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copias-thrall · 2 months ago

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Mistress Carrie Podcast

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Rock Hard France

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You will quickly notice when reading this interview, Skeleta, Ghost's sixth album, seems to mark the end of a cycle for Tobias Forge. After fifteen years of an exhausting climb to the summits, the singer and multi-instrumentalist seems to finally want to take some time to enjoy the view. Already, as a preamble to our discussion, Tobias explains to us a drastic change: as soon as he can, the group will avoid air travel, which involves too many hours of stress in airports. Ghost will in fact prefer the bus in order to gain peace of mind. Information which, under the guise of a technical detail, says a lot about the state of mind of an artist who has not counted his hours, his months, his years, to get to where he is. You probably also guessed it from the sight of our five different front pages: the opportunity to celebrate this end of an era was too good not to invite you, in addition to reading the philosophy of a Tobias Forge as cerebral as ever, to a retrospective of the journey of the different Papas who have succeeded one another within Ghost since its recording debut in 2010. Habemus Papam!

Rock Hard: Before tackling this new album, let's come back, if you wish, to the feature film Rite Here Rite Now released last year (Cf. RH#255). We know how challenging tackling a rock film is, as Metallica was able to realize, for example, with the commercial failure of Through The Never (2013). Now that the film has been released, what is your assessment of it?

Tobias Forge: Completing this film proved to be perilous, quite simply because other groups before mine, notably Metallica, had produced films that the music business labeled as "live DVDs"... So finding financing was complicated. We spoke with HBO, Netflix, all the biggest platforms, and all their representatives told us: "No, no one wants to watch filmed concerts! ". We then told them: “But it’s not just a concert! It’s also a film!” To which they replied: “Oh? Like Metallica's? (He mimes an embarrassed silence): “Um, yes, I suppose, in a way…” . We tried to explain to them that the story we are telling with Ghost is different and that our fans are waiting to know what happens next, which already marks a small difference. Ghost is not Metallica, we don't have the same approach. I understand their economic point of view, because they considered the project as a musical film. Bottom line: we didn't get any funding. But since I was already too committed to this idea and we had started production, it was too late to turn back. I therefore decided to rely on one of our partners, namely Trafalgar Films, which is not a production company, but a distribution company. This has a network and cinemas. We did a simulation with its representatives, which allowed us to conclude that we could broadcast the film in around twenty countries by organizing perhaps a thousand screenings.

(He sighs) That's when you start to count: "If I invest in this project, maybe after a few years of operation, the result will be satisfactory." Finally, we exceeded a thousand theaters, I don't know exactly how many, maybe 2,000 or 3,000. There were many more screenings than expected and the result is that... we more or less broke even! (laughs) Which is great! We won nothing, lost nothing. We're right on the money and it's a great result. I didn't make this film to make money, but because I had already written a story that had to be completed with this one. If the film couldn't have been made, we would have had to take all the shots of the story that we had filmed and release them in the form of small episodes. resign yourself to thinking that the project was impossible to complete? We finally found a way to beat the system, I was able to do the episodes, make my film and we had our live DVD... but it was no easy feat! (laughs) Especially since working on the album in parallel made things even more complicated!

It is true that you simultaneously developed the film and the album, the two being interconnected...

That, in retrospect, wasn't so smart! With these two simultaneous projects now complete, I'm happy with the result, but it hasn't been a mentally pleasant process!

Especially when the experience comes after fifteen years of a very busy career: six albums, two live albums, four EP's and a film. It's a lot in a little time! Don't you ever feel overwhelmed by Ghost? Can the group sometimes represent a kind of weight in your eyes?

I don't think I ever really felt Ghost like a burden...until recently. During these fifteen years that you mention, I worked non-stop. Even though we didn't record during the pandemic period, I worked on Impera (2022). My only luxury at that time was to work at a slightly slower pace. It also allowed me to spend more time on this album. In fact, every record since Opus Eponymous (2010) has been the subject of the same process: during the Opus Eponymous tour, I recorded a first version of Infestissumam (2013), which I completely re-recorded once the tour ended. And to do this, I immediately reinvested in the studio. I remember that the last concert took place on a Saturday and that, by the following Monday, I was already on a war footing. Ditto for Prequelle (2018). And when a new album is completed, the concerts resume. Luckily for me, every time, and especially right now, I feel that people's level of interest in our music is increasing. Our tours are also getting bigger and bigger, and all of this keeps me motivated and helps make my efforts enjoyable, even if composing in the studio doesn't compare to touring. However, I clearly feel - and I say this even as I prepare to hit the road again for 18 months - that I have reached a point in my life where I need to change, to do something else...

