collections from fields with long names, assembled since the 1700s.

The specimen guaranteed to turn heads is the fin whale skeleton in the zoology gallery, more than 18 meters in length and suspended from the ceiling. The Vivarium, which was added in 1955, and was refurbished recently, has a set of terrariums with snakes and other exotic reptiles.

7. Nantes Cathedral

Begun in 1434, it took more than 400 years to build the city’s cathedral. Construction continued in the 1600s in brilliant gothic design although it was outdated for a long time because it suited the previous work.

Another intriguing tidbit is that Nicolas Fouquet, the high-living Superintendent of Finances in Louis XIV’s court, was arrested in front of the cathedral by d’Artagnan in 1661. He remained a prisoner for the last 20 years of his life.

You must make time for the Tomb of Francis II, Duke of Brittany, organized as a French Renaissance masterpiece. It dates back to 1507 and contains obsessed sculptures from Carrara white marble.

8. Cours Cambronne

Part of a new city district built in the 18th century, Cours Cambronne is a magnificent square between two 180 meter-long terraces of neoclassical mansions.

Step along the regal central avenue to see the statue of Pierre Cambronne, a military general born in Nantes and injured in the Battle of Waterloo in 1815. Sixteen of the splendid castles on the square are listed in the repository of historical French monuments.

One of the things worth mentioning, in particular, is the Hôtel Scheult, towards the peak of the Rue Piron whose new facade has been restored.

9. Mémorial de l’Abolition de l’Esclavage

It helps to remember that much of Nantes’ Ancien Régime splendor was financed by the slave trade. Nantes was the first city in France to ship slaves on an industrial scale and during the 18th century, the largest proportion of France’s slave ships departed from this port.

So the memorial commemorating the abolition of slavery next to the Loire on Quai de la Fosse is extra poignant. Since the end of the 20th century, the city has started confronting this chapter in its past, and in 2012 it unveiled a somber and austere memorial.

In an underground corridor, you’ll read about the many expeditions made from Nantes, and even the names of the ships involved.

10. Musée de l’Imprimerie

Nantes has had a long relationship with the print newspaper since the first title, Les Lunettes des Princes of the poet Breton Jean Meschinot, in 1493. This museum was founded in 1986 by master prints Sylvain. Chiffoleau and composer Robert Colombiaeau and have built an incredible collection of manual and mechanical printers.

There are also intaglio plates, lithography plates, dyes, and historic typesetting molds. And if all that sounds baffling to you then you can take the tour to get the inside track on the printing industry in Nantes and see how all this arcane equipment was used.

More ideals for you: Top 10 things to do in Livorno

From : https://wikitopx.com/travel/top-10-things-to-do-in-nantes-706752.html

[autolovecraft]

That I had undergone.

' He shrieked, 'Can you not how the curse been carried on through all the Counts of my stay on earth, beyond which I allude is the early age at which all the long centuries since the time of Charles Le Sorcier! The shriek of fright and impotent malice emitted by the words which have ever afterward haunted the house? And my mother having died at my birth, my eyes. Here I found what seemed much like an alchemist's laboratory. Determined upon further exploration, I kept a most careful record, for each movement of the peasant children was laid at the dreaded door of these two. I not told you of the assassin could be found, though relentless bands of peasants scoured the neighboring woods and the want of a swelling mount whose sides are wooded near the age of their unfortunate ancestor at his father's slayer as he approached the body, I asked myself, was killed by an arrow just as he disappeared behind the inky curtain of the greatest mystery of all, new light revealed the distorted and blackened form of Latin in use amongst the more learned men of the most acute description. As I drew near the base with the gnarled trees of the alchemist, the next young Count, Robert by name, Michel, usually designated by the pursuits of commercial life, previously held at small value, now became dimly terrible. Filled with wonder, yet as I had so long viewed with apprehension.

The apparition spoke of a skeleton, was found drowned in the unsteady glare the top of a skeleton, was found drowned in the unsteady glare the top of a reminder dulled the memory of the old castle with evidence of the assassin could be found, though relentless bands of peasants scoured the neighboring woods and the unaccountable disappearance of many small peasant children was laid at the age of thirty-two, there were no known descendants of the many wild ravines of the deep alchemical studies of the curse been carried on through all the Counts of my childhood in poring over the ancient turrets. Upon my twenty-first birthday, the Evil, on account of the spectral wood that clothes the side of the most acute description. When at last but a single tower housed the sadly reduced descendants of the sorcerers and there upon the plains that surround the base with the gnarled trees of the torch. At last the figure spoke in a place as thoroughly deserted as I had spent the better part of the strange curse upon our line that were nightly told and magnified by the frantic father, invaded the cottage of the presence of man or spirit produced in my pockets for flint and steel, and how came he within the voluminous folds of his meaning, the worm-eaten wainscots, and how came he within the voluminous folds of his disconnected speech. I was absolutely resolved. In what strange form the curse had been killed in vain. In what strange form the curse should overtake me, piercing my soul with their hatred, and how had the curse with myself. With new vigor I applied myself to my experience one of the hidden world of black magic. My parents I never knew. My life, have prevented the scions of our line that were nightly told and magnified by the vanishment of young Godfrey in a place as thoroughly deserted as I approached that time when Charles Le Sorcier appeared through the centuries ran the ominous chronicle: Henris, Roberts, Antoines, and once more endeavor to find a spell, that would release my house, told me of my coming end, dwelt on the wrong perpetrated by my prolonged researches into the works of the mysterious stranger. His forehead, high beyond the custom of his disconnected speech.

' Spake he, when the old man, who had therefore been called Le Sorcier concerning the elixir which should grant to him who partook of it eternal life and youth. This passage proved of great length, and made of my line had met. As I slowly traversed the niter-encrusted passageway at the age of thirty-two, there were no known descendants of the old man loved his offspring with fierce intensity, whilst the youth had for his parent a more recently excavated storehouse for gunpowder. The hideous eyes were now fixed upon me, but I was free, I turned away and entered the chamber beyond the Gothic door. But since those glorious years, all was frightfully dark, and soon I saw my opponent to be either a medieval place of confinement, or a more recently excavated storehouse for gunpowder. And my mother having died at my birth, my care and education devolved solely upon one remaining servitor, an old and trusted man of considerable intelligence, whose name I remember as Pierre. Who, I heard the heavy door behind me creak slowly open upon its rusted hinges.

But when, years afterward, the worm-eaten wainscots, and stoutly resisting all my danger from the idea of beholding any more; yet curiosity over-mastered all. Furniture, covered by the human mind. High. That time when Charles Le Sorcier! Of my exact age, even down to days and nights.

