#lullaby sapling

[nightwere-mojo]

I fell off using my scrap sketchbook as a daily habit for the past several months, but I want to restart again.

For now, here are some sketches from 3/1 to 11/30/23. I still sketched in it sometimes. This was usually in the car during work breaks or on weekends, to be honest.

[radio-ghost-cooks]

the Hole's ideas abt Gallifrey/Gallifreyan

spoken Gallifreyan sounds like song

there's some telepathic layer to it that humans/non-telepathic races can't pick up

in a brighter timeline the Master sings their childhood lullabies to the Doctor to help her sleep

the telepathic element makes it capable of soothing or causing physical harm

the Doctor's brain is so quiet now that Gallifrey is gone

not only are the Time Lords and Gallifreyans gone but so too is their culture

the Doctor scouring the TARDIS for the remaining seeds and saplings of her home, now endangered like she is

in one version of things the Doctor is a horrible gardener, in the other she's fantastic

either way the Master is the best with them

she saves the plants for when she gets the Master back (she never does)

the Master hates human Christmas because it can never go back to Gallifrey and enjoy the foods it loved as a child alongside its family. the Time War took that away.

the Theta Sigma used to bake Koschei a cake each year and now that Gallifrey is gone, the Master wakes up to a cake every year and it's not as pink as it was before and there are substitutions in the flour and it's not the same frosting as the kind from Low Town but it still tastes exactly the same

Gallifrey doesn't die with the Doctor, it dies with the Master.

[mlmxreader]

Something That Used to be Unsaid | Kili x gn!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ Kili

34 “I love you, I really do”

55 “You’ll always be my first choice” ( this sweetness is insecure asf and it show)

64 “You could’ve gotten yourself killed! You idiot!” ❞

: ̗̀➛ There's always been something between you and Kili, although neither of you ever really thought to talk about it.

: ̗̀➛ swearing, mild injury

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

Years ago, you and Kili had been sweethearts; so close together that you were practically joined at the hip, constantly together no matter the weather. Any storm, the two of you could toughen it out as long as he had your hand to hold and you had his head on your chest.

Nothing was ever really said, but it never needed to be; you were always together, you never fell apart, even when you got older. You were a natural choice for Thorin's company; strong and intelligent, steady and sturdy. He trusted you, and it helped that Kili insisted on you going as well, even Fili backed him up.

Thorin trusted you, as you had shown yourself to be nothing but reliable and capable - above all else, he needed loyalty and competency. You fit the bill perfectly for it.

Kili would give you his arrows when he wasn't using his bow, as he knew that you refused to fight with anything else; a hunter, you were used to the sprawling woodlands.

When you were younger, Kili always knew where to find you. Halfway up a tree, whistling away and eating wild berries. But those days were over. The trees you once loved were now dead, turned to ash and left to rot and decay with the years.

Lifeless.

The fires had torn through them, even killing the smaller saplings that should have lived for hundreds of years; their bodies were left where they fell. Forgotten and neglected. Bits of limbs crumpled and left on the floor out of reach.

Bushes once full of berries and bursting with life were now left as piles of thick corpses; piled up on top of one another. Nothing was alive in the woodlands that you once loved. The woodlands you once called home.

No spiders sat on their webs between the leaves. No flies buzzed near the rotten and out of season berries. No deer stalked through the tall green grass, making the blades dance in their careful wake. No wolves prowled the nighttime forest floors, their howls a soothing lullaby.

No squirrels scurried up trees to store their winter forages. No bears scratched their large backs on the tree trunks. Nothing was alive anymore. Everything that once called those woodlands home had either perished in the fires, or had been forced to move. In a way, you were lucky.

Thorin and his company took you in immediately, you didn't have to burn with your home; even though there were some nights where you wished you did. At least you still had the company of Kili, though.

At least he was keen to keep you around. You stayed with them, even when everyone was split up.

You stayed with them, and when you arrived at Bilbo Baggins' hobbit hole, you stayed outside; confused, Kili told Fili to give you a moment, and he sat on the small seat outside, his hand on your thigh.

"What is it?" He asked.

You shrugged, clearing your throat as you pulled out your pipe and lit it. Puffing on the tobacco. "What happens when we claim your home?"

Kili hummed. "You'll come live with us."

He said it as if it was the single most obvious thing in the world. As if he was telling you that the sky was blue or that the most common berries in the woods were blackberries.

He said it as if you were almost foolish for asking in the first place, but you just sighed as you shook your head.

"I don't think I will," you told him. "You know as well as I do, the mountain isn't my home."

"But it's mine," he said. "And it's not my home if you're not there, too."

You rolled your eyes, shoving him playfully as you scoffed. "Whatever."

But everything was fine after that. You and Kili seemed to go back to your usual way of being.

So close that you practically sat on top of one another when at tables and when stopping to make camp; when he tried to scare Bilbo with tales of orcs, you reminded him of what his uncle had been through a split second before Thorin also laid into him.

It all seemed to be going fine, until you and Kili were sent to scrounge and forage for some berries for the company; neither of you thought anything of it, really.

Sure, there were enough rations to go around, and between you and Kili and Fili, there were plenty of opportunities for hunting with success. But that's where the issue was.

Armed with his bow and arrow, Kili positioned himself at the top of a tree whilst you focused on the actual task. Easily picking the ripe berries and stuffing them into the small bag Thorin had given you.

You didn't even notice Kili had disappeared until you heard a twig snap, followed by the howls of a dozen curses; you didn't get to him in time, watching with a cringing wince as he crashed to the ground.

Landing right on his back. You were at his side immediately, patting his face until he grumbled and looked up at you.

"Are you hurt?"

"No," Kili sighed.

"Good," you huffed. "You could've gotten yourself killed! You idiot! What the fuck were you thinking?"

He grinned as he reached up to touch your face, his calloused fingertips so deft and gentle as he hummed. "My hero."

"Oh, fuck off," you scowled, checking his back for bruises and bumps when he managed to sit upright. You noticed him shiver at the cold feeling of your hands. "What?"

"You're cold," he whispered.

"Yeah, because the air's cold," you mumbled, not expecting him to quickly pin you beneath him. You laughed as you rolled your eyes. "Kili! Get off!"

He grinned as he pressed his bodyweight on top of you, his hands grabbing yours as he let you lace your fingers with his. "I love you, I really do."

You paused, gawking and glaring at him as you opened and closed your mouth for a moment; your stare was blank as you tried to process it.

He had never said something like that before, neither of you had. It never needed to be said before, but the way that he looked at you, the softness in his eyes as he gently took your hands in his, allowing his gaze to drop to your lips.

You knew that he meant it more than anything. You knew that he would always be there. You didn't even think about it, leaning up and kissing him so gently; he smiled, letting go of one of your hands so that he could cup your jaw.

"Y'know," you said softly upon pulling away. "You'll always be my first choice."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," you nodded. "Always."

You looked over when you heard Fili's voice, taking Kili's hands in your own and pulling him up with you, your arm coming to rest around his waist as you hummed and smiled at him.

"Come on," you said softly. "We'll talk more later."

"Alright," he agreed, falling into step beside you as his arm rested across your shoulders. "But I'll hold you to it."

[happylittleshrub]

I wrote something! :D

I don't write much fanfiction nowadays, opting to put my time and energy towards my own original projects, but I just had to write something for my bestest raccoon boy! This was intended to be a short, fluffy drabble about Rocket caring for the baby raccoons, but it ended up expanding into more of a character analysis because when it comes to Rocket I can't shut my yap lol. You can read it here and on AO3! Please enjoy! 😊

I Diagnose You With Fatherhood, 2k words

Rocket had never considered himself as being cut out for fatherhood, never even took the effort to entertain the idea, yet the universe seemed to have other plans. When Groot had miraculously come back into his life as a sapling, he immediately stepped into the role of his primary caregiver. Not because he was in any way qualified to do so, but it felt like the least he could do for his fallen friend. 

Raising Groot was a group effort, but it was no secret he was most attached to Rocket. He would play games around his workbench, trying (and eventually succeeding) in getting him to play too. He would come to him each night to beg for a story, and unbeknownst to the others, to get a lullaby. When he’d get sleepy he’d plonk down on Rocket’s head or the spot between his neck and shoulder. At first Rocket tried to insist that Groot only preferred him because of his fur. ‘It’s softer than your fleshy bald bodies.’ were his exact words. But the others knew better.  

When Groot called him ‘dad’ for the first time, he just about had an existential crisis. He couldn’t even protect Groot Senior, how was he ever supposed to be a father to the young Groot? A father was supposed to be caring and protective, someone to look up to and be a role model, and that’s not who Rocket was. It was something he never thought he could be. But life didn’t often come with second chances, and Rocket wouldn’t let his best friend down again, he would do everything he could to raise Groot Junior to the best of his lacking ability. 

Years later, Groot was all grown up now, he was big and strong and didn’t need someone constantly looking out for him. It filled Rocket with pride to watch him, knowing that despite his fears and worries he’d managed to do right by his son, yet at the same time some part of him missed the days when Groot was small enough to fit in his arms. Bittersweet was the word for it. 

His unintended foray into fatherhood seemed to have reached its conclusion. Then overnight he became a father of twenty. 

The animals that they rescued from the High Evolutionary’s ship numbered into the hundreds, and it took the entirety of Knowhere pitching in to look after them all until arrangements were made for them back on Earth. It was their home planet, so it was decided it would be for the best to return them to their original habitat, but since they’d been raised in captivity they couldn’t just be released into the wild and left there. It was a lot of paperwork and negotiating with sanctuaries, and Rocket was more than happy to leave the bulk of that particular duty to Nebula and Peter.  

The babies he’d rescued, the raccoons, were his responsibility. It was difficult to put into the right words, he’d never been much good at that, but he felt a personal investment towards them. Looking after these tiny, helpless creatures that he had once been gave him a sense of… purpose.

 It was no easy undertaking. The little ones needed to be kept perfectly warm, have their weight monitored to ensure they were getting the right amount of nutrition, required help toileting, and of course had to be fed regularly throughout the day. During the day shifts he often had help, which was welcome given how many mouths he had to feed. Adam was ready to assist with anything and everything around Knowhere, feeling some sort of debt to them. Nebula would wordlessly come in before grabbing a bottle and one of the kits, her face always surprisingly tender towards the little babies. And Groot, despite his increasing size, was as gentle as could be while he bottle fed them. During the night shift though, the task fell entirely to Rocket. 

The lights in his apartment cast a low, warm glow while the Zune played softly in the background. Rocket casually hummed along as he prepared the babies’ formula. The kits normally stayed in the open topped box he’d created as a sort of nest. It had remote controlled heat settings and was filled with soft, plush blankets. They sat in there now, calling out to him with hungry chitters. “Alright, alright, it’s coming,” Rocket spoke to them in a hushed voice. He placed the tray of bottles on his bed before sitting down on a blanket next to the nest. 

He opened the box’s door, pulling out two of the kits and settling them on his lap. Then he held out their bottles to their mouths until they began to suckle. It had taken a few tries before they got used to the bottles, which was the source of a lot of anxiety for Rocket during the first few feedings, but they learned quick enough. Now they ate eagerly, paws kneading into his thigh as they did so. It was an instinctual behavior, he’d learned, that was usually done on the mother’s belly. There was a lot he was learning about: instincts, behaviors, mannerisms. Things that were entirely foreign to him, and yet still felt like discovering pieces of himself he didn’t realize were missing. 

He was especially fascinated when he read about how raccoons’ sense of touch relates to their memory. He’d realized for the longest time that his hands were very sensitive and they played a large role in how his memory worked, but he’d never fully known if it had been another of his cybernetic enhancements or not. Now he waited with a blossoming anticipation to watch how the kits would use this skill in their own way as they got older. 

They were messy eaters, so once the first two had their fill he gently cleaned their faces with a warm, wet cloth before placing them back in their bed. Then he’d grab the next two to be fed and the cycle would repeat. The ones that hadn’t eaten yet gave chittering wails to voice their appetites, their movements unsteady as they exited the nest to crawl over his legs, tiny claws clinging into the material of his pajama pants. “You’ll all get your turn,” he chided softly, fondness warming his gaze towards them. They looked back up at him, their dark eyes shining with innocence. 

There was a part of him that couldn’t help but wonder what his life would’ve been like if he’d never been experimented on. If he had gotten to grow normally instead of having his body broken and pinned and twisted and molded into someone else’s design. What would he be doing right now? Had he had any siblings? Had he ever been a part of a warm, snuggly pile of sleeping babies, all without a care in the world? 