Slowing down can also be good for creativity…

Exactly ! This is in no way unnatural. How many bands released their first album in 1980 and continued continuously beyond 1995? Apart from Motörhead, not so much! To answer your original question, is Ghost a burden? For fifteen years, no, that was not the case. But I'm definitely starting to feel that when we finish this cycle, I might need to find a hobby! (small laugh) Simply so as not to feel that everyone expects something from me…

Above all, the more time passes, the greater the risk of disappointing this expectation...

It's safe! This is another aspect of being an artist. I'm sure you and your readers are just as interested in the history of rock and the bands as I am. And, statistically, I know that, sooner or later, the quality of my work will decline, that's in the order of things...

Have you already prepared yourself for this “fate”?

I would have to be stupid to think that I am embarked on an infinite journey to the heights. I'm lucky with this new album and the new cycle that's coming, this tour more massive than ever, but I know full well that this progression won't be constant for the rest of my life. The only thing I can do is rejoice in the fact that I have managed to release six albums and have generated so many people's interest in this new record and this tour. It’s a remarkable thing, a dream come true! But the difference between the me of today and that of fifteen years ago is that, to achieve this result, the one I was at the time engaged a mode (he takes a breath) "next! next! next!" ?». Maybe it's age, but I'm aware of the fact that I don't know for how long I'll have the luxury of making records, of generating the interest of millions of people... How many times will Matthieu (Ed: Drouot, his French tourer) play me at Bercy? Maybe the next album will be shit, that things will decline, which isn't a problem... Even if we play at... hesitates) I don't want to name a place (laughs), but I would be happy, just like I was when we started, to play in clubs with 400 seats. I have just arrived at a point in my life where I want to appreciate what we have built rather than thinking: "oh, it's just another step towards the Stade De France!"

What you just said doesn't fit at all with the words of someone who has a huge plan to conquer the world, contrary to the image you can sometimes project...

Four years ago, this question would have been very simple for me, and I would have answered it differently! I think I've reached a tipping point. I feel more at ease, my life is great and its organization is really cool. It's time for me to take advantage of it, to make the best of the situation! (He laughs as if he had just realized) In truth, that's a bit what the film is about! But it’s a state of mind that is not always easy to achieve…

Often, artists change with success and maturity. They start with big ambitions then, once they reach a peak in their career, start to step back a little to enjoy what they have. We were talking about Metallica at the start of the interview, here's a good example...

This is, in my opinion, an important thing, whether you play rock or not. It's simply a survival instinct. Even if your life is great, you're doing what you wanted to do, I think the curse of many people who are involved in a creative process is that their creativity is an obsession: you would have done this artistic work even if you hadn't been paid. Your life would have been more difficult because you would have had to do something else to meet your needs. But once you have somehow freed yourself from a food job, you remain dependent on your will to express yourself. This arises from a need. It's a line you have to walk because people expect you to paint a picture, write a book, beautiful poetry or fart jokes. Whatever the field, you have to find new ideas, because it's something natural for every artist. I take the example of great footballers like those you have here at PSG: even when they are at home, if you throw them a ball, they will start playing with it (he mimes a player juggling), because it is a natural way for them to express themselves...

This is why it's so difficult for an artist to end their career, and why Black Sabbath is actually not going to retire until one of its members dies! (laughs) It’s too difficult to say “it’s over!”

Exactly ! Because the brain never stops! This is why I compared it to a survival instinct. So it's good to give yourself a little space… It's very easy to just run and never stop, but this will eventually cause you damage. I'm not saying that you should stop creating and do nothing, but it's important to be able to pause and say "damn, this is great!" ". And it's a difficult thing, counter-intuitive for many, especially for me until recently.....

All of this reminds me of a subject that we have already discussed in these pages with artists like Ihsahn (Emperor) and Mikael Akerfeldt (Opeth): both are struck by what we call “imposter syndrome”. They sometimes feel like they don't deserve their success and that they got where they are more by luck than by talent. Do you feel the same way or are you more confident in your art?