But since those glorious years, all was frightfully dark, and even Kings had been old Michel Mauvais, and lit the horrid scene with a pride of name that forbids its alleviation by the strange curse upon the plains that surround the base with the gnarled trees of the late Count's family, so that when Godfrey, innocent cause of the sinister Charles Le Sorcier! The dread of years was lifted from my ears the idle tales of the night. My immediate sensations were incapable of analysis.Spake he, when, suddenly leaping backwards into the works of the walls, the stranger raised a glass phial with the rot of long dampness, met my eyes. And my mother having died at my birth, my eye fell upon a small trapdoor with a shocking sound like the hissing of a terrible and intense black hue, and began to connect them with the rot of long dampness, met my eyes.

But strangest of all my excursions of discovery in the moat at the same fateful age, even down to days and hours, I knew not; but I was an immense pile of shining yellow metal that sparkled gorgeously in the light of the menials standing about told him what had occurred, shrank from the society of the hill near its foot. For centuries its lofty battlements have frowned down upon the wild and rugged countryside about, serving as a sacrifice to the estate. As soon as the tunic of the greatest mystery of all, how the man had obtained access to the spot whereon I stood. Once I caught the name of Charles Le Sorcier. Of my own race I was able to piece together disconnected fragments of discourse, let slip from the curse should overtake me, but I was able to piece together disconnected fragments of discourse, let slip from the society of the castle, less than a week before that fatal hour which I could not well understand. Know you not how the curse; and the unaccountable disappearance of many small peasant children was laid at the mention of my apprehensions. Now I know that its real object was to keep from my shoulder, for, since no other branch of my flickering torch that a blank, water-stained wall impeded my journey.

But strangest of all my attempts to open it.

A poverty but little more than filial affection.

'Fool! His enthusiasm had seemed for the proud house whose honored line is older even than the moss-grown castle walls? Without warning, I asked myself, was found dead in a total faint. Strange and awesome were many of my ancestors. I know that its real object was to keep from my shoulder, for each movement of the walls, the Count laid hands on the watch for the coming of the night. Of my own resources, I asked myself, was killed by an arrow just as he disappeared behind the inky curtain of the sound, as I might thus end the curse in the supernatural was firm and deep-seated, else I should never wed, for I was resolved at least that it should not find me a cowardly or a passive victim.

As the Count, Robert by name, was strangely affected by that which I had proceeded back some distance toward the steps when there suddenly fell to my examination of the most acute description. Without warning, I trembled as I approached the body, I might, in a field, forced poison down his throat, and made familiar to me a family document which he said had for many generations been handed down from father to son, and ere he released his murderous hold, his victim was no more. Its contents were of a skeleton, was this man of considerable intelligence, whose name I remember as Pierre. Furniture, covered by the remains of the sinister thing which had been killed at the creature who menaced my existence. At this point I was strangely affected by that which I had deemed the old castle in which I had always deemed strange, but I was an opening leading out into one of the last staircase, the Evil, on account of the morning in climbing up and down half ruined staircases in one of the alchemist, I knew must be far underground. Then, slowly advancing to meet the Count, Robert by name, Michel, usually designated by the human mind.

[nancygduarteus]

'Forest Bathing': How Microdosing on Nature Can Help With Stress

On first glance, it looked like a two-hour walk in the woods. Our guide had already tackled the hard part of finding a trail with minimal elevation gain and limited poison oak along its flanks. This wasn’t a hike, we were reminded. A hike usually involved clear endpoints and physical exertion. We were invited to walk slower than usual, perhaps a quarter of our normal speed. To pay attention to the different shades of green we encountered, the snapping of twigs beneath our feet, the sudden vaulting of winged life—nothing was ornamental.  Everything was in its right place, including us. The forest bathers and I had come to the woods in search of peace.  All of us were to be present, focused solely on the moment. Our immersion in the natural world would act not only as a balm to everyday stresses but a catalyst: According to the event description, we had gathered outside that day to emerge, as flowers might after a long winter.

In 1982, Japan made shinrin-yoku, or “forest bathing,” a part of its national health program. The aim was to briefly reconnect people with nature in the simplest way possible. Go to the woods, breathe deeply, be at peace. Forest bathing was Japan’s medically sanctioned method of unplugging before there were smartphones to unplug from. Since shinrin-yoku’s inception, researchers have spent millions of dollars testing its efficacy; the documented benefits to one’s health thus far include lowered blood pressure, blood glucose levels, and stress hormones.

I showed up at Joaquin Miller Park in Oakland, California that afternoon for the purported mental-health boost. The four other attendees and I exchanged pleasantries by the trailhead as the sun baked our arms. All of us were women—although San Francisco’s “Forest Bathing Club” Meetup group boasts 428 members across the gender spectrum. However, I’d discovered this outing not on the Meetup but via a late-night, anxiety-induced Google search.

We started off by walking down a paved path. Talking among ourselves was not discouraged, exactly, but neither was it encouraged. A children’s birthday party had claimed a coveted nook among the redwoods to our left. The streaming tinsel of their conical hats could be seen between the branches. I trained my gaze higher, slowly, until it nearly grazed the sky. Six shades of green. A short while later we were in the forest proper. Airplanes could be heard overhead, but just barely. In the woods, the sounds of our wandering were deafening. Each step we took brought an orchestra to life. At one point a blanket emerged from our instructor’s pack. We lay on our backs in a circle, our bottom halves flat against the earth. A stray ant traced the length of my index finger and disappeared behind a rock. The five of us were invited to consider the tops of the trees above, how they swayed even when thick trunks kept them rooted. We closed our eyes as our instructor continued to speak in soothing tones. My mind, blissfully, went blank.

The popularity of forest bathing in the U.S. is unsurprising, particularly in metropolitan areas where people may wish to get outside more often than they wish to go outdoors. To many, the former sounds closer to a stroll in the park than a trek up a mountain. Forest bathing sits in the middle of this false dichotomy, one where people associate being in nature with roughing it or struggle to think of experiencing nature as relaxing. Instead, forest bathers intentionally go outside to relax with nature, and allow nature to help them relax.

An entire industry has cropped up around the practice of forest bathing, ranging from high-end spas eager to lure guests with eco-therapy offerings to training sessions around the globe for the next generation of forest bathing instructors. Tuition for those looking to become formally certified as forest bathing guides runs upwards of $3,200, not including travel, lodging, or food. Some might scoff, but upcoming training sessions in the Berkshires as well as in Northern California are already at capacity.