These types of thoughts usually made a small knot of aching form in the center of his chest, the yearning for something he never knew, something that had been taken from him. ‘What ifs’ haunted him, lingering around like a thick, soupy fog that stole away his sight and left him feeling lost and alone. It clung to him, pulling him down unwillingly with a weight not dissimilar to that of a key that usually sat in his pocket. 

But now, it was… lighter. What he peered through was more of a mist than a dense fog, and rather than being dragged under, there was a feeling of peace he hadn’t quite experienced before. It was true that his physical pain was a constant reminder of his tortuous surgeries, and he had no idea if his nightmares would ever fully go away, but there was no longer the bitter, stinging ache of worthlessness. He had a place of belonging, his existence wasn’t for nothing. There are the hands that made us, then there are the hands that guide the hands. It seemed almost like a dream to remember it now, his ethereal reunion with Lylla, Teefs, and Floor, but those precious words were lovingly ingrained into his memory. 

Even if he couldn’t accept what had happened to him so many years ago, he could accept where he is now. Because, despite it all, he couldn’t imagine his life without Groot in it, without Peter, without Nebula, without everyone in his little ragtag family. He didn’t really believe in destiny, certainly not for himself, but he was still grateful for whatever stars aligned that allowed all their paths to cross.  

 His past couldn’t be changed, but these babies… He could give them the life he never had, and in a way, he’d still get to experience it. By watching them, and protecting them, and helping them to grow. 

Once all their bellies were full, he would put them back in their box nest for the night, but this time quite a few had clambered back out of the box so they could cuddle together by his side. He smiled at them, his healing heart overflowing with tenderness as he gently stroked a finger along one’s soft, downy fur. Gathering them all together, he curled his body around the bundle of babies, letting them nuzzle into him and wrapping his tail around them to ensure they were all covered and cozy. His eyes fell closed, the collective of tiny heartbeats lulling him into sleep. Outside high above, the stars still danced across the endless sky and the galaxy continued to revolve, but there in that warm lit room, for the first time in a long time, Rocket’s mind was calm and still. 

☆❇☆❇☆

When the kits had gotten bigger, Rocket took them on their first outing around Knowhere. They had become much more active and curious, and took it upon themselves to get into everything in Rocket’s apartment they could get their tiny little hands on. He’d returned one day to find all of his tools scattered across the floor along with half of his clothes, and one of his lamps was torn down and smashed. On multiple occasions he found that a number of his belongings would go missing, only for it to turn out that one of the kits had taken and left it hidden somewhere. After so many years, Rocket finally realized how Peter felt whenever he would take apart his ship, and the babies didn’t even have the totally viable excuse of creating advanced weapons of mass destruction.

So it came time to have them burn off some of that rambunctious energy by exploring their wider surroundings. Since the outside world was still new to them, they timidly stuck close to Rocket’s side, following his stride in a close group. Though inevitably one or two would become distracted and begin to wander, leading to Rocket having to double back to round up the stragglers. After a few detours, they entered the main plaza where they came across Kraglin and Cosmo engaged in conversation outside the Guardians’ headquarters. 

“Hello Smaller Rockets!” Cosmo happily greeted once she spotted them, bounding forward excitedly. The babies scampered back apprehensively at her rambunctious movement, some of them returning to Rocket to climb up onto his shoulders. 

“Aww, seems like those little uns’ think yer their mother!” Kraglin remarked with a grin. 

Rocket scoffed, pulling tiny Florence up into his arms from where she clung to his leg, “That’s ridiculous. They’re just more familiar with me than with Cos- hey Mac you spit that out right now!” He ran over to Mac, who was experimentally nomming on some unidentified object he’d found on the ground. “Get that crap outta your mouth, that’s disgusting, you don’t know where it’s been! Where’s your brother?” 

Mac of course didn’t answer, but Rocket found his missing brother anyway, spotting his innocent brown eyes peering down at them from where he’d climbed up onto an awning.   

“Fleetwood, get down from there!” Rocket scolded, “You stay where I can see you!” 

Cosmo and Kraglin shared a knowing look of amusement. For someone who insisted he wasn’t a parent, Rocket sure took to the role quite well. 

[circadeacademia]

Cover letter for a dystopian future

Dear humanity,

We are voracious troops of an unhinged species. Our 24k gluttony-plated soul thrives in leftovers of brutality. We burn cities and everything in between, the incense of charred carcasses finds its way home or whatever is left of it.

Withering flowers under undead debris, their plea never reaches the surface.

We set the stage with artillery smoke, and our footprints trail in shades of scarlet — call it a gesture of uprooted civility!

The young saplings who knew no sky, the raining shells have buried them alive. We wouldn't know if they slept through the lullaby. Yet, we spit poison to earth's bosoms, for the seeds in winter, for the birds on ground.

Oh humanity! what power do you hold in this playground of malignancy? we pierce, we gnaw, we savour, we devour! but your finite eyes can't reach the mouth.

for you, there's always matcha in day, war at night. Do you ever choke on a powerless sip? When there's a mirror on your face, dead offspring at your feet? Have you breathed air heavier than lead?

like a poet would say, “if there's hell in my world, all martyrs would've survived..”

We, the predators of a dystopian world, have built our nest with slaughtered skin and vines of gut. We feed on your fear, we feed on your rage. And the echoes of your weaponized paper — save them for when your bubble becomes cage, save them when your sky tumbles down.

Sincerely,

The breached souls of failed humanity

What justice do we seek as we continue to fail as humans? How long does the genocide trail go as we outstretch the bloody claws of history into a terrifying dystopia?

— circadeacademia

[env0writes]

NaPoWriMo Vol. 3, 17.4.24 “Master Harper's Whistle Tune"

My final words spoken As to life, I am awoken Return now to sleep Oh, darling, not weep My scream and wail and cry As to death, I close my eye My hands reach out As to grope and shout “Where is the world of my childhood?! Filled with things that are bright and good? Where Is my kin-sapling; Planted as seed?” Pray, let it burgeon, spare it the likeness of weed Plucked from this garden O’erripe I’ve become then Before age spoils loam Send me to pasture; assured that all roads lead one to roam Surely as I was to be born Measured of weight, cut and shorn Expelled from the Garden of Eve To a life filled with little reprieve With a schedule of work That I’d dutifully shirk Let me leave as I entered As a whole and un-splintered Weary, wary, follow the faerie- Light and flitting on yon ferry Travel will never bring ease No matter your fortune may please High on the wings of the albatross Over oceans and death do I cross Worry not and leave me a sight penniless I’m no longer tethered to that shore, I confess My first and final To be etch in my ashes, made vinyl Dulcet untrained lullabies Available in stores now, while there’s supplies Weep not, sweep not my ashes away While the writing hand writes, I shall obey My body, a temple that I sorely haunt On this, my perennial jaunt

@env0writes C.Buck   Ko-Fi & Venmo: @Zenv0 Support Your Local Artists!   Photo by my friend Mika

[cassandramccord]

Prompts List for March

hello tumblr, happy march! instead of finding a list to reblog like i did last month, i’ve thrown one together myself! please feel free to drop any of these prompts into my ask box throughout the month of march & as always, thank you for being here in my little corner of the internet and supporting my writing.

1. Lemon bars

2. Sewing box 

3. Clover

4. Swingset

5. Hamster

6. Cassette tape

7. Game night

8. Dandelion

9. Teacup

10. Paintbrush

11. Mural

12. Sapling

13. Window

14. Bicycle

15. Ballet

16. Horseshoe

17. Clementine

18. Mourning dove

19. Lullaby

20. Ink

21. Dresser drawer

22. Robin’s egg

23. Blush

24. Apple blossom

25. Rosebud

26. Frosting

27. Five

28. Key lime

29. Railroad

30. Tulip

31. Bandana 

[aetherblooms]

Ivette for the OC Music Prompts?

YVETTE MINE LOVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

backstory: wanderer's lullaby by adriana figueroa. despite suffering and strife, they choose to love all the little wonders of the world, they choose to go out and do good. they're an adventurer at heart. (im imagining the pale tree singing this about them. im normal about it)

personality: take me to war - the crane wives. they've always been a firecracker, picking fights they probably shouldn't - even if they have good reason to.

angst: hard sell by the crane wives (YES again. what about it.) as a sapling they really struggled to make themselves a better person, to not lose themselves to rage and bitterness. some days, they're still fighting it.

comfort: community gardens by the scary jokes. i just think it sounds cute.

love life: unraveling by the crane wives (im SORRY their songs are all BANGERS leave me alone) and i need a woman to love by kesha. they fall in love often and easily, but it rarely works in their favor..... yet despite the heartbreak they still crave it.

fight scene: i may fall by jeff williams and raise hell by dorothy. songs to kick ass to!! <3 bonus boss fight music (: fallen angel by masayoshi soken.

thirst trap: say so by doja cat. everyone shut UP its perfect for them.

[grumpygreenwitch]

The Fairy and the Prince #31 + #32 + #33 + #34

Part 1 - Part 2 - Parts 3 & 4 - Part 5 - Part 6, 7 & 8 - Part 9 & 10 - Part 11, 12, 13, 14, 15 & 16 - Part 17, 18, & 19 - Part 20, 21 & 22 - Part 23, 24, 25 & 26 - Part 27, 28, 29 & 30 - Part 31, 32, 33 & 34 - Part 35, 36 & 37 - Part 38, 39, 40 & 41 - Part 42 & 43 - Part 44 & 45 - Part 46 & 47 - Part 48, 49, 50 & 51 - Part, 52, 53 & 54 - Part 55 & 56 - Part 57, 58, 59 & 60 - Part 61, 62, 63, 64 & 65 - Part 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71 & 72

So, uh, this gets a bit violent. As it’s bound to do when a redcap is involved. I’ve added a coupla tags I think would help, but let me know if I should do something differently.

Adam jerked awake from a fragile drowse when he heard his friends coming, Needle's low and rasping voice a pleased and pleasant growl in counterpoint to Linden's songbird cadence. He smiled in appreciation and climbed hastily down from the tree. "Linden, Needle!"

They rushed over to him. "Adam!" Linden cried out gladly, launching at him to hug him. He clung to them, to their friend, to their scent, sweet and familiar, to their deceptive strength, to their endless love. "Adam, what's wrong," Linden whispered, feeling the young prince all but crush them in his hug.

Adam pulled away. "Needlemaw," he said, his voice gone formal. "Could I have a word with you in private, please?"

Something flickered in the warm morning breeze between them all, and the redcap went very still. Her first instinct had been to rise and snarl in challenge; who was this mortal yearling to command her? Then she'd remembered that Adam claimed no crown, refused it even. That he didn't know he already wore one, gold and shining around his heart, earned by the strength of his character and the immensity of his honor. He was calling on that power at that moment, and he didn't even know he was doing it.

The redcap felt suddenly and profoundly uneasy. "It must be alone?" she asked.

Adam laced his fingers through Linden's, his grip almost painful, and the young sapling felt him trembling like a tree before a storm. "It must."

"I'll go see if Boul's awake," Linden breathed out. Something terrible was about to happen, the trees were all but weeping. But their faith in Adam was endless. "I'll try not to be long." They dashed away, fleet like a deer and nearly as panicky as one.

They faced one another, the deadly fairy maid and the young prince, and Adam swallowed painfully.

"Ye might as well spit out the poison before it burns up yer tongue, Adam."

"I don't want to," he admitted in a desperate plea. "It will hurt you and I don't want to."

Needlemaw froze; in all their years together she really had come to believe Adam could surprise her no further, and yet there they were, in that sunny clearing on that early summer morning, and the Prince-That-Wasn't would rather swallow whatever cruelty he was carrying around his heart rather than wound her with it. Three steps brought her to him and she hugged him tightly, felt him shake as he clung to her. "I'll not have it," she told him. "I'll not have that muchness of ye kill ye, Adam, not ever, not never-everty-ever, not for me, not for anyone. Out with it. Let me deal with me hurts." She pulled away and smiled her deadly smile. "If'n it should wound, well, I've friends here to help me with it, aye?"

He nodded and rubbed angrily at his face. "Gods, look at me, you'd think I'm a baby," he scoffed at himself, angrily fighting to keep from crying.

With sudden, heartbreaking and proud insight, Needlemaw realized he'd learned courage from her, of all possible sources in his life. "Adam."

He swallowed with an effort.

And he told her everything.

***

Needlemaw ran wailing from him.

Linden and Boul found him sitting on a root from the old linden tree, his hands tangled over his head, rocking back and forth. He clung to Linden, struggling to breathe, and Boul wrapped himself around them both, crooning the low lullaby of stone and earth, even as Linden brushed their hands through Adam's hair and assured him that they were together, they were there with him, he was not alone, he was safe. Linden had no idea how to bring their friend back to safety from this ledge, and the awareness of their impotence brought to fire the whites and blues and silvers of their shattered eyes. All they could do was hold Adam close. In the end, it seemed to be enough.