(He hesitates) The short answer is probably: "yes, I've felt the same way before." Mikael is a very close friend and Ihsahn probably would be too if we had the opportunity to see each other more often, but he's a good friend, I like him a lot. I think that what they feel is very similar to the way I experience things myself... (silence) It's a bit of a tricky question because, if you ask my childhood friends, who have known me since school, they will probably tell you that I always came across as someone extremely confident, even though I know that I wasn't... The paradox is that... I can't say that I always knew that I was going to do it because that would imply that I was gifted with clairvoyance, that I was aware that something was going to happen, which is of course not true. But I played my cards, I chose, throughout my life, to systematically burn the bridges that I had just crossed because I was so determined to get there that I wanted to ensure that it would be impossible for me to make the choice to go back if it was offered to me. I would rather continue straight to hell than give up! It's an easy thing to do when you're 15 or even 25 years old. As I get older, I look back with relief at this younger version of myself (he lets out a sigh that ends in laughter)! “Fuck! This was really very tight! I was lucky not to crash because I didn't go far! Thank you to everyone who believed in us!” But, as a more mature man, more aware of the fact that, statistically, this was not supposed to work, I also look today at the way I behaved: this confidence that I displayed as a teenager was also combined, to a certain degree, with asshole behavior. I wasn't always cool, not always mature... I don't know if that's what Mikael and Ihsahn mean because it seems to me that the first was always cooler than me, and I've known him for a long time!

Mikael is a very kind person and Ihsahn is no less! (laughs) Even if, when I think back to Ihsahn from the early 90s, "the guy from Emperor" that I saw on MTV, the latter looked more like an 18 year old teenager! Of course, I sometimes tell myself that I don't necessarily deserve what's happening to me, but (silence) long story short, I think I too suffer from a bit of imposter syndrome because I know that (pauses again) it all involves a lot of pretending: "Fake it until you make it," as the saying goes! (laughs) I think it's a very common thing: you're first a dreamer who aspires to be someone else - at least in my case, I can't speak for Mikael or Ihsahn. You would like to be another person, somewhere else, in a different life. Ironically, I ended up becoming someone else, now that the walls between my persona and the person I created to deserve to become a rockstar grew closer. This person that I invented has all the qualities that I do not have. I think if you ask a therapist, they'll tell you that this is a pretty essential part of imposter syndrome! (laughs) I disguised myself to become someone else, in order to deserve to become a rockstar! The fact that there is a boundary between who I am and this entity leads me to think that this is imposter syndrome, even if a person like Mikael, for his part, does not need to disguise himself as someone else. And even though we have similarities in our doubts, I know that he is aware of being very competent…

It's true, he told us! But that does not prevent him from considering that he is not an excellent musician, and far from being one of the best…

Exactly ! And I think it's precisely this point that leads to confusion among people who love music, but don't have any particular talent or ability to make it. It's very difficult to explain how it is possible, on the one hand, to feel very "insecure" about your work, to the point of thinking that you don't deserve to be here, while, on the other hand, I can tell you that I am capable of taking over Metallica's stage at the Stade De France in front of 80,000 people! It's something I know how to do and, to be honest, I'm actually quite good at it. But somewhere, these two elements don't complement each other, and I can't explain why... How can you give the impression of naturally doing something that many people can't do? For my part, when I look at a Ukrainian soldier ready to fight, it's as if he had supernatural powers. It's something I'm unable to project my mind into. And some people must think the same thing about me. Of course I'm afraid to do it, but I do it...

Because you have to do it...

Because I have to! It's a vocation... I still want to point out that, when I take the example of the Ukrainian soldier, I'm talking about two very different things! (laughs) I just want to say that when you feel a "call", it's a bit like you dissociate your personality: a part of it is very confident in the fact of being able to accomplish anything including going on the stage of another artist with the intention of winning the support of each member of his audience, with the ability to ignore those you don't convince but another part can feel very anxious and doubt himself when he it's about choosing to write certain words or doing something else entirely! (laughs)

Do you address this question in the album? I thought I understood, from listening to it and reading the promotional text that accompanied it, that, this time, you slipped more personal things into your texts. Some pieces seem to address themes such as lost friendship, toxic relationships, or even spirituality, life after death, or, more precisely, the continuum of life. Can you enlighten us on all this?

(He thinks) The only song that deals with death is "Excelsis". It is also a masquerade since in the end, his text actually speaks... about life! Basically, the message is this: if you're listening to this song, it means you're alive, so enjoy this state of affairs as best you can, for as long as you can, which is not an easy thing. I think that except for a few people who seem to know exactly what will happen after death, we all share an uncertainty, the question of what awaits us... Either way, we will eventually get the answer, which means that constantly thinking about it is a waste of time! (laughs) We can talk about it, but we shouldn't think about it all the time because the most important thing is to fill our lives with as many things as possible that make us happy and inspire us. The most important thing is to try to do more positive things than negative ones. I'm obviously not saying that people should only do good, because you can't be nice to everyone, but we have the capacity to be good more often than bad to our fellow human beings and to achieve more good things than bad. Continuing to push things in a positive direction is, in itself, doing something good. The whole album addresses these fundamental feelings. It represents a kind of hall of mirrors in which you can reflect your own thoughts. This doesn't mean that all the songs only talk about ourselves and the feelings we have towards ourselves, they also deal with other subjects, the people around us or even those things you have done or not done. For example, the idea with "Peacefield" is to convey a message of hope and resilience. Unless you are personally in danger or physically affected and facing possible imminent death because anyone can get hit by a car or shot at any time - the fact is that you are probably going to witness, one day soon, the demise of two crazy dictators. We will most certainly experience peace and the fall of an empire that we wish to see fall. This has happened in the past, it's a very common thing. So we should not let current events and all these words that many people are circulating demoralize us. Right now it's dark, but tomorrow it will be daytime again. To put it simply: this album is a call to relax because it's not the end of times yet. Sure, the situation looks like shit and smells like shit, but it's not the end of the world...