But what does forest bathing at large look like in a country as vast as America? How does it differ from park prescriptions, where doctors prescribe park outings to their patients? Or from organizations such as GirlTrek, whose aim is to get black women to walk outside for a minimum of 30 minutes a day? While Japan has numerous official “forest therapy trails,” the size and ecological diversity of the U.S. makes it impossible for most people to forest bathe in the ways described thus far. So who, exactly, has access to forest bathing? And is there room for interpretation when it comes to the term? Forest bathing made complete sense in certain geographic areas, namely those with low humidity and temperatures in the 70s. It made less sense in the swamps of South Carolina. I’d felt at peace floating down a river in an inner tube in Florida as a child, but I’d also felt sweaty, thirsty, itchy, and uncomfortable often enough to dive into the water and climb back out.

In Japan, a forest-therapy base must meet certain criteria to be recognized by the government, including a scientific evaluation of its healing ability. In America, however, there are no set guidelines for what constitutes a forest bathing environment. Which raises the question: Is a forest essential to forest bathing? Could one forest bathe in the desert? Or in a park in the middle of a city?

I brought up these questions with my instructor after our walk. He believed anyone anywhere could forest bathe, that the term was never intended to limit what kind of nature individuals expose themselves to. According to him, if people are going outside and centering themselves in nature, they’re forest bathing, even if they’re at the beach. He stressed that the most important thing was getting people to associate being in nature with feeling good. According to the Association of Nature and Forest Therapy, forest bathing “is a research-based framework for supporting healing and wellness through immersion in forests and other natural environments.” That last “and” is important; the forest itself might not be necessary.

Certain research indicates that perhaps you can get some benefits even without the actual outdoors, although such extrapolation is bound to be contentious. Studies conducted by Roger Ulrich at Texas A&M concluded that “environments with nature-related imagery, such as photographs and paintings on the wall, reduce anxiety, lower blood pressure, and reduce pain.” Just looking at an image of nature could be healing.

Virtual environmental therapy may offer a middle ground for those unable to enjoy the outdoors for one reason or another, whether due to physical or environmental limitations. “A real-life experiment is under way at the Snake River Correctional Institution in eastern Oregon,” writes Florence Williams in National Geographic. “Officers there report calmer behavior in solitary confinement prisoners who exercise for 40 minutes several days a week in a ‘blue room’ where nature videos are playing, compared with those who exercise in a gym without videos.”

Likewise, video game consoles are nature-themed, living-room holodecks waiting to happen. Games like Firewatch, a walking simulator set in Shoshone National Forest, offer a free-roam mode, where one can wander hiking trails aimlessly to their heart’s content. In Flower, one plays as a petal that endlessly floats on a breeze. Walden, A Game is an adaptation of Henry David Thoreau’s life among nature. Such gaming experiences fill a niche that appears poised to grow substantially. If individuals recovering from surgery with a view of a garden can heal faster than those with a view of a brick wall, can non-immersive exposure to nature benefit people in other ways.

Admittedly, nothing can take the place of actually going outside and feeling the sun and wind against one’s skin. However, one of the biggest hurdles to getting people the health benefits of the outdoors is helping individuals, especially those from marginalized groups, to feel more comfortable in natural settings. I came to nature through water. A love of beaches and rivers primed me to love other outdoor environments. Everything has to start somewhere. Video games might lead to forest bathing, and forest bathing might lead to hiking (or swimming, or outdoor yoga); all of these are a means to an end, and that end is better health.

My forest bath concluded with a tea ceremony of foraged California bay leaves. They’d been steeped in a thermos of hot water my instructor had brought along. Everyone pooled their snacks together. The group discussed how we felt before and after the walk. Several noted a significant drop in anxiety, including myself. I had come to the woods that day as an experienced thru-hiker, with the hope forest bathing would feel like microdosing a rest day on the Appalachian Trail. And to an extent it did, even without the associated prolonged exertion and endorphins. Transformations come in packages big and small. What forest bathing got me to do for the first time since leaving the A.T. was prioritize my mental health. I could have been recreating with friends in a number of different ways, or working on writing assignments, or on chores at home. Instead, forest bathing reminded me of how important it was to leave my house, shut off my phone, tell my loved ones I’d see them later, and breathe in the world because it was mine.

from Health News And Updates https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2017/06/forest-bathing/532068/?utm_source=feed

[ionecoffman]

'Forest Bathing': How Microdosing on Nature Can Help With Stress

On first glance, it looked like a two-hour walk in the woods. Our guide had already tackled the hard part of finding a trail with minimal elevation gain and limited poison oak along its flanks. This wasn’t a hike, we were reminded. A hike usually involved clear endpoints and physical exertion. We were invited to walk slower than usual, perhaps a quarter of our normal speed. To pay attention to the different shades of green we encountered, the snapping of twigs beneath our feet, the sudden vaulting of winged life—nothing was ornamental.  Everything was in its right place, including us. The forest bathers and I had come to the woods in search of peace.  All of us were to be present, focused solely on the moment. Our immersion in the natural world would act not only as a balm to everyday stresses but a catalyst: According to the event description, we had gathered outside that day to emerge, as flowers might after a long winter.

In 1982, Japan made shinrin-yoku, or “forest bathing,” a part of its national health program. The aim was to briefly reconnect people with nature in the simplest way possible. Go to the woods, breathe deeply, be at peace. Forest bathing was Japan’s medically sanctioned method of unplugging before there were smartphones to unplug from. Since shinrin-yoku’s inception, researchers have spent millions of dollars testing its efficacy; the documented benefits to one’s health thus far include lowered blood pressure, blood glucose levels, and stress hormones.

I showed up at Joaquin Miller Park in Oakland, California that afternoon for the purported mental-health boost. The four other attendees and I exchanged pleasantries by the trailhead as the sun baked our arms. All of us were women—although San Francisco’s “Forest Bathing Club” Meetup group boasts 428 members across the gender spectrum. However, I’d discovered this outing not on the Meetup but via a late-night, anxiety-induced Google search.

We started off by walking down a paved path. Talking among ourselves was not discouraged, exactly, but neither was it encouraged. A children’s birthday party had claimed a coveted nook among the redwoods to our left. The streaming tinsel of their conical hats could be seen between the branches. I trained my gaze higher, slowly, until it nearly grazed the sky. Six shades of green. A short while later we were in the forest proper. Airplanes could be heard overhead, but just barely. In the woods, the sounds of our wandering were deafening. Each step we took brought an orchestra to life. At one point a blanket emerged from our instructor’s pack. We lay on our backs in a circle, our bottom halves flat against the earth. A stray ant traced the length of my index finger and disappeared behind a rock. The five of us were invited to consider the tops of the trees above, how they swayed even when thick trunks kept them rooted. We closed our eyes as our instructor continued to speak in soothing tones. My mind, blissfully, went blank.