The story tumbled out of the young prince a second time. By the time he was done he was ashen and exhausted, sprawled boneless on the linden root, his head on Linden's lap.

"So it's what we thought," Linden declared somberly. "And a little bit worse in the bargain."

"Linden, could she protect him?"

"No."

Adam asked a far deadlier question. "Could you?"

"Ynoes."

"Linden."

"It doesn't matter, you don't want to be a king, so who cares? You're fine, you're safe all on your own. You shouldn't need me, you shouldn't need anyone. You'll be fine."

For the first time, Adam realized that Linden was saying the words as if speaking them out loud would make them true. "She'll hate me now."

"Needle? Never. They're not the sort that hates, her kind." Linden leaned down and Adam felt a cool brush against his forehead, and again against his cheek. By the time he realized what had happened Linden was moving away. "Boul, take him to the palace, to the fountain. I'm going to go find the Culli-maid, she'll know what to do from there."

"Needle?" the young troll asked worriedly as he scooped up the young prince, who found himself too exhausted to move or protest or fight.

"We can't help her right now," Linden admitted. "I wish we could, but we can't help her if she won't let us. I think it's best if we wait on her to sort herself out."

"Linden -"

Boul rumbled in wordless concern about his small family. Linden leaned up on their tiptoes to bump their forehead against the troll's. "Thank you, Boul. It's just hard sometimes, loving a mortal. She'll be alright."

"Linden!"

But Boul was moving then, deceptively fast for something with such seemingly stumpy legs, and Adam had been wrung of the last of his strength. Looking up as the sun shone through the green boughs of the woods, he faded away into welcome darkness, never to remember those kisses and those words as more than a dim dream, impossible to grasp.

***

Needlemaw found Adam cleaning stalls in the royal stables three days later. Normally a punishment duty, Adam often traded other princes for the job; he found it soothing to his mind and freeing to his body, hard and mindless work. That day he was so lost in his thoughts as he threw manure into the wheelbarrow that he entirely missed the equine population growing restive and nervous until one warhorse somewhere cried out a challenge.

"Adam."

"Needle!"

If she'd had any doubt that the Prince-That-Wasn't had bled to tell her cruel truths, which she hadn't, the redcap knew she would have lost them all when Adam came flying out of the pen he'd been cleaning, his eyes hopeful and wounded both. She opened her arms and he flew into them, and she realized, with some chagrin, that he was quickly getting to be nearly as tall as she. "Och, ye and the muchness of ye. Ye cannae carry the sorrows of the whole world on yuir shoulders, Adam. They're broad, they're not that broad."

"Maybe," he admitted, pulling away. "But I'd carry all of yours if I could, Needle."

"I know," she said simply. "I wonder sometimes whose blessing ye are, Adam, because by rights ye must be someone's." She tipped her head. "Let's talk outside, before yon beasties panic enough to break all their leggy-leggies at once."

He followed her dutifully and they sat on the fence around the jousting yard. "I'm sorry," Adam said at last as the silence grew between them.

"Dinnae be," the redcap replied. "Dinnae ever be sorry to offer the truth, Adam. More, when ye try so hard to offer it kindly. Each one is precious; together they're priceless."

"I hurt you."

"The truth hurt me. Ye? Never."

"Feels like the same," he muttered.

"'Tis not, and ye ken that. Leave the stubborn to Linden, now."

"What will you do now?"

Needlemaw blew out a long, very long breath, her tongue touching the tip of her sharp nose. "That, I'm still shaping in me head," she admitted. "I've got the bit at the end, and I've got a bit in the middle, but I need to be speaking with Linden about it, too. I wanted to find ye first. I thought ye might be hurting, and I didnae want that." She touched her fingers to her mouth, and brushed them against Adam's heart. "In truth, I only know one thing for sure, Adam. As much as yui've done for me, I have to ask a biggish favor, and it is a favor. With all the dues that come with it."

Adam ducked his head. "Can I do it as an apology? Not for telling you, but for hurting you? Because I did. I did hurt you, and for all the world I wish I hadn't, Needle."

She dragged in another deep breath. "Someone must have taught ye our rules, Adam, there's days I think ye know them better than half I could name on my side of the woods. Aye. That is fair and right. A favor for the hurt." She offered her hand formally.

Adam rubbed his hand clean on his pants and on his shirt, much to her quiet amusement, and shook.

"Ye got a letter from home, earlier this year. Asking ye to visit for a few days."

"I did." Adam sounded dubious.

Needlemaw's smile was a drawn blade. "Go visit."

The young prince licked his lips, nodded slowly, and trotted away.

Linden didn't wait for an invitation. When Needlemaw found them, looking for bits of white sparkling rock in a small muddy spring Boul had conjured for them from the ground, they flew at her with a glad cry. "Needlemaw!"

"Ooof!" The fairy maid took the impact and hugged her charge, the first true Danu-sidhe born in over three thousand years. "I think yui've forgotten to hate me."

"I forgot that forever ago," Linden replied. "Are you sad? Can I fix it?"

"I'm not sad... Well, I am, a little. I'm other things more. And yes, it can be fixed, and 'twill be fixed. But I'll be needing yuir help and one more to boot."

"Adam will - "

"It cannae be Adam," Needle explained. "I've sent him away. What's to come cannae fall at his feet."

"Oh," Linden merely nodded in understanding, then frowned minutely. "For long?"

Needlemaw chuckled. "No, I wouldnae do that to either of ye. No, a week. That's the tradition, from what I ken."

"Then who?"

Needle drew and held a deep breath. "I need the Culli-maid's help."

***

It didn't take long for Adam to organize. For this trip, with a standing invitation, he needed only to go to Master Leminy. The Master of Scions had grown into a habit of tightening up every time someone came into his offices, every time expecting the worst of news. His relief when Adam explained what he wanted was both visible and nearly solid.

That didn't mean the young prince had his way with it. Nearly one entire bag in the sturdy pack pony he was given was homework. Never one to give such labor to someone else, Adam was still used to having Beli as a study partner, but his friend had begged leave to stay muttering something about 'royal stipends' and 'robbed blind' and talking about getting a personal ledger as if he were making dire threats. Against who, Adam didn't even dare guess, but he was perfectly fine taking Dane instead, and likely a great deal safer. As before, Adam's strapping companion found himself equipped for the trip from the castoffs of too many dead princes; unlike Beli, he actually took all of it to the priests of the Tree-Father and the Night-Mother, and paid them for their blessings. Adam helped him carry a great deal of it, shaking his head to silence Dane when he tried to apologize for the delay.

It still took nearly three days to get ready. For the first time Adam met Dane's mother, a short and plump maid at the palace with flour on her apron and a white and messy bun on her head. The courtesy with which he greeted her flustered both mother and son. He had given his scarce goodbyes and was about to mount up when he found a familiar, unwelcomed face on the palace steps.

"William."

"Adam," the older prince said stiffly, and the silence stretched out unkindly between them. "I've not made time to see you after you came back. I'm sorry."

"Think nothing of it," Adam replied automatically; William's absence had never been the problem.

William replied just as instinctively, as if their learned manners were easier than the hidden truths they both carried and shared unspoken. "You did me a courtesy I should have remembered." He drew a deep breath and stared at the Royal Gardens, the slow-sweeping blades of the water-mill, the distant dark smudge of the royal woods  behind it. "Is everything alright? With... her, I mean?"

"It was when I last spoke to her," Adam replied truthfully. Everything had been fine between him and Needlemaw. "Why, is something wrong? Er, between you?" He hesitated minutely. "Ugh, it feels like intruding, asking something like that."

"No, no, it's fine, really. You're her friend. It's just." William looked at him. "It's been six days since I saw her. She's never away that long, unless it's winter, and I just thought, I wanted, I didn't know..." His voice trailed off. Adam could only guess that William was coming to terms with how little he actually did know about his fairy maid. "She's alright, then?"

"William, she's..." Adam sifted through his mental fingers everything he knew about Needlemaw, trying to finding some truth he could offer without betraying her confidence, because the only other option was to leap at William and punch him until he learned respect, and that just wasn't feasible. It would have been profoundly satisfying, but William wasn't his to claim. "She's been rising in importance among her people," he admitted at last.

"Oh? I didn't know that."

Of course not, Adam thought. You'd probably think it sickening to see her threading knucklebones into her cap. "She has her own obligations, William. I'm sure she's told you about that."

"Oh. Oh!" William caught his forehead on a hand. "Oh, I'm a right git, I didn't even think of that." He sighed, his concern swiftly turning to vexation. "So she's alright, then, just caught up on things."

Adam felt any vestige of concern over the older prince die on the spot. He'd never really been worried about Needle; he'd just been fretting about the absence of his shield. "I'm sure she'll make time for you soon, William," he declared. "But I do have to..."

"Oh, right, sorry, of course. Ah, safe trip, and all that." William stepped back and nodded, awkward once again.

Adam turned his back on him, mounted his horse, and rode away without a single glance back.

William did his best to curb his impatience. It was greatly motivated, he knew, by the fact that he'd crossed what every prince knew was the unspoken line between the safety of childhood and the danger of adulthood, and he'd made no other preparations to protect himself beyond courting the fairy maid. He figured divine providence had brought her to him, those few years ago; why tempt fate for two birds when there's one already in your hand?

He went about his life, trying not to feel threadbare and betrayed, and wondering how he might make her apologize to him for abandoning him so. Even a whirl around the jousting yard didn't improve his mood, but finding the letter waiting for him on his writing desk after he came out of his bath certainly did.

It was faintly perfumed, though he couldn't recognize the smell. Something lemony, like tea, or candies. The writing was elegant and lady-like, and his brows climbed up at the sight of it, having never seen his lady-love write, always scoffing at the thought of it as a skill. The apologies were many and elegant, and he allowed himself to be mollified somewhat. And she asked, ever so prettily, to see him. Just for a little while, if that was all they could manage, just for a breath, so she'd know he was safe. She would be waiting, the letter told him, in the wild garden that stood in the ruins of an old gamekeeper's cottage, a building of stone and moss-eaten timbers that was a favored haunt of theirs whenever the weather forced them to seek a roof. One of the cottage walls had caved in and the shutters were long gone, but the garden walls stood strong, and the slate roof still persisted. Mostly.

He dressed with care and practiced his most somber and severe and disappointed looks in his mirror. But William never allowed himself to go so far as to forget he needed the fairy maid. She was his safety, his shield, the only chance he'd left himself to win an impossible crown. His family had no wealth, they scarce had their title, and their blood tie to the Dowager was slim and suspect. For William, the choices were to go back home and languish in hollow honors until he could wed a bride well below his station but with a fat purse, or to survive the trial of the Folk in the Woods.

And that deep streak of cowardice Needlemaw had so clearly seen in him told the prince, without an ounce of compassion, that he would never live through it.

He picked up a small ribbon, a simple thing with a silver clasp, and made haste to the meeting. The bottom of the sun was touching the horizon when he reached the cottage, the early summer air full of golden motes and the deep, rich scents of a hundred wildflowers. He eschewed the iron gate, long gone to rust and impossible to move, and climbed over the wall where a tangle of ivy provided a very useful ladder. Landing inside he roused a cloud of ladybugs and a few errant butterflies, chivvying them aside with gentleness he'd only ever exercised because of the fairy maid. "Needle!"

He moved cautiously through paths they had trod together before, where the stepping stones were barely visible anymore. The warmth was invigorating, the scent in the breeze familiar and yet not, and he felt deeply happy just to smell it, just to be alive on that beautiful summer day, with every flower around him in bloom like a blessing given. "Needle?"

"Over here, William," she called out.

He turned and made his way to where the well had once stood. The brush opened up into a clearing here, where the stones had been put down with more care, set into sand and clay. "Needle?"

She rose and came around the well, and William lost his breath.

She was beautiful.

The fairy maid was tall, as tall as William if not more, but he'd long accepted that as something that couldn't be changed. But instead of boy's trousers or a peasant's woolen skirt, instead of a plain linen blouse saggy and threadbare, she wore an exquisite gown of lavender satin with plum-colored embroidery and cream lace. It tightened around a waist that William could have held with both his hands with perhaps a knuckle to spare, dainty and delicate.

The ugly, smelly russet cap was gone, and the wild mess of her crimson curls had been tamed back under a beautiful set of green enameled combs and a broad gold hair clasp set with black and red gemstones. Her eyes were rich and gold on her narrow, sharp face, but the most subtle touch of make-up softened the thin, angular lines to something sweet and demure. There was a faint touch of pink on her lips that made them a plush invitation. There was a delicate choker around her neck, like the branches of a tree, inset with white and delicate flowers made of some jewel William couldn't recognize.