This is a very positive speech, full of hope, which contrasts with what the word “Satanized” gives off at first glance, the title of the first single responsible for promoting the album! When reading this word, many people may think that you embody the opposite of what you have just declared!

(Laughs) In truth, “Satanized” is about love!

I was just going to come there! It seems that, in this text, you evoke a passionate love which tortures and consumes those who are struck by it…

Yes, it is! This text has nothing to do with Satan. The whole idea is to evoke the explosive feeling that obsessive and irrational love provides at the moment when it hits you and hurts you. It’s something I’m sure a lot of people can relate to. Of course, the subject is approached in a Ghost way, with this "old-fashioned" reference to superstitions: we attribute these kinds of feelings to demonic possession! (laughs)

Upon discovering the track listing, I first wondered if this piece could be a cover of the title of the same name signed by your compatriots from Dissection. This is not the case, but this word sounds very “black death metal”!

Oh yes, I see! (laughs) I actually borrowed this word from the group Satanized (Editor's note: a group which originally composed the song of the same name, later republished by Dissection and which included three members of the cult Swedish group, including its leader Jon Nödtveidt). I love this title because it sounds stronger than "Possessed By Satan", for example. “Satanized” is a simple way to explain

how someone in love with a feeling of love can be perceived by a religious person as a madman, a lost soul, possessed, completely corrupt and who does not deserve to be trusted. Because that's roughly what happens in such a case: your heart and your mind no longer function completely, you are no longer worthy of trust...

Even if this text is not directly religious, do you nevertheless consider that people who are spiritual can also be subjected to this type of possession, you who have already declared that religion can push us to madness?

It's true. (He thinks) There is something annoying about unconditional love: we can see it in two ways: first, a more magical and fun one which consists of considering that it is a feeling, then another, biological, which explains that a substance is released into our body. This endorphin rush equips us naturally and, in the same way, we are able to achieve orgasm, which is Nature's way of ensuring that we fall in love, orgasm together, procreate and multiply. This is an extremely boring explanation, but it is nevertheless the rule, roughly speaking! (laughs) But that doesn't mean that I don't believe in being able to cross the oceans of time to find a soul mate (Ed. note: as a good fan of pop culture, Tobias here quotes Coppola's Dracula (1992), adapted by Bram Stoker) because I love this vision of things! Now, does being religious, spiritually awakened, provide a similar feeling? I wonder. (He pauses) What is happening in the world right now is a very clear example of the fact that people want and need to belong to a group, preferably the one they were born into. This feeling is very, very strong. I don't think this is an error in itself; we came into the world somewhere and inherited a set of skills that make us able to live in clans and societies. In our Western world, we pride ourselves on the idea that we are bigger and smarter than that. It's a real culture shock to realize that deep inside most of us there lies a caveman who aspires to the same things as his ancestors. I can't describe these things exactly, but I think they can be summed up in one key word: simplicity. The need for simple rules to follow. On this subject, I, who am a fan of cultural awakening and pop culture in particular, who am attached to many progressive elements that we strive to push, I think that we have reached a point where all of this is brutally put aside (he mimes a lively gesture). And, as a human being, I am able to relate and understand why so many people want to override progress. Talking to people individually is always different from speaking to people in groups, we tend to want to simplify life. Who could blame people for this state of affairs? They want to belong to something, to feel that they have a purpose, that things are simple. With the complexity of the modern world, many are expected to accept the fact that they would be redundant. No one wants to be superfluous, lose their job to be replaced by a computer... No one wants to be stuck at home without a partner, because everyone deserves a partner. It makes sense that these people would want to return to the cave age, when the only thing you had to do was grab someone and take them with you. “If I'm nice to you and make you babies, isn't that enough? ". It's a laughing matter, but I think it's a major confusion in our primitive brains. We just want to have a goal...

Perhaps we also sometimes reason, in a natural way, like children who need a father, someone who reassures us, tells us that everything will be fine.

pass, that there is life after death. It is very easy to follow this kind of discourse rather than accepting that life has no real purpose or meaning...