The popularity of forest bathing in the U.S. is unsurprising, particularly in metropolitan areas where people may wish to get outside more often than they wish to go outdoors. To many, the former sounds closer to a stroll in the park than a trek up a mountain. Forest bathing sits in the middle of this false dichotomy, one where people associate being in nature with roughing it or struggle to think of experiencing nature as relaxing. Instead, forest bathers intentionally go outside to relax with nature, and allow nature to help them relax.

An entire industry has cropped up around the practice of forest bathing, ranging from high-end spas eager to lure guests with eco-therapy offerings to training sessions around the globe for the next generation of forest bathing instructors. Tuition for those looking to become formally certified as forest bathing guides runs upwards of $3,200, not including travel, lodging, or food. Some might scoff, but upcoming training sessions in the Berkshires as well as in Northern California are already at capacity.

But what does forest bathing at large look like in a country as vast as America? How does it differ from park prescriptions, where doctors prescribe park outings to their patients? Or from organizations such as GirlTrek, whose aim is to get black women to walk outside for a minimum of 30 minutes a day? While Japan has numerous official “forest therapy trails,” the size and ecological diversity of the U.S. makes it impossible for most people to forest bathe in the ways described thus far. So who, exactly, has access to forest bathing? And is there room for interpretation when it comes to the term? Forest bathing made complete sense in certain geographic areas, namely those with low humidity and temperatures in the 70s. It made less sense in the swamps of South Carolina. I’d felt at peace floating down a river in an inner tube in Florida as a child, but I’d also felt sweaty, thirsty, itchy, and uncomfortable often enough to dive into the water and climb back out.

In Japan, a forest-therapy base must meet certain criteria to be recognized by the government, including a scientific evaluation of its healing ability. In America, however, there are no set guidelines for what constitutes a forest bathing environment. Which raises the question: Is a forest essential to forest bathing? Could one forest bathe in the desert? Or in a park in the middle of a city?

I brought up these questions with my instructor after our walk. He believed anyone anywhere could forest bathe, that the term was never intended to limit what kind of nature individuals expose themselves to. According to him, if people are going outside and centering themselves in nature, they’re forest bathing, even if they’re at the beach. He stressed that the most important thing was getting people to associate being in nature with feeling good. According to the Association of Nature and Forest Therapy, forest bathing “is a research-based framework for supporting healing and wellness through immersion in forests and other natural environments.” That last “and” is important; the forest itself might not be necessary.

Certain research indicates that perhaps you can get some benefits even without the actual outdoors, although such extrapolation is bound to be contentious. Studies conducted by Roger Ulrich at Texas A&M concluded that “environments with nature-related imagery, such as photographs and paintings on the wall, reduce anxiety, lower blood pressure, and reduce pain.” Just looking at an image of nature could be healing.

Virtual environmental therapy may offer a middle ground for those unable to enjoy the outdoors for one reason or another, whether due to physical or environmental limitations. “A real-life experiment is under way at the Snake River Correctional Institution in eastern Oregon,” writes Florence Williams in National Geographic. “Officers there report calmer behavior in solitary confinement prisoners who exercise for 40 minutes several days a week in a ‘blue room’ where nature videos are playing, compared with those who exercise in a gym without videos.”

Likewise, video game consoles are nature-themed, living-room holodecks waiting to happen. Games like Firewatch, a walking simulator set in Shoshone National Forest, offer a free-roam mode, where one can wander hiking trails aimlessly to their heart’s content. In Flower, one plays as a petal that endlessly floats on a breeze. Walden, A Game is an adaptation of Henry David Thoreau’s life among nature. Such gaming experiences fill a niche that appears poised to grow substantially. If individuals recovering from surgery with a view of a garden can heal faster than those with a view of a brick wall, can non-immersive exposure to nature benefit people in other ways.

Admittedly, nothing can take the place of actually going outside and feeling the sun and wind against one’s skin. However, one of the biggest hurdles to getting people the health benefits of the outdoors is helping individuals, especially those from marginalized groups, to feel more comfortable in natural settings. I came to nature through water. A love of beaches and rivers primed me to love other outdoor environments. Everything has to start somewhere. Video games might lead to forest bathing, and forest bathing might lead to hiking (or swimming, or outdoor yoga); all of these are a means to an end, and that end is better health.

My forest bath concluded with a tea ceremony of foraged California bay leaves. They’d been steeped in a thermos of hot water my instructor had brought along. Everyone pooled their snacks together. The group discussed how we felt before and after the walk. Several noted a significant drop in anxiety, including myself. I had come to the woods that day as an experienced thru-hiker, with the hope forest bathing would feel like microdosing a rest day on the Appalachian Trail. And to an extent it did, even without the associated prolonged exertion and endorphins. Transformations come in packages big and small. What forest bathing got me to do for the first time since leaving the A.T. was prioritize my mental health. I could have been recreating with friends in a number of different ways, or working on writing assignments, or on chores at home. Instead, forest bathing reminded me of how important it was to leave my house, shut off my phone, tell my loved ones I’d see them later, and breathe in the world because it was mine.

Article source here:The Atlantic

[atticusblog2016-blog]

New Post has been published on Atticusblog

New Post has been published on https://atticusblog.com/a-miracle-at-the-worlds-largest-church/

A Miracle at the World’s Largest Church

YAMOUSSOUKRO, Ivory Coast—There’s not anything in the world quite just like the Basilica of Our Girl of Peace.

It’s miles one of the tallest churches everywhere, with a 518-foot-high basilica that tops the Vatican’s St. Peter’s. Guinness World Facts calls it the largest church in the World.

Rising like a mirage through the haze of the Ivorian jungle, It is graced with Italian marble of many colors, geared up with French glass of 5,000 sun shades and flanked by using a grand 272-column colonnade. The rate tag at the basilica, consecrated in 1990, become by no means disclosed. Neighborhood estimates range from $2 hundred million to $six hundred million.

For many years, this brash imitation of the Vatican basilica in u . S .’s far-flung capital did properly to look some dozen congregants on Sunday.

Cleaners and choristers regularly outnumbered the faithful, church officers and people started. Publications carried out tours for no person, simply to practice their language abilities. Fingers and shrubs began recolonizing surrounding roads. Protection guards played soccer below the colonnade.