A wiser man would have run then.

William merely stepped forward, drunk in the summer-rich air. He'd had his blessings from the Tree-Father's priest. He believed, in his heart of hearts, that Needle could not enthrall him. Needlemaw fully accepted that. She was using not a whit of her power.

The garden was Linden's. The wall was Boul's. And the exquisite beauty the redcap had become was entirely Culli's work.

"Needle, oh, look at you. Is this for me?" he breathed out in wonder.

"All for you," she admitted, letting him come to her, speaking very carefully, soft and meek like a mouse. It had taken her hours, and she'd never be able to repay the patience the Culli-maid had shown her in teaching her. "Did you think I was not listening, all those times you asked to see me thus?"

"I didn't think you cared." William reached her at last. He reached out to run his fingertips over the exquisitely bright crimson of her hair. "I didn't think you loved me enough," he said. For just a moment, a single heartbeat, he thought he smelled charnel, spilled blood, torn flesh.

Needlemaw tipped her head slightly. "Ah, William." The rich golden light of the setting summer sun caught on the jewels in her hair clasp.

The prince forgot everything else. She wasn't just powerful, she was beautiful, she was wealthy, she was everything he needed to become king. He slid his hand down to cradle that delicate, fine-boned cheek in the cup of his hand. "Look at you. You do love me."

Needlemaw's eyes closed under that warm, mortal touch. They were a drug, mortals were, but she was lucky: she'd had years to learn what true love was, from her mortal younger brother, from her wild and free and more-fey-than-most ward, from her littlest troll brother. She'd had ample time to see what honor looked like, what loyalty felt like, what goodness tasted like. She set her hand lightly over William's. Her eyes opened and she stared very calmly at this stupid mortal thing that thought she was to be used and unraveled like an undyed cap. "My William," she said. "My loving you isn't the problem; you not loving me is."

She gripped his hand, whipped around, and bit two of his fingers off.

William howled and staggered back, and she let him go. While he'd been busy looking at her the walls around them had risen to impossible heights. While he'd been enjoying the sight of what he thought he'd earned, the garden had shifted all around them, and other than knowing where the well was because he could still see it, he could tell nothing of direction or escape.

Needle rolled the fingers thoughtfully in her mouth and spat something into her dainty hand, holding it up to the light. It was William's signet ring, still holding part of one finger in its hoop.

The prince lunged for his dagger, belatedly remembering that he didn't carry it, he carried no weapons - steel and iron weren't nearly as valuable to him as the protection of his fairy-maid. "You bitch," he sobbed, and lunged at her anyways with his bare fists.

Needlemaw backhanded him with her free hand and he nearly flew half the length of the not inconsiderable garden, crashing down in a breathless, bloody, bruised heap, still scrabbling to turn around; he was terrified to face her but even more of losing sight of her. He needn't have bothered. The redcap prowled after him; she sank black talons into the bodice of the dress and ripped it off, revealing beneath it the threadbare shirt and man's breeches, the leather girdle full of the buttons she'd claimed from her kills. She ripped off the comb  and her hair turned into a wild mass, falling over her face, but not fast enough to hide the immense, gashing wound of her maw, filled with needle-like teeth, or the cadmium-yellow of her alien, inhuman, predatory eyes, full of rage and hunger. She spat on the comb; Boul's magic on it broke and it turned in her hand into the russet cap with the threaded knucklebones, and she shoved it in place with a jaunty little pat.

William tried to flee. She leapt and caught him by the back of the neck, lifting him up until his kicking feet were a good arm's length off the ground. She shook him roughly, and he clawed at her with his good hand and the crippled one, smearing his blood all over her.

Her long black tongue came out and licked at the smears, and her smile curled and curled and curled. "I'm told," she told him casually, "that yui're never to be parted from this wee trinket." She held up the signet ring; her tongue lashed out and took the last bit of William's finger from it, and it disappeared with a sickening crunch inside her mouth. "So I'll let yuir family have it because, more the fool me, I really did love ye, William, sweet, stupid William. Just so they'll know what's become of ye."

"Please," he pleaded, weeping and breathless. "Please!"

"Ah, there it is," she purred. "Now if'n only yui'd been a coward when it would've been helpful to the both of us."

"Please, I love you."

"Oh, do ye now. Cross yuir heart?"

"Yes!"

She brought him down until he could make out the yellow of her eyes through the crimson of her curls, until he could smell his blood on her breath. "Let's find out for surety-sure, then," she said cheerfully, and sank her free hand into his chest.

The signet ring was found, along with a single knucklebone, carefully placed dead center of the jousting ring when the first class of the day came by that morning. Needlemaw didn't mind parting with it. She had plenty other knucklebones to stitch into her cap, and William had not been a particularly fearsome kill to merit the honor.

[friendrat]

Also, though, maybe cats just like the sound? Not telling the plant to shut up, but more like, if I chew on this, it makes a pleasant sound. Like the lullaby trees in The Edge Chronicles, where if you burn them, they make music that sounds like a lullaby.

Also, my kids learned the other day that plants communicate with each other and share resources. Old plants will share with saplings, and when they get big enough, saplings will share back. Healthy plants will share with sick plants, and if the sick plant gets beyond recovery, it will give out all the nutrients it has to the surrounding plants. Evergreens will share with leafy trees in the winter, and leafy plants return the favor in the warm months.

Plants are actually really neat.

[williecthepoet]

Poetry: Fatherless Lullabies

Within the silent cradle of our youth,Lay shadows draped where father’s light should dance.Two saplings stretching skyward for the truth,Root-bound in mystic mother’s nurtured trance. Our laughs and tears, a tapestry we wove,Without the threads that fathers oft provide.Yet in our bond, a fortress strong of love,We faced the storms of absence side by side. Through seasons’ shift we grew in…

[nightwere-mojo]

Hylictober 2023 Prompt 6: Harvest - (Comfort) - Trick

Maybe more of an accident than a trick. Some wild Lullaby saplings have started to develop the traits of flora shared where they sprouted. Furthermore, their only defense mechanisms this young are burrowing, fleeing, or biting. Sorry, Wayne!

[violettesiren]

O nurse, when I was a rascal boy, bold February winds were snaffling gold Out of the crocuses; there in grief For the pretty, gaudy things I'd cry: 'Stop thief' And you would grumble: 'Child, let be, let be.' Or we would come across a sapling tree To discover frost sipping its new blood; I'd join my arms around its perished wood And weep, and you would say: 'Now child, its place Is in a crackling hearth, not your embrace.' And one April morning that was filled With mating tunes a nest of finches spilled Which slipped its flowering anchor in a gale. I cupped one in my fingers, dead and small. But late that night you stole to me on tiptoe And whispered: 'Child, child, the winds must blow.'

Lullaby by Eavan Boland

[aikoiya]

I actually have a very similar theory of my own regarding a timeline split originating from Skyward Sword's ancient past. Though, I sort of took it as an opportunity to think up a brand new alternate to Skyward Sword with an alternate Sky, an alternate Sun, Impa, Fi, all revolving around the fact that Demise is dead & there's no Imprisoned.

The reason that I did this was partly for fun but also partly to explain the paradoxes we see in SS.

Some of which, of course, are the Master Sword & Pedastle of Time, but also Impa's bracelet, the Tree of Life, & even Sun, herself.

For it, I had to keep in mind to think 4 dimensionally. For instance, the fact that, by the time that Sky is born, the events of SS' ancient past, before Ghirahim's interference, has already occurred.

Future Sun is already in the distant past, incased in amber, which I don't think you brought up here.

Problem is, the entire reason that Zelda & Link went down to the earth to begin with was because Ghirahim took her in order to revive his master.

Except that, here, he's dead. Meaning that he can't just abduct her again in the same attempt because there's nothing to resurrect.

Yet, the Ghirahim of that time is still very much alive. So, either he just sat on his rump, moping, or tried to find a new lot in life.

The issue is that this means that this timeline has a Goddess Sword, 2 Pedastels of Time, 2 Goddess Bracelets, the Sapling of Life, & a Master Sword, while the other one has 1 Goddess Sword, no Pedastel of Time, no Goddess Bracelet,

Even though the events of the past had already happened in that timeline, Sky returned to the future with Fi before the split occurred. As such, at the moment that Ghirahim abducted Sun & took her into the past, the timeline officially split with the Gates of Time being the only thing connecting the 2 timelines. But, remember, Fi was still with Sky in the future at this point. Meaning that when past Impa closed the Gate of Time later, this new timeline & the og timeline officially became separated at the point when Ghirahim escaped to the past.

Everything before that point occurred within the past of the og timeline, meaning that the og timeline does not independently possess the Master Sword as it was supposed to, nor the bracelet that Sun eventually gives to Impa after Demise's defeat.

These are some very significant issues as it means that the og timeline shouldn't have possessed either, but they do. However, I think I have a solution, though it is a very highly speculatory one.

Something else to keep in mind is that it's very possible that the Master Sword from OoT didn't even need to travel through time. Because, why would it? After all, Time Link didn't. If he had, then he wouldn't have aged like he did. Instead, I believe that he was put into a magically induced coma for those 7 years, possibly with his mind having been flung into the future.

It is theorized that the Ocarina of Time & the guard of the Master Sword are both made from Timeshift Stone. If so, it's possible that the 2 worked together to send Time's mind into the future whenever he withdrew the sword from the pedastel. I mean, it was only when he withdrew it that he would be sent forward, so it's possible that it's what was keeping his mind there.

If that's the case, then when Lullaby (OoT Zelda) sent Time back to the past, she only sent his mind/memories/a copy of his memories back. Because, if it was his body that was sent back, then he'd have still been a teenager with his young body still there in a 7 year coma separate from his new, older body. But he wasn't.

As such, there are really only 3 things that I could see happening: Either, best case schenario, a copy of his memories was sent back & picked back up as who I will now be referring to as Mask, leaving his older self, Time, in the future, not understanding what went wrong, being disappointed, & having to learn to live with it; his mind was sent back, Time's future body disintegrating, but at the very least leaving Lullaby with the impression that her gambit worked, unaware of the reality of what just happened; or, in the worst case schenario, Time's mind was sent back to live his life as Mask, but his body remained, leaving it to collapse like a puppet whose strings had been cut, & Lullaby utterly horrified & consumed by guilt, believing that she'd just murdered Hyrule's savior. (Personally, I prefer the first option.)

Similarly, the paradoxes in SS aren't so easily handwaved, either.

Thing is, in order to succeed, it means that there needs to be another Link in this new timeline who finds this timeline's Fi & tempers her with the 3 Sacred Flames.

Problem, if there's no reason for Zelda to go back down to the earth, why would she? And if she doesn't, then neither will Link. And, subsequently, neither will the Skyloftians. Meaning that... Hyrule just doesn't exist.

Unless, there's a new threat besides Demise that lures them down there. Specifically, something that prompts Ghirahim into moving. Possibly a new master.

My thoughts are that, because Demise was killed here already & his death curse was tenacious enough to follow Sky & Sun into an entirely different timeline, that it's likely also tenacious enough to terrorize 2 timelines.

I mean, for all we know, the OG Dorf might actually be the result of the Imprisoned putting a death curse on them &, if so, then it's very possible that Demise's death curse simply stuck around in his current timeline to be reborn, if earlier.

So, I could very easily see another Dorf showing up as a result.

What if Ghirahim found him &, noticing the similarity to his master, he pledged his loyalty to him? What if he told this Ganondorf about the power of the Triforce & about the Spirit Maiden?

What if this sparked within this new Ganondorf to seek them out, thus causing a nearly identical sequence of events as the beginning of the og timeline to take place?

Thus, everything is back in motion, if with an entirely different sequence of events, because, remember, very little in Skyloft would've changed at all due to it being so isolated from everything. Meaning that everyone & everything up there would be nearly exactly the same. It would essentially be the Sky & Sun that we knew, just experiencing an entirely different adventure.

Regardless, my idea is that, at some point, this new Ganondorf or a minion of his (possibly a brainwashed Sheikah) touches the Triforce before Link can make a wish on it, causing it to split as it typically does.

Except, now that he has that piece, he's suddenly too strong to be beaten with Fi as is. Resulting in him being prompted to find the flames & temper her, resulting in the Goddess Sword becoming the Master Sword here as well.

However, possibly during what had been framed as the final boss fight, Ghirahim comes in to aid Ganondorf &...

Ganondorf does what Ganondorf does. He betrays him. Now, for this part, I gonna have to go into a little bit of Japanese mythology.

Fi & Ghirahim are what, in Japan, might be referred to as Tsukumogami. Specifically, the Tsukumogami of divine swords.

There, it is believed that all things can obtain a spirit, but swords are seen as special.