This is why people with superior intelligence and knowledge prefer to get rid of their intellect to say to themselves: "There's a guy who claims he can create a time machine that will take us back to a time when things were better. I'm going to give him my vote because it's always better than the speech of this other guy who says that things are... not so cool, that we have to work collectively and that some of us make sacrifices. Fuck that! The first guy says that he can bring back old factories out of nowhere and that we'll be able to go back to a time when we were allowed to say things that we're currently forbidden from saying. I want to be able to pronounce these words like my father and I did before!” Do you see the idea? (laughs). Simplicity! But why do people end up thinking this way? There's one other thing that I think is really important: once the two septuagenarians I was talking about earlier go through the fucking window - because they will and there is peace - it will be difficult to find our way back through the fog. Sooner or later we will realize that many people think things that we currently consider very dark. However, we need to take care of each other, and therefore of people who have these kinds of views, those who feel that the world has abandoned them and that they no longer have their place in it. If they behave this way, it is because they are missing something. This is a crucial element for us, the enlightened people of big cities: to be able to include people who do not feel a connection with the current world. Without it, we will not be able to survive. In the same way, we will have to, one day or another, find a way to fraternize again with that big bear that lives in the East... There are many people there who are just like us and are not our enemies. This will all happen sooner than we think and it’s fucking essential that we be kind to each other. But it is, once again, something very difficult: it involves sacrifices, sometimes playing a game, being polite, swallowing one's pride. And all this is not simple! (laughs)

What can you tell us about the new costumes and album art that we don't know about as we speak?

For the artwork, we once again collaborated with Zbigniew Bielak, whose work is a precise reflection of what is on the album: a sort of hall of mirrors surrounded by an infinite universe. As for the costumes, we worked again with B. Akerlund, who is responsible for the outfits for at least three of our latest cycles. What's very interesting is that she comes from the world of fashion and that, in everything she does, she has this "haute couture" side, very arty. The world in which it operates has more to do with Paris Fashion Week and I think we are one of the rare heavy metal bands to carry elements of this world of fashion into our universe, even if our costumes are very fancy"... One thing we paid special attention to for everyone on stage stems from the last cycle: the musicians wore big glasses which didn't really allow 20/20 vision! So, this time, we really wanted each outfit we wear to be a little more comfortable and ergonomic! (laughs) I include myself in that: we play long shows and, sometimes, the heat kills us. So working on these new designs has been really exciting because I think we're going to have a little more comfortable experience. In 2023, on our summer tour, it was sometimes extremely hot in Europe, but it was nothing compared to the USA where the heat was insane! Throughout the tour, temperatures fluctuated between 35 and 40 degrees! Some evenings, we sometimes felt dizzy. The concerts were good, but we suffered from heat stroke, and it even happened, many times, that some of us almost fainted on stage. We therefore had to make a few small adjustments that fans won't necessarily be aware of, but which will make a huge difference to us!

Over the albums, your outfits seem to want to get lighter and lighter. This is an easy question, but are you considering...

(He cuts me off) Performing naked?

(Laughs) Maybe not, but to finish without makeup or with less elaborate costumes?

A la Flea (Editor's note: the bassist of Red Hot Chili Peppers, who usually plays shirtless)! (laughs) Let's just say that you should never say never because that's something you can no longer afford after the age of 25! It is easier, at 15 or 25 years old, to say that I will never, ever do this or that thing!” But while we're in the context of Ghost, it doesn't seem to me that anyone can declare that they need a completely unmasked version of the band. There are several ways to present ourselves without being as costumed as on our previous albums. As you pointed out, we gradually moved towards simpler outfits. Every rock band on this planet can afford to shed layers of clothing during a concert. And this question was very important when we started to lighten our outfits: “Can I take off my jacket?”, “Of course you can, it’s almost 40 degrees!” As long as we dress in the right way, that is to say at least in a ritual sense, I think that as long as Ghost exists, there will be gray areas that allow us to not be totally masked. But we will never go on stage dressed like Pearl Jam! I have nothing against Pearl Jam, which I love, but this is a typical example of a group whose members go on stage in whatever clothes they wear, without lights. It's the exact opposite of what we do and I don't think Ghost would be as interesting if we changed that. No matter how good the songs are, it wouldn't sound right...

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warrioreowynofrohan · 4 years ago

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Today in Tolkien - October 6th

This is the night of the attack at Weathertop, when Frodo is stabbed with the Morgul-blade.

In the morning they found, for the first time since they had left the Chetwood, a track plain to see. They turned right and followed it southwards. It ran cunningly, taking a line that seemed chosen so as to keep as much hidden as possible from the view, both of the hill-tops above and of the flats to the west. It dived into dells, and hugged steep banks; and where it passed over flatter and more open ground on either side of it there were lines of large bolders or hewn stones that screened the travellers almost like a hedge.