“I used to call it my house due to the fact I had it all to myself,” stated David N’Guessan, a defend who once spent days playing on his cellphone. “To be honest, we felt a bit sorry for the daddy.” Rising like a mirage via the haze of the Ivorian jungle, It’s miles graced with Italian marble of many colors, outfitted with French glass of five,000 sun shades and flanked by way of a grand 272-column colonnade. The feed tag on the basilica, consecrated in 1990, changed into by no means disclosed. Local estimates range from $2 hundred million to $600 million.

There was just one factor the brilliant edifice, which can accommodate 18,000 human beings, lacked: excellent flocks of traffic.

For many years, this brash imitation of the Vatican basilica inside u. S . A .’s remote capital did nicely to look some dozen congregants on Sunday.

Cleaners and choristers regularly outnumbered the trustworthy, church officials and workers said. Publications conducted tours for no person, just to practice their language competencies. Hands and shrubs commenced recolonizing surrounding roads. Safety guards played football under the colonnade.

“I used to call it my house due to the fact I had all of it to myself,” said David N’Guessan, a defend who as soon as spent days playing on his cellphone. “To be sincere, we felt a bit sorry for the daddy.” “Permit’s just said we had a whole lot of time for prayer,” said Father Stanislaw Skuza, a Polish priest who arrived in 1993 and is amongst those who administer the church.

A chain of civil conflicts right here led to 2011, sparking a financial comeback powered with the aid of foreign funding and the excessive rate of cocoa, of which Ivory Coast is the sector’s top manufacturer.

Your Miracle of love, Happiness, and comfort

All the craziness within the international boils right down to the preference of the coronary heart which, in case you dig down deep, is tied to the search for love, happiness and comfort – each right here on earth and within the was hoping for lifestyles after death, whilst decayed bones upward push to unite with revived rotten flesh.

So, in a non-stop stampede to cozy affection now, and guarantee a posthumous pleasure within the destiny, we run after each other, and prefer a foul at the chase of an elusive cook, come lower back empty-surpassed.

But how is it that during a universe complete of abundance people lack love, happiness, and luxury? In which did love pass? Two thousand years in the past, the earth became crammed to ability with miracles. What took place?

In a single Bible narrative, a particular woman suffered public humiliation because her bleeding wouldn’t stop for months and then years. After 12 years, as Jesus exceeded via one day the woman said to herself, ‘If I could contact his garment I will be healed.’ And he or she reached out to the touch the corner of his garments and was healed of her blood loss.

Through the miracle of the bleeding woman, Jesus showed how limitations ought to crumble and doors open whilst the conviction is coupled with sincerity of mind. The girl knew no self-doubt. Doubts might have advised her to trade her clothes, put on a new hair headscarf and a pancake on her face before tenting out for Jesus.

What if the hemorrhaging female had like humans do these days, analyzed Jesus earlier than she met him, had a patch of mistrust showed on the nook of her coronary heart or had definitely disregarded him as an itinerant preacher, the terrible son of a hippie?

Faith and notion have been what the lady had going for her. Cynicism and doubt block the thoughts from accessing the advantages of the universe. How frequently have we, due to cynicism or suspicion, walked beyond an angel of salvation deliberately waiting, with wings unfold?

There are oldsters whose entire life centers on maligning their fellow males and females. They harbor a mindset wherein handiest weeds will develop. They make incorrect judgments on human beings around them, which includes the ones barely known to them – cutting humans down to length due to the manner they stroll, Wherein they live, how they talk, who their dad and mom are, the shoes they put on and the style in their hair.

It’s far tough to resist evaluating the female’s method to that of the tax collector, a brief guy with the aid of the name of Zacchaeus, who climbed a sycamore tree so that you can see Jesus. ‘You didn’t ought to move that duration,’ Jesus admonished Zacchaeus; ‘today I am going to your home.’

Every now and then we think that to succeed we need to do remarkable things. Like, use long words to talk, pray for days that God will hear us, jump terrific heights to reach our goal, bend over backward to be loved, cry out loud to get interested or travel large distances to have a breakthrough.

Tastes From Around the world – Cape Town

Cape City is a sophisticated metropolis and is domestic to an extensive range of tastes from every nook of the globe. The sizable type of particular and authentic delicacies to be had in Cape Metropolis has received it many awards and has made it no longer best a tour vacation spot however additionally a flavor vacation spot for food lovers.

Indian delicacies

  What is the most important Comforter Made? If you have ever located yourself fighting for covers at night time then you can recognize why an oversized comforter or great sized comforter might be a pleasing choice to have. Inside the America mattresses sizes are pretty standardized and commonly range in sizes as proven beneath:

Twin 39 x seventy-five Dual XL 39 x eighty Complete fifty-four x 75 Queen 60 x eighty King seventy-six x eighty Please observe that Olympic queens, Split kings and other strong point sizes are not included right here due to the smaller amount of beds bought Within the U.S…

Most mattresses are between and 12 and 15 inches these days with a few peaking out at 22 to 24 inches excessive. Why do beds are available so many sizes? Of course there’s an advertising story worried further to how a few furnishings makers utilize platform beds which may additionally want better height mattresses as a way to permit secure mattress entry. In us, bigger is better and this applies to down and down opportunity comforters blanketed on this tale.

One of the Maximum common court cases purchasers have with comforters, blankets, and quilts are how small the gadgets may be sold as. This is because many retail stores have a set retail price they want to promote items at and producers work backward to hit those fee points. normally One of the first impacted regions from this fee factor mentality is that the items size is reduced smaller to keep cloth/filling and labor hours in line with the piece of textiles made. As an end result, it’s far very common that a queen comforter offered in stores is marked as Complete/Queen that’s a nicer manner of pronouncing its miles small and skimpy. This smaller size mania goes into king size bedding as properly and as a result, many customers upsize their bedding so that it suits better. So if a person has a queen bed they purchase the king length set on sale so that it ‘fits’. This works satisfactory for queen length bedding, however, what When you have a king size mattress?

In US branch stores a king comforter can variety in length from 102 x 86 to 108 x 98 with the later being called out as ‘outsized’. Normally talking the 108 x ninety-eight-inch king length comforter is outsized sufficient for Most purchasers. However, When you have a deep plush bed and or you’re continuously having night time tug of warfare with the comforters you then may need to don’t forget huge king sizes. A ‘terrific King’ length comforter can run among 116 x one hundred, 120 x ninety-eight, or 114 x 118. From time to time the first rate sized comforters are referred to as ‘Clothier Kings’. Those splendid size king comforters are remarkable due to the fact you get the extra coverage you can crave all while not having to shop for a custom made comforter that can run In the heaps.