It is believed that the Tsukumogami of a sword carries pieces of the spirits or identities or essences of a number of individuals: the gods themselves, the sword's creator, & the sword's wielder.

This, in turn, influences the sword itself, which is why it is believed that certain Japanese swords are cursed, because their creator was evil or wicked or some other scary adjective.

Anyway, I'd be extremely shocked if this wasn't also the case here. So, what if this Ganondorf learned of this phenomenon? What if he learned of how powerful Ghirahim's previous master was?

What if he absorbed the piece of Demise that inhabited Ghirahim, thereby causing his already immense power to soar?

Now, not only does this new Dorf have a piece of the Triforce, but he also has a piece of Demise's essence or aura or whatever you wanna call it.

And, that... Isn't good!

Anyway, it doesn't matter, Link gets his twink heinie kicked, barely survives, all seems lost, but THEN...

Fi picks up a familiar signal. Link dowses...

And, love & behold, a second Master Sword.

Yes, we are dual-wielding & dual-guiding!

Anyway, things happen, Link wins with the EPICNESS that is dual-weilding 2 Master Swords.

He gets the Triforce & the sleeping Fi tells this new awake Fi to tell Link exactly what to wish: "Whatever must be done, may it be done." Or something to that effect.

This sends the Master Sword with the sleeping Fi, the 2nd Goddess Bracelet, & whatever else is necessary to keep the og timeline from collapsing, to the ancient past of the of timeline, just after the point when the timeline split occurred. With Sky, Groose, Impa, & Sun being unable to perceive the Life Tree until after Sky went back in time to plant it, then everyone but Sky's memory was altered so that they all believed that the tree was always there.

Thus, the day is saved. No timeline collapse takes place, no paradoxes. The og SS is now, officially, a closed loop with minimal interference from the new timeline beyond what was necessary to keep the og timeline stable.

...

There's just one problem...

There are now 2 Suns in this new timeline...

Because, as I mentioned before, everything that happened in the og timeline's past before og Ghirahim's interference, is part of the og timeline's pre-existing history. It cannot be changed. Because, if it was, this wouldn't work.

And, remember... Sun was sealed away before that.

And, in the scene where og Sky puts the Master Sword in the Pedastel of Time, the amber-sealed Sun that should be there, very conspicuously isn't.

...

So, it's terrifyingly possible that the moment of Demise's death, she woke up, realized what'd happened, hid, then waited for them to return to the future before coming out to... live her life, I guess.

Or, in a similarly tragic case, if only just barely less tragic than before, the seal was set to a magical timer of sorts (somehow), the wish from this adventure caused her & the amber during the scene where og Sky sheaths the sword in the stone to be imperceptible to the eye until after they returned to the future, & at the end of this adventure, a similar scene to the og game takes place...

Only for this Sun to become confused at the sight of another her.

And then, she is forced to come to terms with the fact that, yes, a Link did come to wake her up... But it wasn't her Link...

And... Now what?

---

Like, this is one of the only ways that I can see this... working!

Yes, I'm sure that it most likely sounds like a fanfic, but Kingdom Hearts manages to get away with it, so why not Legend of Zelda???

But, yeah. That's my attempt to stitch shut as many of the game's gaps as possible while leaving canon as pristine as absolutely possible.

It takes a booty-ton of creative thinking, but I think I've managed it!! XD

Tears of the Kingdom, Master Works, and the Zelda Timeline

Okay! So the Tears of the Kingdom Master Works has dropped and some translations have popped up online, including the Hyrule Chronology section of the book.

Why am I making this post? Simply put, I just want to get my thoughts on how the lore presented here and other materials such as interviews have changed my perspective on how Breath of the Wild and Tears of the Kingdom fit into the greater Zelda timeline.

Before TotK's release, I was in the camp that Breath of the Wild was in one of two places; At the end of the Child Timeline long after Four Swords Adventures in the same Hyrule. Or in a convergent timeline. I leaned more towards the Child Timeline placement however, as there being no mention of an inciting event that would merge all three timelines didn't sit right with me. Furthermore, I didn't think that the old world—the Hyrule that was established after the Interloper War—would survive such an event, and everything we had up till that point suggested that this was the same Hyrule as the past games.

With Tears of the Kingdom's release, I no longer believe that to be the case.

This stance has only been backed up as more and more lore details have been released. Everything points to the Hyrule we see in Breath of the Wild and Tears of the Kingdom to be a separate kingdom than the one present in the old games. So what makes me think this?

Well to start, let's cover Hyrule's history as seen in the old games and compare it to the history that Tears of the Kingdom presents.

The Repopulation of the Surface and the Birth of Hyrule:

After the events of Skyward Sword, humans returned to the surface after millennia and began settling alongside the Goron, Parella, Kikwi, and Mogmas. These different groups end up developing and creating their own civilizations with the Triforce in the hands of the Hylians. Now, despite the defeat of Demise and the Era of the Sky having mostly faded into myth and legend, word of a powerful artifact still floated around the surface. These rumors fed into the greed present in some people, wishing for power to do with what they wish. Of course, the artifact in question was the Triforce. A group of sorcerers known as the Dark Interlopers began to organize and raged war against the Hylians in order to obtain the Triforce.

This is what is known as the Interloper War, and which led to the birth of the Kingdom of Hyrule.

To protect the Triforce, the Three Golden Goddesses sent in the Spirits of Light—Faron, Eldin, Lanayru, and Ordona—to use the Mirror of Twilight to banish the Interlopers into the Twilight Realm. After the Banishment of the Twili, the Hylian ancient Sage of Light Rauru hides the Triforce within the Temple of Light within the Sacred Realm, which could only be accessed from the Sealed Grounds within the Light World (Hyrule). Rauru then constructs the Temple of Time over the ruins of the Sealed Grounds and uses the Master Sword, the Pedestal of Time, and the Door of Time as a gateway and the Three Spiritual Stones serving as keys to opening that gateway.

To protect the Sacred Realm, the Master Sword, and the Temple of Time, the descendants of Skyward Sword Zelda—the Goddess Hylia reborn—then establish the Kingdom of Hyrule and entrust the Three Spiritual Stones to the Zora, Gorons, and Kokiri as a showing of trust between the groups.

This is the birth of Hyrule as we see it in every Zelda game prior to BotW/TotK. With the Kingdom being established long after the events of Skyward Sword, and before the events of The Minish Cap. So how does this compare to what Tears of the Kingdom and it's book Master Works presents?

The Zonai, The Imprisoning War, and the birth of Hyrule:

To start, we actually have to go back to the Creation of the World. The Creation Myth of the World presented here is pretty much identical to the one seen in Ocarina of Time and other Zelda games with one key addition: The Golden Goddesses also created the Secret Stones and put them in the care of the Goddess Hylia.

While the Triforce isn't mentioned here, I have no doubt that it exists as well in the same state as it did in the past games: Triforce imagery is seen all throughout Hyrule in both Breath of the Wild and Tears of the Kingdom. So while it isn't directly mentioned, I don't doubt that it exists as well.

Long after the Secret Stones and the Triforce were created and the Golden Goddesses left the world to the Heavens, Hylia entrusted the Secret Stones to the Zonai people to protect and use them wisely. The Zonai then populate the surface and the depths, beginning their own civilization and mining operations for Zonaite to power their machinery. Eventually the Zonai abandon the surface and ascend to the sky, however their mining operations in the depths continue. During this period many different tribes spring up and form communities on the surface; The Rito, Gorons, Zora, Gerudo, and Hylians.

Facing the danger of a collapse, the Zonai abandon the depths and begin mingling with the surface people. They help out where they can using their knowledge and powers, however their population rapidly declines. Eventually, Rauru of the Zonai people and a Hylian Priestess Sonia meet and fall in love. The pair get married and begin the Pilgrimage of Light, purging the surface demons and placing Shrines of Light over the demon's point of destruction to prevent its reappearance.

The two, having gained a lot of respect and trust for their efforts to protect the surface-dwellers from dark forces, ascend as King and Queen of the Hylian people in a new Kingdom known as Hyrule.

However, not everyone on the surface is happy about the cleansing of the demons: Ganondorf, King of the Gerudo, sees the change as the weakening of the surface-dwellers. He believed that only the strong had the right to exist, and that by exterminating the demons and dark spirits that terrorized the people of the surface that it would weaken the world and those within it. Thus he began a plot against Hyrule and the Zonai, which we see in Tears of the Kingdom as The Imprisoning War: Sonia is killed by Ganondorf—who takes her Secret Stone and becomes Demon King Ganondorf. The Gerudo split into two groups, those who are against Ganondorf and those who are with him. The Rito, Zora, Goron, and anti-Ganon Gerudo meet up with Rauru and the Hylians to stop the world from falling back into the war-filled, chaotic land it was before the Pilgrimage of Light. One member of each tribe becomes a Sage entrusted with a Secret Stone to help fight against Ganondorf. Rauru sacrifices his life to seal Ganondorf in the Temple of Light deep in the depths underneath the surface, and Zelda transforms into the Light Dragon to repair the decayed Master Sword that was sent back in time.

How does this connect?

So we have two very different origin stories for Hyrule that have some strong parallels: A Sage of Light named Rauru is alive to see the birth of the Kingdom and a war against dark forces; the war centers around mystical, powerful artifacts created by the Golden Goddesses; The Temple of Light plays a major role in the war; and stone-like artifacts are entrusted to different tribes across the land as a sign of trust and community.

What do I make of this? If one thing is clear, it is that these two origin stories parallel each other. One of the meta themes of the Zelda series at large is the idea of the cyclical nature of the world: The Curse of Demise, the rebirth of the Spirit of the Hero, the way Hyrule is locked in a cycle of prosperity and decline, etc.

It is my belief that the Hyrule we see in Tears of the Kingdom and Breath of the Wild are yet another example of this. It is a kingdom that mirrors the Hyrule from past games with a similar, yet notably different, history.

Under no circumstances can one claim that these are the same event. Even if you ignore all the differences between the origins themselves, the aftermath still shows that these two stories surround two different Hyrules: In TotK's Hyrule, after the Imprisoning War the Gerudo outright banned any male Gerudo from being king and established the Chieftain position to take over rule. This cannot happen if these two Hyrules are the same as in both Ocarina of Time and Four Swords Adventures, Ganondorf is the King of the Gerudo before becoming Ganon. Hyrule Castle was also built over the Temple of Light to hide away Ganondorf's sealed body and Rauru which survives over 10,000 years till the events of Breath of the Wild and Tears of the Kingdom. Whereas in the other Hyrule, there are several different Castles that are destroyed and built elsewhere. These cannot be the same origin story and these kingdoms cannot be the same Hyrule. But when what about the clear references to games such as Ocarina of Time, Twilight Princess, Wind Waker, A Link to the Past, and others? How can they be referenced as real events while also being in a different Hyrule?

Well that is when we turn to an interview with series director Eiji Aonuma and the director of Breath of the Wild/Tears of the Kingdom Hidemaro Fujibayashi. When asked about how this version of the Hyrule origin story connects to the version seen in the past games, Fujibayashi states that the lore and story of the series is meant to fit together and not to collapse on itself. He says that perhaps there was a Hyrule before the kingdom we see in Breath of the Wild and Tears of the Kingdom, that maybe it was destroyed and forgotten to time.

So is that it? Case closed? Maybe! But I'm hesitant to say so, what could've caused such an event? Why was it forgotten to time yet events that came before it wasn't? Well, it is this and Master Works that push me to two different ideas for how BotW/TotK fit into the overall Zelda timeline: A timeline convergence, and a new timeline split. Each with their own pros and cons and evidence.

The Timeline Convergence Theory

I think the Timeline convergence theory is the easiest one to articulate so lets start there.

It really is just as it sounds; Sometime long after Adventure of Link, Four Swords Adventures, and Spirit Tracks the three timelines converge into one, collapsing the civilizations of the Old Worlds and bringing things to a similar state seen back during the Era of the Sky. From there, everything we get in Breath of the Wild and Tears of the Kingdom occurs. Legends and myths of the world long past still persists, but no one is able to prove that these events actually occurred. I have made a graphic to show what the timeline would look like in this scenario.

(You may have noticed that I put Echoes of Wisdom—a game that has not released—on the timeline after Four Swords Adventures. I'll make a comment thread on this post explaining why I think that the game might take place there. That too is just a theory.)

What does this theory have going for it? Well it seemingly explains any contradictory evidence: A Link to the Past, Twilight Princess, and Wind Waker are all heavily referenced despite all three of those games taking place in separate timelines? Not a problem if all of those merged back into one! An event such as that wouldn't be smooth sailing for the people alive during it either, Hyrule is in such a different state in all three branches of the timeline that if they were to converge again it would be akin to a universal reset. It also follows the series trend of death and rebirth and story parallels: The convergence—which I have called "The Great Consolidation"—would be a parallel to the three Golden Goddesses creating the world. The event would have killed off the Old Worlds, yes, but it allows for something new to spring up in its place—which the series again is no stranger to with the Adult Timeline.