Aragorn tells the hobbits that the path was made by the men of Arnor to access their forts along the walls when they were fighting Angmar, but that long before they had a great watch tower called Amon Sûl on the summit of Weathertop, and there Elendil watched for the coming of Gil-Galad in the days of the Last Alliance. Sam sings a portion of the song of Gil-galad that Bilbo translated.

It was already mid-day when they drew near the southern end of the path, and saw before them, in the pale clear light of the October sun, a gre-green bank, leading up like a bridge on to the northward slope of the hill. They decided to make for the top at once, while the daylight was broad. Concealment was no longer possible, and they could only hope that no enemy or spy was observing them. Nobody was to be seen moving on the hill. If Gandalf was anywhere about, there was no sign of him. On the western flank of Weathertop they found a sheltered hollow, at the bottom of which there was a bowl-shaped dell with grassy sides. There they left Sam and Pippin with the pony and their packs and luggage.

On the top of Westhertop they find the sign Gandalf left three days ago, and Aragorn interprets it. The rocks and grass are all scorched with fire from Gandalf’s fight with the Ringwraiths. Aragorn says he expects it will be at least 14 days from here to the Ford of Bruinen. The fact that they still manage to make that time even after Frodo is severely wounded - they reach the Ford of the 20th - is impressive on the part of them all. Frodo sees black specks on the road, two coming from the east and three from the west; Aragorn agrees that these are Black Riders, and they conceal themselves and go back dien the hill. Sam and Pippin find a Ranger camp, but there are also footprint of other boots from a day or two ago. Aragorn agrees with Sam that he dies not like the dell they are in, but there is no time to find anywhere better before nightfall. They make a fire as a defence, and at night Aragorn tells them old tales, including the Tale of Tinúviel. I wonder if, in Aragorn saying that the ending of that tale is not known, Tolkien is poking fun at his unfinished manuscript of the poetic Leithian.

Shortly after Aragorn finishes the story, the moon rises, and they see and sense the Ringwraiths outside the dell. The Ringwraiths approach, and Frodo under their influence puts on the Ring; what he sees of the Ringwraiths is matched by the movie depiction very closely. Frodo is stabbed by the Witch-king. Aragorn orders them to put Frodo by the fire, then disappears for some time, reawakening Sam’s suspicions; when he returns, Sam draws his sword and stands over Frodo. Aragorn has been trying, without success, to find out why the Ringwraiths have left rather than attacking again; he is very concerned by Frodo’s account, and then takes Sam aside and tells him he concludes that Frodo’s wound is intended to place him under the Ringwraiths’ control. Aragorn goes off to find athelas, which is uncommon and little-known in the North.

Frodo feels pain from the Morgul-wound on the same day in the two following years. One year later, he and the other hobbits and Gandalf have just left Rivendell the previous and are crossing the Ford of Bruinen:

When they came to the Ford of Bruinen, he halted, and seemed loth to ride into the stream; and they noted that for a while his eyes appeared not to see them or things about them.

“Are you in pain, Frodo?” said Gandalf quietly as he rode by Frodo’s side.

“Well, yes, I am,” said Frodo. “It is my shoulder. The wound aches, and the memory of darkness is heavy on me. It was a year ago today.”

“Alas! there are some wounds that cannot be wholly cured,” said Gandalf.

“I fear it may be so with mine,” said Frodo. “There is no real going back. Though I may come to the Shire, it will not seem the same; for I shall not be the same. I am wounded with knife, sting, tooth, and a long burden. Where shall I find rest?”

Gandalf did not answer.

Then, a year later, in Bag End:

One evening Sam came into the study and found his master looking very strange. He was very pale and his eyes seemed to see things far away.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Frodo?” said Sam.

“I am wounded,” he answered, “wounded; it will never really heal.”

But then he got up, and the turn seemed to pass, and he was quite himself the next day. It was not until afterwards that Sam recalled that the date was October the sixth. Two years before on that day it was dark in the dell under Weathertop.

This is also the day that the story ends, the day that Sam returns to Bag End from the Havens.

The three companions…spoke no word to each other until they came back to the Shire, but each had great comfort in his friends on the long grey road. At last they rode over the downs and took the East Road, and then Merry and Pippin rode on to Buckland; and already they were singing as they went.

I only just noticed this on this reread; and I find it particularly moving. Merry and Pippin do not feel any special need of silence themselves; soon after they part from Sam they are singing. But they recognize, without anything needing to be said, that Sam needs silence in companionship; and they give him that, though the whole of a week-long journey together (Frodo departed from the Havens on Sept 29th), and it is a great comfort to them all. (And for someone like Pippin, who is not particularly noted for his tact, it also shows how he’s grown over the course of the story.)