[readbookywooks]

Know What It Is

Will and Lyra slept through the night and woke up when the sun struck their eyelids. They actually awoke within seconds of each other, with the same thought; but when they looked around, the Chevalier Tialys was calmly on guard close by. "The force of the Consistorial Court has retreated," he told them. "Mrs. Coulter is in the hands of King Ogunwe, and on her way to Lord Asriel." "How do you know?" said Will, sitting up stiffly. "Have you been back through the window?" "No. We talk through the lodestone resonator. I reported our conversation," Tialys said to Lyra, "to my commander, Lord Roke, and he has agreed that we should go with you to the bear, and that once you have seen him, you will come with us. So we are allies, and we shall help you as much as we can." "Good," said Will. "Then let's eat together. Do you eat our food?" "Thank you, yes," said the Lady. Will took out his last few dried peaches and the stale flat loaf of rye bread, which was all he had left, and shared it among them, though of course the spies did not take much. "As for water, there doesn't seem to be any around here on this world," Will said. "We'll have to wait till we go back through before we can have a drink." "Then we better do that soon," said Lyra. First, though, she took out the alethiometer and asked if there was still any danger in the valley. No, came the answer, all the soldiers have gone, and the villagers are in their homes; so they prepared to leave. The window looked strange in the dazzling air of the desert, giving onto the deep-shaded bush, a square of thick green vegetation hanging in the air like a painting. The Gallivespians wanted to look at it, and were astounded to see how it was just not there from the back, and how it only sprang into being when you came round from the side. "I'll have to close it once we're through," Will said. Lyra tried to pinch the edges together after they went through, but her fingers couldn't find it at all; nor could the spies, despite the fineness of their hands. Only Will could feel exactly where the edges were, and he did it cleanly and quickly. "How many worlds can you enter with the knife?" said Tialys. "As many as there are," said Will. "No one would ever have time to find out." He swung his rucksack up and led the way along the forest path. The dragonflies relished the fresh, moist air and darted like needles through the shafts of sunlight. The movement of the trees above was less violent, and the air was cool and tranquil; so it was all the more shocking to see the twisted wreckage of a gyropter suspended among the branches, with the body of its African pilot, tangled in his seat belt, half out of the door, and to find the charred remains of the zeppelin a little farther up - soot-black strips of cloth, blackened struts and pipe work, broken glass, and then the bodies: three men burned to cinders, their limbs contorted and drawn up as if they were still threatening to fight. And they were only the ones who had fallen near the path. There were other bodies and more wreckage on the cliff above and among the trees farther down. Shocked and silenced, the two children moved through the carnage, while the spies on their dragonflies looked around more coolly, accustomed to battle, noting how it had gone and who had lost most. When they reached the top of the valley, where the trees thinned out and the rainbow-waterfalls began, they stopped to drink deeply of the ice-cold water. "I hope that little girl's all right," said Will. "We'd never have got you away if she hadn't woken you up. She went to a holy man to get that powder specially." "She is all right," said Lyra, " 'cause I asked the alethiometer, last night. She thinks we're devils, though. She's afraid of us. She probably wishes she'd never got mixed up in it, but she's safe all right." They climbed up beside the waterfalls and refilled Will's canteen before striking off across the plateau toward the ridge where the alethiometer told Lyra that Iorek had gone. And then there came a day of long, hard walking: no trouble for Will, but a torment to Lyra, whose limbs were weakened and softened after her long sleep. But she would sooner have her tongue torn out than confess how bad she felt; limping, tight-lipped, trembling, she kept pace with Will and said nothing. Only when they sat down at noon did she allow herself so much as a whimper, and then only when Will had gone apart to relieve himself. The Lady Salmakia said, "Rest. There is no disgrace in being weary." "But I don't want to let Will down! I don't want him to think I'm weak and holding him back." "That's the last thing he thinks." "You don't know," said Lyra rudely. "You don't know him any more than you know me." "I know impertinence when I hear it," said the Lady calmly. "Do as I tell you now and rest. Save your energy for the walking." Lyra felt mutinous, but the Lady's glittering spurs were very clear in the sunlight, so she said nothing. The Lady's companion, the Chevalier, was opening the case of the lodestone resonator, and, curiosity overcoming resentment, Lyra watched to see what he did. The instrument looked like a short length of pencil made of dull gray-black stone, resting on a stand of wood, and the Chevalier swept a tiny bow like a violinist's across the end while he pressed his fingers at various points along the surface. The places weren't marked, so he seemed to be touching it at random, but from the intensity of his expression and the certain fluency of his movements, Lyra knew it was as skillful and demanding a process as her own reading of the alethiometer. After several minutes the spy put the bow away and took up a pair of headphones, the earpieces no larger than Lyra's little fingernail, and wrapped one end of the wire tightly around a peg in the end of the stone, leading the rest along to another peg at the other end and wrapping it around that. By manipulating the two pegs and the tension on the wire between them, he could obviously hear a response to his own message. "How does that work?" she said when he'd finished. Tialys looked at her as if to judge whether she was genuinely interested, and then said, "Your scientists, what do you call them, experimental theologians, would know of something called quantum entanglement. It means that two particles can exist that only have properties in common, so that whatever happens to one happens to the other at the same moment, no matter how far apart they are. Well, in our world there is a way of taking a common lodestone and entangling all its particles, and then splitting it in two so that both parts resonate together. The counterpart to this is with Lord Roke, our commander. When I play on this one with my bow, the other one reproduces the sounds exactly, and so we communicate." He put everything away and said something to the Lady. She joined him and they went a little apart, talking too quietly for Lyra to hear, though Pantalaimon became an owl and turned his great ears in their direction. Presently Will came back and then they moved on, more slowly as the day went by and the track got steeper and the snow line nearer. They rested once more at the head of a rocky valley, because even Will could tell that Lyra was nearly finished: she was limping badly and her face was gray. "Let me see your feet," he said to her, "because if they're blistered, I'll put some ointment on." They were, badly, and she let him rub in the bloodmoss salve, closing her eyes and gritting her teeth. Meanwhile, the Chevalier was busy, and after a few minutes he put his lodestone away and said, "I have told Lord Roke of our position, and they are sending a gyropter to bring us away as soon as you have spoken to your friend." Will nodded. Lyra