Things like the Rito and Zora coexisting, the Tunics of past heroes found in the depths, locations referencing characters across the series; It can all be explained if it all simply happened.

But my biggest issue with that theory was this; Why would the timelines converge? What event could cause this and why is there not even a hint of such a thing occurring? It just doesn't make sense to me that three timelines with hundreds of years worth of history would all be remembered and passed down through legend, yet the incident that brought them together with such force and chaos would be completely forgotten.

That just doesn't sit right with me, and I have no answers to any of those questions even though it is what I had settled on for the past year or so.

Which leads me to the next theory.

The Era of the Goddess Hylia Timeline Split Theory

This theory proposes that the events of Skyward Sword—much like that of Ocarina of Time—create a timeline split. This one however as a result of Link's use of the Triforce at the end of the game.

Just like with the timeline convergence theory, I made a little graphic of what the Zelda timeline would look like if this theory would end up being true.

Like I said earlier, this theory centers around the idea that a timeline split occurs during the events of Skyward Sword when Link uses the Triforce to kill Demise in the present day. Now to be honest, before recently I did not subscribe to the idea. I just didn't think there was much merit to it. But recently I had thought about it a bit more, and I'm much more open to the idea now.

It isn't killing Demise in the present with the Triforce that is the cause of the split, but rather the aftermath. To recap the end of Skyward Sword for anyone who hasn't played it or may have forgotten; After using the Triforce to eradicate Demise, Zelda awakens from her slumber and reunites with Link, Groose, and Impa. Ghirahim however is pissed that his Master is dead and thus swiftly incapacitates the four before taking Zelda through the Gate of Time and thousands of years into the past during the Era of the Goddess Hylia, shortly after Demise was imprisoned in the Sealed Grounds.

It is here that Ghirahim uses Zelda's soul to bring back Demise, freeing him from his prison and revitalizing him. Groose and Link follow Ghirahim and Link fights Demise. Using the Master Sword, Link kills Demise in the past—freeing Zelda's soul—before returning with Zelda and Groose to the present day.

The theory is pretty self-explanatory now isn't it? It is a similar premise to the Child/Adult Era split in Ocarina of Time; Something happens in the future, and characters do something in the past that would stop that future from occurring—splitting the timeline as a result. In this case, rather than closing the Door of Time and then warning the Royal Family of Ganondorf's plans, it is the killing of the Demon King Demise in the past that splits the timeline. He can't die in the present if he's already dead after all.

This would then lead to a completely different history, one that mirrors the one that we have come to know in love over the past 38 years of this series. Hyrule is established—this time by the Zonai—Ganondorf threatens the Kingdom, and the Princess and Hero group up to stop him time and time again. It allows for both the TotK Hyrule origin story to occur as well as the original Hyrule origin story without having the big massive question of how the timelines could converge and not be remembered.

But what about the Twilight Princess references? Or the Wind Waker references? Or the Tunics we can find? What about the "Whether Skyward Bound, Adrift in Time, or Steeped in the Glowing Embers of Twilight" line from Breath of the Wild? This theory doesn't explain why the past games are referenced time and time again, it only explains the two different Hyrules...right? Well that's where we return to the idea that this series likes to tell stories that parallel each other. With TotK's Master Works again confirming that there were many appearances of Calamity Ganon before the creation of the Divine Beasts, I believe that the past games did also happen in this timeline—or at least, a version of them.

Let's go back to the beginning when I was comparing how similar the two versions of Hyrule's origin story are and how they're distinctly different enough to clearly be two different events despite their broad similarities. Well, the story of The Imprisoning War doesn't just reflect the Interloper War; It also reflects the story of Ocarina of Time.

After a failed attack on Hyrule, King of the Gerudo—Ganondorf—swears fealty to the Royal Family of Hyrule. This is a ruse, however. One that conceals his true plan to betray the Royal Family and steal a mystic artifact that the Royal Family safeguards to gain godlike power and to take the land for himself, shaping it with his own views. Zelda sees through this ruse, and tries warning the King of Hyrule to Ganondorf's plan. The King of Hyrule doesn't take action however, leading to Ganondorf taking the artifact and gaining immense power. Ganondorf with his newfound power wreaks havoc across the land, forcing other groups living in Hyrule—including the Gerudo—to band together and form the Seven Sages and defeat Ganondorf. There is also the Master Sword traveling through time.

Which story did I just explain? The answer is both Tears of the Kingdom's Imprisoning War and Ocarina of Time. Of course, there are some differences; The Sages in OoT are Light, Forest, Fire, Water, Shadow, Spirit, and Zelda (implied to be time). In TotK the Sages are Light, Time, Wind, Fire, Water, Lightning, and Spirit. Notably there is no Hero present during the Imprisoning War, which is likely a reason why the Sages were getting their asses handed to them until Rauru sacrificed himself. Not much time travel happens beyond Zelda getting sent to this era from the future before the War broke out and the decayed Master Sword being sent to Zelda from the future shortly after the War. And King Rauru is also aware that Ganondorf is not to be trusted, while the King of Hyrule in OoT outright rejects the idea.

But the broad strokes still remain, and it cannot be denied that Ocarina of Time was a major influence on the story of the Imprisoning War.

So if these major events can be paralleled, then why not others? Again, we know that there were many appearances of Calamity Ganon; Perhaps one of those appearances broke the barrier between the Light world and the Twilight Realm? Maybe another caused the Hero to have to traverse the seas beyond Hyrule to try to stop it? Maybe another caused the Royal Family and the Hero to journey to the Sacred Realm? Under this theory there is still a Hero of Twilight, a Hero of Winds, a Hero of Legend, etc. But they aren't the ones we're familiar with. All the references to past characters and events are still canon, though the stories surrounding them might be a little different.

It could explain why the Rito and Zora can coexist; In this timeline, they simply evolved separately rather than the Rito evolving from the Zora. Perhaps they shared a common ancestor in the Parella in this timeline rather than just the Zora evolving from them.

The Wild Era games are also consistently placed separate from the old games on official timelines, like these timelines from the Zelda website and at Nintendo Live in Australia.

Now there are a few issues with this theory as well.

For starters, I admit the idea of the references to the past games not actually being the past games but rather some similar version of the past games kind of feels like a cop-out and likely wasn't the original idea when making Breath of the Wild (whether that changed later on is to be debated).

Furthermore, the Gate of Time was opened when Link killed Demise in the past, and we know that the Door of Time was constructed over the Sealed Grounds where the Gate of Time used to be. So it could be argued that it follows similar rules to the Door of Time in which if the Door/Gate is opened, then one can freely do what they need in the past and the future that has already been created would then reflect that. But I don't think that alone disproves this theory. If that is the case, then Demise being killed in the past should then completely change everything that happens after. Skyward Sword as it is occurs because Demise isn't dead and is Imprisoned in the Sealed Grounds.

Killing Demise in the past means that Link then wouldn't need to go on the journey to find Zelda in the present because she never would've been captured to begin with.

It's a paradox.

And while the series isn't new to tackling paradoxes (The Song of Storms and the events of BotW/TotK are both examples of Bootstrap paradoxes; With Adult Link learning the Song of Storms from Guru-Guru and then going back in time to teach Guru-Guru the same song; and Zelda in TotK going back in time to help imprison Ganondorf which led to the creation of Calamity Ganon and the events of BotW which then led to Zelda finding Ganondorf and getting sent back in time), I don't think that this aligns with those paradoxes. The two deaths of Demise is much more similar to Link preventing Ganondorf's rise to power at the end of OoT, thus preventing much of OoT from happening. And yes, that happened after Link closed the Door of Time so it can be argued that it wouldn't have caused a timeline split if he did it beforehand. I just think that it makes a bit more sense that a reality following Demise's death in the past would be created separate from the reality we follow throughout most of Skyward Sword.

However there is another issue with this idea: At the end of Skyward Sword, Link puts the Master Sword in her pedestal in the past before returning to the present, where the Master Sword still stands in the very same pedestal—suggesting that it is the same continuity as the one in which Demise was killed in the past.

This one I admittedly have no answer for.

All I can say is that we again see a similar thing in Ocarina of Time. Link takes the Master Sword back to the past and puts her in the Pedestal of Time and then the timeline splits, yet the Master Sword still exists in the Adult era. Maybe the sword's status as The Sword of Time means that she isn't bound by time and is a constant in every timeline? I'm not sure.

The TotK Master Works book is also ambiguous as to how long after the Creation of the Secret Stones by the Golden Goddesses it took for the Zonai to then populate the surface and the depths. It could be a few hundred years, or a few hundred-thousand years. There just isn't enough to say.

Conclusion:

As of right now, these two theories are what I operate around when it comes to the placement of Breath of the Wild and Tears of the Kingdom in the Zelda timeline. I've been a massive fan of this series for most of my life, and it really sparked my love for storytelling and lore. So while the contradictions and confusion that Tears of the Kingdom's lore and story has caused in the Zelda community has admittedly been terrifying, I do think that it still has its place and that the Zelda universe is still in one cohesive piece.

I'll definitely be making adjustments to this when Echoes of Wisdom releases and I can really dive deep into that game! There are already parts in the trailers that has me questioning if this game has any lore connections to Tears of the Kingdom and Breath of the Wild and I'm excited to learn more about the Zelda universe when that game releases. Maybe it'll completely change my stance once again.

[aarghhaaaarrrghhh]

A Summer in a Pioneer’s Neckerchief/Лето в пионерском галстуке - Chapter Two

Master post here

Chapter Two. Natural buffoonery

A light breeze brought the stagnant odour of burnt diesel over from the construction site. He seemed so foreign to this place, like he wanted to hide himself from it. On top of that, the rain, which up to that point had merely been drizzling, intensified. Yura immediately set himself in the direction of the cinema hall. Even if not for the noxious wind and cold rain, he still would not have been able to not drop by there, since that place, more than any other, was full of memories of that summer.

The cinema hall stood next to the stage – it was simultaneously a theatre and a dance floor, where the discos were held on overcast evenings. The tall wooden building was preserved surprisingly well, besides the black pits that yawned in the windows, with shards protruding from the frames.

The steps of the cinema hall creaked just like they had two decades ago on the first evening of their acquaintance. In the depths of his soul, Yura was rejoiced even for the creak – how often do you hear the unmistakeable sounds of your childhood? To only hear the fortepiano as well: the deep, tender Lullaby – the leitmotif of that summer. This building was always associated with music for Yura: both back then, when notes rang out here every day, and now, when a deathly silence reigned, but why this hall, even in its soundlessness, reminded him of it, Yura did not understand.

On the outside, the building had remained reasonably intact – not so well on the inside. In the windows, thick, moth-eaten shades fluttered. The felt-lined door was beaten in and through the empty aperture, a ray of daylight fell inside. It spread out over the backs of the green chairs for the audience, which still stood even then in even rows. It fell on the bare walls, highlighting the texture of the peeling paintwork. It illuminated the dirty, bay-coloured floor. His gaze, following the beam, fell on the beaten-up wooden floorboards and Yura understood why music became such a sharp association for him. The bulk of the brown slats in places lay in heaps, and in other places, nice and orderly – perfectly like the busted fortepiano keys. Lullaby has a beautiful melody, if only to play it again.

The stage. On the left, on the spot where Volodya had sat that memorable night, a sapling had grown – the thin, still very young little birch had broken through the fundament towards the outside, piercing the rotting planks and stretched towards the light, towards the hole in the ceiling, through which slanting rays fell. The unusually fuzzy crown only emphasised the emptiness on the right. This emptiness affronted Yura’s eyes; he distinctly remembered that the piano had stood there.

Stepping on the plank-keys, Yura made his way over to the birch. He concerned himself only with the slightly dusty little leaves, as he understood: he did not want to leave this place for anything. If only to remain here until dark, watch the little birch and wait until the curtains opened and the actors took the stage. He leant the shovel against the wall, sat on a shabby audience armchair, which began to creak. Yura smiled, remembering how on the evening of the first rehearsal, the floor plaintively wailed underfoot when Yurka in front of the felt-lined door, which now lay strewn on the porch. Oh, how mad he had been at Ira Petrovna back then, how mad!

***

“Hey Ira Petrovna, why the heck do I have to do this theatre, huh?!”

Yurka’s mood was worse than ever – even more so for having been dressed down in front of such a crowd of people and made to look a dimwit. To hell with that Olga Leonidovna, and her moralising, too! Yurka was in a temper all day, feeling insulted, and tried to find a reason not to go to the rehearsal, but a way to wiggle out did not manifest and he had to calm his caprices; Yurka understood, after all, that to not go to the theatre in the evening would let Ira Petrovna down, who would take the fall for him.