But Sam turned to Bywater, and so came back up the Hill, as day was ending once more. And he went on, and there was yellow light, and fire within; and the evening meal was ready, and he was expected. And Rose drew him in, and set him in his chair, and put little Elanor upon his lap.

He drew a deep breath. “Well I’m back,” he said.

The final thing that I think we’re supposed to draw from this ending being on Oct 6th, the anniversary of Weathertop, is to conclude that by this time Frodo has reached Eressëa, and this year will no longer be pained by his old wounds.

#today in tolkien #tolkien #the lord of the rings #frodo baggins #sam gamgee #pippin took #merry brandybuck

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darling-cas · 4 years ago

Text

Hoax (an original story)

I amaze myself sometimes.

My therapist says I need to go back to things that bring me joy, says I need to find happiest in life again. During one specific session, I was asked to name a time when I was truly at peace, a time I felt moments of pure joy outside of my partner and friends. The first thing that came to mind was a time years ago, when I would post stories here, on this website, for you all to see.

This surprised me honestly, because if you knew me personally (*cough* hi @ilikebigbooks-and-icannotlie *cough*) you would know the amount of stress and pressure I put myself under when it came to writing We Are Young, Whatever It Takes, etc, etc, etc. But despite all the negative emotions, the moments that always stand out to me is sitting on my laptop after I clicked post, watching all the love and adoration pure in from each and every one of you.

I say this monthly but, I really do want to get back into writing. Thanks to my therapist and business major partner, I’ve been dipping my toes into editing for others as a side job. But I want to make my way back to writing my own stories and sharing them with even the smallest corner of the world. This story, Hoax, I wrote actually one year ago, when I first started therapy and after a hard heartbreak. It helped me feel like myself again and lifted me out of the darkness.

I hope, for even the smallest number of you, it does the same. I hope you can feel the same magic that I felt when I wrote it. Take this as a thank you for, years ago, bringing me such joy and happiness.

Until next time...

Cas.

--------------------

The air was midsummer sweet.

It was an Indian summer of blue sky dreams and late evening tears, with the weather shifting moods in the blink of an eye. Grey clouds would eclipse the setting sun with their mighty fists, soaking up the colour of the earth like ink drenching a cotton ball.

And with the continuous alternating weather came the busty smell of sunblock and wet grass. Summer scents combined with the salty air and pungent fish that cling to Jake’s senses from the moment he started his journey along the coastal towns.

His mountain travels started just mere days ago. The task of hiking the grand peak was something he was finally going to cross off his bucket list. Dipping into his savings and requesting a week or two off work was a small price to pay when it came to the tranquility and beauty laid bare before him.

Born and raised on the outskirts of the city, there hadn't been much nature for him to appreciate and admire growing up. But from the moment Jake entered the first small, close-knit fishing town, all he could seem to do was appreciate and stare in outright awe.

The land laid undisturbed all around; the mountains, the trees, the ocean, they had all planted their roots, dug in their heels, and refused to surrender. Cities had been conquered, the vast expansion of country fields and towering summits were placed in chains, forced to give themselves to man. But here, on the coast of fishing villages, it seems as if Land and Man came to an agreement, a compromise, an understanding, to live in peace as one.

Roads of all kinds swerved, twisted, curled up and down along the coast, between the trees. Houses of unnaturally charming bright blues, yellows, oranges, and greens sat gracefully against the mountain rocks, climbing up the forest-speckled cliffs. Homes and buildings of sea-weathered colour rested on the broken shoreline. Boats bobbed in the water, their docks reaching out towards the horizon like fingers longing to reach and touch a disappearing lover.

In the coastal towns, driving along the sunset stained ocean, Jake swore he would never see true beauty again.

Even now, when the sky wept tears of sorrow, its beauty never vanished.

The weather came on suddenly, as he passed the welcoming sign for Higdon's Harbour. The roads became slick, a ghostly fog settled in, and the colours were muted a few shades darker by the clouds above. Rivers trickled down the mountain side, disappearing into shallow ditches. Waves started to leap and jump to catch the increasing wind. All while the sky cried on and on.

Jake drove on through the town. Classic rock thumped softly in the background and raindrops tapped on the roof of the car. He had planned not to stop for the night until the next town over. He had driven through several rain storms since the start of his trip, and this was nothing.

But the cracks in the sky's broken heart continued to grow with exceptional pain. Tears of despair quickly turned to tears of anger. The beating on the car became more aggressive as the wind wailed daunting threats and the ocean frantically waved its arms.