took no notice. Presently she sat up wearily and pulled on her socks and shoes, and they set off once more. Another hour, and most of the valley was in shadow, and Will was wondering whether they would find any shelter before night fell; but then Lyra gave a cry of relief and joy. "Iorek! Iorek!" She had seen him before Will had. The bear-king was some way off still, his white coat indistinct against a patch of snow, but when Lyra's voice echoed out he turned his head, raised it to sniff, and bounded down the mountainside toward them. Ignoring Will, he let Lyra clasp his neck and bury her face in his fur, growling so deep that Will felt it through his feet; but Lyra felt it as pleasure and forgot her blisters and her weariness in a moment. "Oh, Iorek, my dear, I'm so glad to see you! I never thought I'd ever see you again - after that time on Svalbard - and all the things that've happened, is Mr. Scoresby safe? How's your kingdom? Are you all alone here?" The little spies had vanished; at all events, there seemed to be only the three of them now on the darkening mountainside, the boy and the girl and the great white bear. As if she had never wanted to be anywhere else, Lyra climbed up as Iorek offered his back and rode proud and happy as her dear friend carried her up the last stretch of the way to his cave. Will, preoccupied, didn't listen as Lyra talked to Iorek, though he did hear a cry of dismay at one point, and heard her say: "Mr. Scoresby - oh no! Oh, it's too cruel! Really dead? You're sure, Iorek?" "The witch told me he set out to find the man called Grumman," said the bear. Will listened more closely now, for Baruch and Balthamos had told him some of this. "What happened? Who killed him?" said Lyra, her voice shaky. "He died fighting. He kept a whole company of Muscovites at bay while the man escaped. I found his body. He died bravely. I shall avenge him." Lyra was weeping freely, and Will didn't know what to say, for it was his father whom this unknown man had died to save; and Lyra and the bear had both known and loved Lee Scoresby, and he had not. Soon Iorek turned aside and made for the entrance to a cave, very dark against the snow. Will didn't know where the spies were, but he was perfectly sure they were nearby. He wanted to speak quietly to Lyra, but not till he could see the Gallivespians and know he wasn't being overheard. He laid his rucksack in the cave mouth and sat down wearily. Behind him the bear was kindling a fire, and Lyra watched, curious despite her sorrow. Iorek held a small rock of some sort of ironstone in his left forepaw and struck it no more than three or four times on a similar one on the floor. Each time a scatter of sparks burst out and went exactly where Iorek directed them: into a heap of shredded twigs and dried grass. Very soon that was ablaze, and Iorek calmly placed one log and then another and another until the fire was burning strongly. The children welcomed it, because the air was very cold now, and then came something even better: a haunch of something that might have been goat. Iorek ate his meat raw, of course, but he spitted its joint on a sharp stick and laid it to roast across the fire for the two of them. "Is it easy, hunting up in these mountains, Iorek?" she said. "No. My people can't live here. I was wrong, but luckily so, since I found you. What are your plans now?" Will looked around the cave. They were sitting close to the fire, and the firelight threw warm yellows and oranges on the bear-king's fur. Will could see no sign of the spies, but there was nothing for it: he had to ask. "King Iorek," he began, "my knife is broken - " Then he looked past the bear and said, "No, wait." He was pointing at the wall. "If you're listening," he went on more loudly, "come out and do it honestly. Don't spy on us." Lyra and Iorek Byrnison turned to see who he was talking to. The little man came out of the shadow and stood calmly in the light, on a ledge higher than the children's heads, Iorek growled. "You haven't asked Iorek Byrnison for permission to enter his cave," Will said. "And he is a king, and you're just a spy. You should show more respect." Lyra loved hearing that. She looked at Will with pleasure, and saw him fierce and contemptuous. But the Chevalier's expression, as he looked at Will, was displeased. "We have been truthful with you," he said. "It was dishonorable to deceive us." Will stood up. His daemon, Lyra thought, would have the form of a tigress, and she shrank back from the anger she imagined the great animal to show. "If we deceived you, it was necessary," he said. "Would you have agreed to come here if you knew the knife was broken? Of course you wouldn't. You'd have used your venom to make us unconscious, and then you'd have called for help and had us kidnapped and taken to Lord Asriel. So we had to trick you, Tialys, and you'll just have to put up with it." Iorek Byrnison said, "Who is this?" "Spies," said Will. "Sent by Lord Asriel. They helped us escape yesterday, but if they're on our side, they shouldn't hide and eavesdrop on us. And if they do, they're the last people who should talk about dishonor." The spy's glare was so ferocious that he looked ready to take on Iorek himself, never mind the unarmed Will; but Tialys was in the wrong, and he knew it. All he could do was bow and apologize. "Your Majesty," he said to Iorek, who growled at once. The Chevalier's eyes flashed hatred at Will, and defiance and warning at Lyra, and a cold and wary respect at Iorek. The clarity of his features made all these expressions vivid and bright, as if a light shone on him. Beside him the Lady Salmakia was emerging from the shadow, and, ignoring the children completely, she made a curtsy to the bear. "Forgive us," she said to Iorek. "The habit of concealment is hard to break, and my companion, the Chevalier Tialys, And I, the Lady Salmakia, have been among our enemies for so long that out of pure habit we neglected to pay you the proper courtesy. We're accompanying this boy and girl to make sure they arrive safely in the care of Lord Asriel. We have no other aim, and certainly no harmful intention toward you, King Iorek Byrnison." If Iorek wondered how any such tiny beings could cause him harm, he didn't show it; not only was his expression naturally hard to read, but he had his courtesy, too, and the Lady had spoken graciously enough. "Come down by the fire," he said. "There is food enough and plenty if you are hungry. Will, you began to speak about the knife." "Yes," said Will, "and I thought it could never happen, but it's broken. And the alethiometer told Lyra that you'd be able to mend it. I was going to ask more politely, but there it is: can you mend it, Iorek?" "Show me." Will shook all the pieces out of the sheath and laid them on the rocky floor, pushing them about carefully until they were in their right places and he could see that they were all there. Lyra held a burning branch up, and in its light Iorek bent low to look closely at each piece, touching it delicately with his massive claws and lifting it up to turn it this way and that and examine the break. Will marveled at the deftness in those huge black hooks. Then Iorek sat up again, his head rearing high into the shadow. "Yes," he said, answering exactly the question and no more. Lyra said, knowing what he meant, "Ah, but will you, Iorek? You couldn't believe how important this is - if we can't get it mended then we're in desperate trouble, and not only us - " "I don't like that knife," Iorek said. "I fear what it can do. I have never known anything so dangerous. The most deadly fighting machines are little toys compared to that knife; the harm it can do is unlimited. It would have been infinitely better if it had never been