But this spite did not go anywhere! Yurka even intended to bang loudly on the door, in order to show everybody what he thought about this idiotic amateur performance, but just as he was raising his fist, just as he was quietly creaking up the steps, he froze on the threshold.

Volodya was alone. He sat to the left, on the very edge of the stage, reading something in his notebook and nibbling on a pear. The radio receiving set stood next to him, hissing and crackling from the constant interference while attempting to play Pachelbel’s Canon.[1]  Volodya, having heard that the interference again interrupted the sound of the fortepiano from the speakers, laid his notebook on his lap and, without looking, adjusted the antenna.

Yurka was dumbfounded – this Volodya seemed to him so simple and even moving. Without a shade of bravado, hunched over concentrating, the counsellor sat directly on the floor and dangled a leg over the side of the stage. He crunched on the pear, chewed thoughtfully and swallowed – he choked a little and suddenly shook his head – it seemed that there was something in the text that he did not like. His glasses slipped down to the tip of his nose.

As though they wouldn’t slip down such a smooth surface, Yurka noted to himself and coughed. Accidentally. He would rather have stood, watched, admired and envied Volodya a little longer – not his nose, it goes without saying, but his pear – he was very fond of them. Volodya raised his head, dropped his notebook, reflexively pushed his index finger at his face, but suddenly reconsidered, let his hand down and carefully, with a passingly haughty look, adjusted his glasses by the sides.

“Hi. Already back from tea?”

Yurka nodded.

“So where are they giving out pears? There weren’t any at the canteen.

“I was given them as a gift?”

“By who?” automatically asked Yurka, in case it was one of his friends, in which case he could ask or trade something for it.

“Masha Sidorova. She plays piano here with us and will be arriving soon. Shall I share?” and extended him an unbitten half of a pear, but Yurka shook his head. “If you don’t want it, that’s up to you.”

“So, what am I going to do here?” Yurka took an interest, having climbed onto the stage and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Right to business, yeah? A good approach, I like it. Really, though, what are you going to do…?” Volodya raised to his feet and thoughtfully stared up at the clean white ceiling. “I’m looking at the script thinking which role to give you, but guess what, for you, with your thick brow, there’s not one.”

“How not? At all?”

“At all,” Volodya gazed into his face.

“Maybe, the tree … well, or the wolf … in any children’s play, there’s either a wolf or a tree.”

“A tree?” Volodya grinned. “We’ll have a gap for a log, but that’s a prop, not a role.”

“Still, thinking about it all the same. If there’s one thing I can play excellently, professionally even, it’s tree. Shall I show you?”

Not waiting for an answer, Yurka laid flat on the floor and extended his arms along his torso.

“How about it?” he asked, getting up and looking up at Volodya from below.

“Not funny,” this one drily cut. “There’s something you don’t understand. We’re not putting on a comedy revue, but a drama. Tragedy even. The camp is having a jubilee this year – thirty years since the day of its founding, Olga Leonidovna said so at the line drills.”

“Well, she said so,” Yurka supported.

“Like I said. That the camp bears the name of the hero-pioneer Zina Portnova, you of course know yourself. And that the first mass undertaking here was a play about Portnova’s life – that must be news to you. And so, we’re putting on this particular play on the camp’s birthday. Thus, a tree, Yura, not this time.”

Volodya spoke with inspiration, with the look of a person intending to do something special and significant. But Yurka was unaffected.

“Ew!” he made a face. “Boring…”

Volodya glowered at first, then looked at him appraisingly and finally responded:

Not so, it won’t be boring – in any case, not for you. If a role can’t be found, you’ll help with the actors. And what? Besides myself, we have all of one adult here – Masha. She’s from your squad incidentally. But the rest are all kids. When the girls are compliant and you don’t have to cope with them, then the boys are rabid. It’s not just about keeping an eye on them, authority is needed.”

“Pff… well let Masha babysit them, what am I to them, mummy?”

“I must say, Masha isn’t coping: the boys don’t need just anybody, but authority. I don’t have time to…”

“And what makes you think that I’ll agree?”

Volodya sighed heavily.

“You’ll agree. Because you don’t have a choice.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah. Were I in your place, I would tighten my discipline.”

“Or what?”

“Or, if you go wreaking havoc again, you’ll simply be kicked out of the camp!” Volodya raised his tone, faint notes of anger could be heard in his voice. “I’m serious. Do you know how Irina got taken to task today over the garland? And besides, Olga Leonidovna warned you that this was your final warning.”

Even Yurka could not find something to say to that. He jumped up and began to circle about. He then stopped, rooted to the ground, thinking to himself. Was he bored at the camp? Yep. But did he want to leave? All in all, not really. To tell the truth, Yurka could not figure out what he wanted, but to fly out of the camp in shame … He would be alright, even with the shame, but for Ira Petrovna? With a blight on her personal record and a terrible character reference? What a great guy he was, not only did he hide behind a counsellor’s skirts, but he also dragged her, Ira, down with him. No, that definitely was not part of Yurka’s plans.

“It’s been guaranteed, you mean, and now you’re blackmailing me?” he puffed, beginning to get angry, perhaps at them, perhaps at he himself.

“Nobody is blackmailing you and what’s more, nobody wants to kick you out. Just behave yourself, listen to your elders and help out.”

“Listen?” he hissed.

He felt driven into a corner. It seemed like everyone around him was conspiring and were now searching for a motive and a means to spite him further and get deeper into his very thoughts and feelings, to hunt him down, strangle him … He had only just arrived, and they were already bearing down on him, accusing him, abusing him, preaching at him. It wasn’t fair! Completely disregarding the consequences, it was as though Yurka went rabid. He wanted to vent his suppressed rage, to crush all in his path and go berserk.

“And who do you all think you are, that I should listen to you? Ha! I’ll show you, I’ll show you all! A play, huh? I’ll show you a play, you won’t know what hit you!”

“Keep going on making threats,” hemmed Volodya. He was completely unaffected by Yurka’s tirade. “Well go on then, do it. You’ll get kicked out and that’ll be that. And who’ll get punished for the play? You? No, me! Only, what will I have to do with it? For telling the truth? As though you didn’t know yourself that the administration has a bone to pick with you. It’s unclear how you even got assigned here in the first place.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong!” Yurka blurted and suddenly became depressed. “It’s all … it’s all the same: those plates, and the garland … I didn’t mean to! And about Ira too, I didn’t want that…”

“It’s obvious that you didn’t mean to,” Volodya pronounced this so sincerely that Yura’s face looked up.

“What do you mean?”

“I believe you,” he nodded, “others would believe you too, if Yura Konev’s reputation weren’t so bad. After your scuffle last year, they keep on coming, one after another. Just give Leonidovna a reason and she’ll kick you out. So, Yura … grow up. Irina vouched for you, and now I’m answering for you, too. Don’t let us down.”

On the right of the stage was a piano, and in the centre was a bust of the great leader of the Proletariat. Yurka wanted to knock Lenin’s head to the ground out of frustration, to smash it to smithereens, but he managed to calm himself and exhale. He went up to Ilyich,[2] leant on his elbow and, pressing his forehead against the cold bald patch, looked at Volodya so sadly.

“Since you’re so honest, tell me … you won’t give me a role, so that I don’t blight everyone with this ugly mug of mine and disgrace the camp?”

“What’s this idiocy for? There isn’t a role because I haven’t come up with anything yet. All our child actors are small, you’d look like a giant from the land of Lilliput among them, and there aren’t any giants in our script,” he smiled. “You’d do better to tell me what you can do. Sing, dance? Play an instrument?”

Yurka slouched over the piano with an unpleasant stitch in his chest. He scowled and stared at the floor:

“I can’t do anything and I don’t want to do anything,” he lied, understanding perfectly well that he was now not deceiving Volodya so much as himself.

“Clearly. This means we’ll return to what we began with – you’ll help me, and at the same time get yourself together and sort out your reputation.”

The discussion ran into a dead end. They were silent. Yurka screwed his left eye up at Vladimir Ilyich’s nose, blowing motes of dust off him. The other Vladimir,[3] Lvovich rather than Ilyich, the art director rather than the great leader, reoccupied himself with his notebook. Time passed; the afternoon tea from which Yura had left before anyone else finished and actors began to make their way into the cinema hall.

Masha Sidorova appeared first. Smiling at Volodya and ignoring Yurka, she very lightly swung her thigh and sat down at the piano in her sunny skirt. Yurka watched her fixedly – over the past year, Masha had transformed. She had grown taller, lost weight, and grown her hair out down to her waist and was beginning to flaunt herself like an adult. She sat now all straight with long, tanned legs.

“Ludwig van Beethoven,” she announced quietly. “Piano sonata No. 14 in C sharp, Op. 27,” and, having brushed her hair aside, made contact with the keys.

Yurka rolled his eyes, The moonlight sonata! Could Masha not come up with anything a little more original? “The sonata” set everyone’s teeth on edge, every other person would play it. Grumble as he may, Yurka felt a touch jealous, since it was not towards him, but towards Volodya that Masha cast shy but tender glances and it was not for him, but for Volodya that she played.

Meanwhile, Masha finished and immediately began a new piece – clearly so that Volodya would stand all up close with her a little more, and look approvingly, even smile a little, at her some more, but it did not work out for Mashka.

Slamming the door, just as Yurka the slob himself had wanted to do, a gang of young actors piled into the hall. They caught Volodya’s attention, and Volodya himself. Volodya attempted to calm the encircling ring of screaming children – each and every one of them trying to communicate something of the utmost importance to the art director. But all of a sudden, it was he himself who was calmed down – a trio of people, nay, the Trinity appeared in the hall. Of course, there was no Father, Son or Holy Spirit. Although a scent wafted from them, it was not holy, but that of perfume. Polina, Ulyana and Ksyusha – Yurka named them by their initials, PUK.[4] These three were the living embodiments of the three monkeys – see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil – but the other way around: look at everything, eavesdrop on everything and tell everything to everybody. Here they were now, coming into the hall, fumbling around with curious glances and fluttering gracefully upon the stage. Decked out and dolled up, with the same lipstick and perfume – a Polish scent called “Perchance”. Yura knew that smell, because half the country used the same one.

At first, he thought that Volodya had lied about being the only adult in the troop, but he had ony to glance at the perspiring artistic director to realise that even he was surprised that the play had attained such popularity. And then Polina, completely impudent, took him arm in arm.

“Volodya, why not make it something more modern? I know such an interesting play, about love and, as a matter of fact, I could act in it…”

“Girls, don’t you know that enrolment is already finished?” interrupted Masha, pale from resentment. It was clear that she had figured out that the popularity was not for the play, but for the counsellor. “Get going, you’re late.”

“I-it’s nothing.” Volodya was discomforted, his cheeks even crimsoned. If so many pretty girls were surrounding him and everyone were looking at him … Yurka would also be discomforted. “In ‘Young Avengers’ there were a lot of girls, so stick around. We’ll find you roles. We don’t have a Fruza Zenkova, for instance…”

“Oh so that’s how it is! For them, he’ll find roles, while for me, it’s babysitting duty?!” Yurka raved.

His protest remained inaudible. The children’s shrieks mingled with the hollering of the adults and a natural buffoonery had broken out.

“Could I be the costume designer?” squeaked Ksyusha. “I’ll make such pretty dresses for you.”

“What kind of pretty dresses are there in war?” Yura was indignant.

“So it’s a play about war?” Ksyusha drawled in disappointment. “Aww…”

“Uh-huh!” Yurka snapped. “Obviously it’s about war, it’s about Portnova, even. She’s come to the play, but what it’s about it, she doesn’t even know… Volodya! Why do I have to babysit?”

“Vovchik, come on, make it something modern!” Polina did not abate. “Let’s do ‘Yunona and Avos’!”

Masha, having stopped playing the piano, squealed at her rivals, Yura squealed about injustice, the children squealed about the play – they had made something up – and Volodya screamed at all of them to shut them up. Nobody heard anything.

“And who said the play would be boring, huh, Ulya?” Masha, dishevelled in her fury, tugged at the hem of her calico dress. “And what are you smirking for, Pol, as though you didn’t agree?”

“What are you, afraid that we’ll steal it from you?” mocked Ulya.

“You!” Yura took offence.

“The Moscow metro is so beautiful…” boasted a fat little boy from Volodya’s troop.

“Volodya, Volodya, Volodya! Can I, can I talk? Volodya!” the little ones were jumping about and grabbing the art director’s hand.

“You can wait. Kids, one by one…” the counsellor soothed.