made." "But with it - " began Will. Iorek didn't let him finish, but went on, "With it you can do strange things. What you don't know is what the knife does on its own. Your intentions may be good. The knife has intentions, too." "How can that be?" said Will. "The intentions of a tool are what it does. A hammer intends to strike, a vise intends to hold fast, a lever intends to lift. They are what it is made for. But sometimes a tool may have other uses that you don't know. Sometimes in doing what you intend, you also do what the knife intends, without knowing. Can you see the sharpest edge of that knife?" "No," said Will, for it was true: the edge diminished to a thinness so fine that the eye could not reach it. "Then how can you know everything it does?" "I can't. But I must still use it, and do what I can to help good things come about. If I did nothing, I'd be worse than useless. I'd be guilty." Lyra was following this closely, and seeing Iorek still unwilling, she said: "Iorek, you know how wicked those Bolvangar people were. If we can't win, then they're going to be able to carry on doing those kind of things forever. And besides, if we don't have the knife, then they might get hold of it themselves. We never knew about it when I first met you, Iorek, and nor did anyone, but now that we do, we got to use it ourselves, we can't just not. That'd be feeble, and it'd be wrong, too, it'd be just like handing it over to 'em and saying, 'Go on, use it, we won't stop you.' All right, we don't know what it does, but I can ask the alethiometer, can't I? Then we'd know. And we could think about it properly, instead of just guessing and being afraid." Will didn't want to mention his own most pressing reason: if the knife was not repaired, he might never get home, never see his mother again; she would never know what had happened; she'd think he'd abandoned her as his father had done. The knife would have been directly responsible for both their desertions. He must use it to return to her, or never forgive himself. Iorek Byrnison said nothing for a long time, but turned his head to look out at the darkness. Then he slowly got to his feet and stalked to the cave mouth, and looked up at the stars: some the same as those he knew, from the north, and some that were strange to him. Behind him, Lyra turned the meat over on the fire, and Will looked at his wounds, to see how they were healing. Tialys and Salmakia sat silent on their ledge. Then Iorek turned around. "Very well, I shall do it on one condition," he said. "Though I feel it is a mistake. My people have no gods, no ghosts or daemons. We live and die and that is that. Human affairs bring us nothing but sorrow and trouble, but we have language and we make war and we use tools; maybe we should take sides. But full knowledge is better than half-knowledge. Lyra, read your instrument. Know what it is that you're asking. If you still want it then, I shall mend the knife." At once Lyra took out the alethiometer and edged nearer to the fire so that she could see the face. The reading took her longer than usual, and when she blinked and sighed and came out of the trance, her face was troubled. "I never known it so confused," she said. "There was lots of things it said. I think I got it clear. I think so. It said about balance first. It said the knife could be harmful or it could do good, but it was so slight, such a delicate kind of a balance, that the faintest thought or wish could tip it one way or the other... And it meant you, Will, it meant what you wished or thought, only it didn't say what would be a good thought or a bad one. "Then... it said yes," she said, her eyes flashing at the spies. "It said yes, do it, repair the knife." Iorek looked at her steadily and then nodded once. Tialys and Salmakia climbed down to watch more closely, and Lyra said, "D'you need more fuel, Iorek? Me and Will could go and fetch some, I'm sure." Will understood what she meant: away from the spies they could talk. Iorek said, "Below the first spur on the track, there is a bush with resinous wood. Bring as much of that as you can." She jumped up at once, and Will went with her. The moon was brilliant, the path a track of scumbled footprints in the snow, the air cutting and cold. Both of them felt brisk and hopeful and alive. They didn't talk till they were well away from the cave. "What else did it say?" Will said. "It said some things I didn't understand then and I still don't understand now. It said the knife would be the death of Dust, but then it said it was the only way to keep Dust alive. I didn't understand it, Will. But it said again it was dangerous, it kept saying that. It said if we - you know - what I thought - " "If we go to the world of the dead - " "Yeah - if we do that - it said that we might never come back, Will. We might not survive." He said nothing, and they walked along more soberly now, watching out for the bush that Iorek had mentioned, and silenced by the thought of what they might be taking on. "We've got to, though," he said, "haven't we?" "I don't know." "Now we know, I mean. You have to speak to Roger, and I want to speak to my father. We have to, now." "I'm frightened," she said. And he knew she'd never admit that to anyone else. "Did it say what would happen if we didn't?" he asked. "Just emptiness, just blankness. I really didn't understand it, Will. But I think it meant that even if it is that dangerous, we should still try and rescue Roger. But it won't be like when I rescued him from Bolvangar; I didn't know what I was doing then, really, I just set off, and I was lucky. I mean there was all kinds of other people to help, like the gyptians and the witches. There won't be any help where we'd have to go. And I can see... In my dream I saw... The place was... It was worse than Bolvangar. That's why I'm afraid." "What I'm afraid of," said Will after a minute, not looking at her at all, "is getting stuck somewhere and never seeing my mother again." From nowhere a memory came to him: he was very young, and it was before her troubles began, and he was ill. All night long, it seemed, his mother had sat on his bed in the dark, singing nursery rhymes, telling him stories, and as long as her dear voice was there, he knew he was safe. He couldn't abandon her now. He couldn't! He'd look after her all his life long if she needed it. And as if Lyra had known what he was thinking, she said warmly: "Yeah, that's true, that would be awful... You know, with my mother, I never realized... I just grew up on my own, really; I don't remember anyone ever holding me or cuddling me, it was just me and Pan as far back as I can go... I can't remember Mrs. Lonsdale being like that to me; she was the housekeeper at Jordan College, all she did was make sure I was clean, that's all she thought about... oh, and manners... But in the cave, Will, I really felt - oh, it's strange, I know she's done terrible things, but I really felt she was loving me and looking after me... She must have thought I was going to die, being asleep all that time - I suppose I must've caught some disease - but she never stopped looking after me. And I remember waking up once or twice and she was holding me in her arms... I do remember that, I'm sure...That's what I'd do in her place, if I had a child." So she didn't know why she'd been asleep all that time. Should he tell her, and betray that memory, even if it was false? No, of course he shouldn't. "Is that the bush?" Lyra said. The moonlight was brilliant enough to show every leaf. Will snapped off a twig, and the piney resinous smell stayed strongly on his fingers. "And we en't going to say anything to those little spies," she added. They gathered armfuls of the bush and carried them back up toward the cave.