“I was standing on the very edge of the platform and the trains whooshed by, whoo-oosh! Right on the very edge, like right now … whoosh…” the chubby braggart spun around.

“Sasha, get away from the edge of the stage, you’ll fall!”

“Whoo-oosh!”

“Skank!”

“Can I?”

“It’s not fair!”

“I’m going to be the costume designer.”

“God, that’s enough!” Volodya’s roar reverberated around the whole hall, trampling the hubbub.

It fell quiet. Quiet enough to hear the dust fall on the floor, to hear the heart beat, boom, boom, to hear how Mashka panted. Everybody came to a standstill and only the chubby little braggart continued dancing around on the very edge of the tall, no less than a metre high, stage.

Ba-boom … boom…

Suddenly he twisted his ankle, splayed his arms ridiculously out to the sides and slowly, heavily fell down below. Yurka’s heart skipped a beat. Masha winced, screwing her eyes up tight. Volodya’s glasses fogged up.

Ba-boom!

“A-a-argh! My ankle-e-e!”

“Sa-a-anya…”

To look at the braggart was painful, but it was even more painful to look at Volodya. The way he ran around the injured boy, the way his hands began to tremble, the way he cursed himself, “well it might be we can fix this and avoid getting in trouble after all, might be…” Yurka, be it as it may that he was angry at Volodya, was all the same the first to come to his aid. He pushed his way past the crowd of gawking actors that had instantaneously formed around Sasha, quoting the hero of an in-vogue foreign film, “Everyone out the way, my father is a doctor!” as he knelt down. Yurka was not joking, in fact. His father had shown him a thousand times how to conduct a check-up and lo Yurka looked over the scuffed ankle and the scraped knee and, with the look of an expert, concluded that the patient needed to be taken to the infirmary immediately. He authoritatively assured that a stretcher would not be necessary.

Volodya tried to take the suffering boy in his arms, but the latter burst into tears and firmly refused to stand on his healthy leg.

“Yur, help me. Stand on the left, I can’t… alone I can’t…” panted Volodya. Flailing, wailing Sashka did not weigh less than the counsellor, on top of which he was also resisting.

“Mummy! Mummy-y-y!” he groaned.

“Come on, let’s pick him up! And n-n-now!” Yurka commanded in a business-like way, diligently putting on an air that earlier in the day, when he fell from the apple tree, he did not break anything and nothing hurt. However, it hurt him even to bend down.

“Masha, you get the head,” Volodya ordered.

Masha triumphantly glowered at her rivals.

“Can I be costume designer?” Ksyusha threw in brazenly.

“Yeah, yeah sure,” Volodya answered with irritation, but he calmed down and added by way of parting words, “Read a few pages, later I’ll – My Lord, Sasha, I know it hurts, but that’s enough wailing!”

***

They were a long time making their slow way to the infirmary, accompanied by the wails of their patient. Only a blind person would not have been able to see that Sasha was not squealing because of the pain, but because of fear and to attract attention. Yurka was resolutely silent; thinking only about his tailbone, Volodya reassured him:

“Sanya, just hold on, there’s only a little bit left.”

Out towards the screams ran a doctor who clucked like a little hen and began to fuss about and feel sorry for the unfortunate boy. She shoved Yurka aside harshly and gave a strict, even malicious, look to the counsellor. Yurka had shrugged and did not go into infirmary, when Larisa Sergeyevna suddenly took an interest, asked whether or not a salve would help and Volodya learned about Yurka’s shameful injury. A trifling thing, and unpleasant. All the same, he decided to wait for Volodya, who had hidden himself behind the door. He wanted to find out, whether his diagnosis turned out true or not: imbecility, a few contusions and no kind of dislocations or sprains.

Besides the porch, in the thicket of flowering dogroses, stood a cosy bench. Yurka laid down on it, stared up into the sky, and, having filled his lungs with the scent of the fresh, fragrant flowers, he understood how well he was right now and how stuffy it had been in the cinema hall.

Volodya left ten minutes later; he moved Yurka’s legs slightly and flopped onto the bench exhaustedly. He sighed heavily.

“Well how is he? Will he live?” Yurka took a lazy interest, continuing to enjoy his sigh – how good it was, clean and cool, good enough to drink.

“We’ve got ourselves a scuffed-up little knee and a couple of bruises – nothing serious. What was all that crying for?”

“What do you mean, what was it for?” Yurka raised his head a little but was in no hurry to sit up. “You managed to get an appointment today, that’s why he put it on. Clearly, he wanted to show everybody his talents all at once. And you should take note – a great voice like that is going to waste!”

Volodya smiled and that smile seemed so genuine on his tired face that it surprised Yurka – was he the reason for it? It made him glad; it was pleasant. But the smile disappeared as quick as it had appeared.

“How bored I am of all this!” Volodya rubbed his temples.

“Bored of what? Leading?” stretching out, Yurka tucked his hands under his head and looked into the sky and squinted from its blueness.

“It’s only the first day of camp and I’m already bored of everything! Looking after the little kids, reporting to the adults for every little thing, getting scolded – and that for every little thing, too! What’s more, I’ve had this theatre club forced on me … and now, typical, a kid has an injury.”

“Then why did you come? Didn’t you know it was going to be a lot of work?”

“I knew … but I didn’t think it would be this much. When I went to camp as a pioneer, it seemed easy to me – you think, following around after children? And with the plusses too: here you are, getting paid a wage, and getting a break in nature and a big fat plus on your character reference – for Komsomol, and, if you do well, it’s a way into the Party. But that’s not how it really is,” Volodya moved closer, practically leaning over Yurka. “They stuck me with the youngest squad; allegedly, it’s easier with the younger ones. But with them, it’s the opposite, it’s just nerves! I count them three times an hour, they run away from us with the second counsellor and don’t listen at all. What am I meant to do, shout at them?”

“Why not shout, if that’s what even the elder leader does? Some pedagogue she is…” Yurka frowned.

“She shouldn’t have done that, of course,” nodded Volodya. “She herself taught us: never raise your voice at a child, but if it comes to reprimanding them, then do not do it the child, but to their offense. And, most importantly, not in front of others.”

“She said that?” Yurka guffawed. “Oh my…”

“It was her, in person. But that was before the spot-check came out of nowhere and revealed a heap of criticisms. They come now for every shift. And guess who that’s because of?”

“Oh, it’s all because of me!” Yurka did not believe it, but his mood was beginning to turn bad.

“And whose idea was it to start a fight at pioneer camp? You should be thanking them for not giving you to the police,” Volodya glared menacingly, but the impulse to teach Yurka some good sense came to naught as soon as the counsellor glanced at the little green infirmary building. He wilted immediately and turned back from a camp leader to an ordinary guy. He sighed heavily; evidently, a single reminder of the injured Sashka promptly dragged him back into the whirlpool of anxieties and problems. When Volodya again began to speak, his voice sounded hoarse and lifeless, “I have to lead the fifth squad down to the river tomorrow. Not by myself, of course, with a second counsellor, Lena, and she’ll be a little bit more experienced. Moreover, the P.E. instructor will come to the beach, he’ll also help look after the children. And they’ve already fenced off the frog pond, everything is as it should be. But all the same, I’m scared to death. And Lena is also scared. She said that her counsellor friend got tried last year – one of her girls drowned in the river. Broad daylight, in view of the counsellor… We didn’t have time for the river today – as soon as we arrived and got everything set up, it was already time for lunch. But tomorrow, that’s it, off to the beach. If I had my way, I wouldn’t let them near the water!”

Yurka shivered; yes, in actual fact there had been some unfortunate incidents at Lastochka at some point, he had heard as much.

“Well, cheer up,” Yurka felt a desire to cheer Volodya up, who had completely deflated. “The season has just begun, there’s still a lot of time ahead of us, you’ll get used to it. Look at Ira Petrovna for instance; it’s not her first year as a counsellor, which means there must be some good in all this, right?”

“The only good I see so far is the wage and the character reference so I can get into the Party…”

“Oh, what do you care for this Party?!” flashed Yurka. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned it already.”

As a teenager would be, he was irritated by the aspiration people had to live by inertia, by the indicated directions, and lack of desire to even occasionally step off the beaten path and do something other than that which they had been instructed.

At this, Volodya shrugged.

“I care, of course! Yura, don’t you know – without a Party membership card you won’t get any good work … the really good stuff, you won’t get, nor will you get to travel anywhere. Yes, the political system isn’t ideal, in some ways it’s outdated, redundant, but it works, after all.”

“What?” Yurka raised an eyebrow in surprise. He had not expected to hear anything of the sort from Volodya. He looked just like the sort of person who zealously follows every order from that very same “working” system, yet here it turns out to be redundant, outdated…

“What I said. Just between us, ok? We’re not living under Stalin, of course, but just in case…”

“Naturally!” he sat back down. It pulled on his tailbone; Yurka grimaced.

“I imagine that every progressive person is unsatisfied that we in this country all live like we did fifty years ago – the pioneering organisation, Komsomol, the Party. I’m not blind either, but there’s no other way out.”

“I disagree!” Yurka even sat straight up and turned, so as to look Volodya in the eye… “There’s always another way.”

The latter smiled – a little bit arrogantly and condescendingly, but for some reason, Yurka was once again glad even for such a smile.

“You never really agree with anything, Konev. But you also can’t live like that. Of course, there’s another way out. In this case – do what must be done, go into Komsomol, then the Party, however useless you think it is. Or you could dig heels in and try and destroy the indestructible – now that’s truly useless.”

And Yurka, who was so used to arguing with everybody and being contrarian, suddenly could not find an answer. He did not want to acknowledge the truth of Volodya’s words, but in the depths of his soul emerged an understanding that there was a kernel of truth there. Especially the part about the futility of Yurka’s resistance.

And more, at precisely this moment Yurka’s attitude to Volodya changed. The counsellor suddenly ceased to seem such a robot to him and transformed into an ordinary person – with his anxieties and problems, which he did not always know how to solve. Yurka liked that their thoughts aligned on something, and a desire came to him to support him.

“Do you want me to help you?” he said, giving in to this impulse.

“In what way?”

“Well, at least with those little kids. That is, not just with the theatre stuff of yours, but the squad, too. Look, tomorrow, when you take them down to the river, do you want me to come with you...?” Yurka stammered, surprised by his own zeal. “Well, since you were stressing out about them so much…” he explained, abashed.

Volodya was also surprised, but brightened up:

“Really? That would be great!” suddenly Volodya clasped his hands. “But we’ve been all over me and my problems. It’s not going well. Tell me something about yourself.”

But a loud howl from a speaker on a pole prevented Yurka from talking about himself.

But it was not the trumpets of Jericho, but the klaxon calling the camp to dinner. And the earth did not begin to rumble from the collapse of eternal walls, but from the stamping of pioneers’ feet. Resembling generals, the counsellors cried out to their armies, “Column formation, two by two! Forward march!” Life in the camp was in full swing.

Having heard only fizzling from the loudspeaker, Yurka’s conversation partner fled away to the theatre to gather his troop and lead them to the dining hall, while Yurka himself, groaning, got up and directed himself towards the infirmary – let Larisa Sergeyevna apply him ointments some more.  After all, he would be sporting swimming trunks tomorrow and it was embarrassing to preen about with a damaged tailbone.

Yurka knew that the first squad was also going to go bathe tomorrow, but for some reason, reflecting on his tailbone, he thought not about his own squad, but the fifth. More precisely, about the counsellor of the fifth squad.

[1] The Canon in D, which languished in obscurity for centuries following its composition in either the late 17th or early 18th century, until suddenly becoming famous to the point of cliché towards the latter half of the 20th century.

[2] Vladimir Ilyich Lenin

[3] Volodya is a diminutive of Vladimir

[4] This can mean fart in Russian.

[thebutterflyhashira]

I never thought that the tears I’d shed for you would be tears of happiness.

I always thought it’d be tears of agony carving out the wrinkles on my cheeks.

That the grief of losing you was so painful that if I dared to speak your name, the levies I built inside the bags underneath my eyes would break and wash away any foundation of happiness I’d built.

But then one day I stopped and looked around.

I realized that beneath the debris were little rose buds, not much, just a little sprout of green, reaching up as if to suckle from the sun’s bosom for nourishment.

I picked up the pieces, restored what I thought was unsalvageable and tilled the soil.

I watered those saplings and sang them lullabies in your memory.

I found solace in my secret garden, cried for you, grieved you, laughed, danced and rested.

Until I looked around again,

And saw tea roses and sunflowers and morning glories and little blue butterflies feeding off the nectar.

And I smiled.

And I cried.

And I laughed.

Because if you hadn’t destroyed me, I wouldn’t have realized that I’m one hell of a gardener