It became too much, too quick. Jake was used to driving through bad weather, but not seaside storms. Not gusting winds and sideways rain. Plus, he decided, he was already making good time. So when the flashing green neon sign reading Beaumont Motel came into view, he didn’t hesitate to pull off the road, into the parking lot, and turn off his car.

A bell jingled above as Jake pushed open the door. He stepped into the warmth of the lobby, drenched through his clothes and soaking the carpet under his feet.

“Turned nasty out there real quick, didn’t it?”

Jake threw off his hood, shaking out his damp, blonde hair as he caught sight of an older woman with long grey hair smiling at him from behind a wooden desk.

She pulled her beige cardigan closer around her, brown eyes crinkling in the corners. “Looking for a room, hun?”

“If you happen to have one available,” Jake replied, walking towards the desk and setting down his backpack. Judging by the lack of cars in the parking lot, he was more than confident there were plenty of empty rooms. Still, he glanced at the woman’s name tag and flashed her a smile. “Vera.”

“Oh, hun,” Vera chuckled. Her fingers tapped away on the computer that looked too new to be in the small, tacky, lobby with flower-patterned wallpaper. A lobby that was decorated with simply a small sitting area off to the side, a dusty fireplace warming the room, a dark wooden desk, rouge carpet, and outdated lighting fixtures. “I think I have one or two available. For how long will we be seeing your handsome face around?”

“Only a night,” Jake said. “I’m just passing through.”

“Storm pushed you off the road, huh?” Vera turned around and grabbed a key off one of the hooks on the wall. “It should only last the night. Nightly storms are common for us during this time of year. Here you go, hun.”

“Thank you!” Jake took the key before picking up his bag once more, throwing it over his shoulder.

“If you’re looking to warm up a bit, Kay & Elle, the pub next door, is open for a few more hours,” Vera informed him, fixing her wool cardigan on her shoulders. “A lot of the locals inhabit the place, but we’re friendly folks here. I’m sure they’ll keep you entertained for a bit.”

“Thank you for the suggestion!” Jake pulled his hood back over his head. “Have a good night, Vera.”

She waved him off with a dazzling smile. “Enjoy your short time at Higdon’s Harbour.”

Rain beat down around Jake as the lobby door closed behind him. The sticky air promised an onslaught of thunder and lightning, but it had yet to develop. With a glance at the metal key in his hand, Jake made out a marked 9 engraved at the top. His toes were cold as he quickly made it to the door and inserted the key before pushing the door open and stepping into the musty smelling room.

It was just as drab as the lobby. The double-bed was dressed in off-white coverings. Cream walls, dark carpet, and tacky seaside pictures. Along with two side tables by the bed, a small TV on top of a mini fridge, and a bathroom door on the far wall.

It wasn’t the nicest looking room he’d ever stayed in, but he would also be lying if he said he hadn’t stayed in worse before.

With a tired and uncomfortable sigh, Jake tossed his bag onto the bed, peeled off his wet coat, and padded off into the bathroom.

He never really thought of going to the pub Vera had mentioned. His only plans that evening consisted of taking a scalding shower before crawling into bed. Maybe watching some TV or reading the book at the bottom of his bag to spice up the night.

Yet, once the two former items on his agenda were checked off, an uneasiness fell over him. Neither the TV nor his book could hold his attention. The bedsheets itched his legs. His heart thumped in his chest, just fast enough to be noticeable. He couldn’t sit still.

Lightning flashed outside and Jake’s head whipped in the direction of the window. The pub came into view; the two porch lights twinkled in the dark and laughter sounded in time to the pounding storm. It shimmered in the lightning’s afterglow, the rain creating a silver mist of magic around the stone building.

Jake tossed off the sheets and threw on some clothes and his damp jacket. The pull in the pit of his stomach pushed him towards the front door without Jake even really realizing what he was doing. But he chalked it up to boredom and the anxiety of being knocked off his schedule.

He left the warmth of his room behind, almost crashing into a figure as he gently closed his door. An apology was on the tip of his tip tongue when a feeling of nausea washed over him. He felt dizzy, stomach turning. But it was gone between one blink and the next, along with the person. Jake got a glimpse of red hair out of the corner of his eye followed by bells and laughter as the door to room 8 snapped closed.

The thunderous weather started to overload Jake's senses and the urge to get to the pub was greater. With his head down, the figure fading from his memory, Jake made his way across the parking lot.

A drink or two would kill some time, he thought to himself. At least it would help settle the uneasiness and put him to sleep.

The mist around the pub seemed to glow as Jake drew closer, but he was too busy keeping the rain out of his eyes to pay much mind to it. Warmth shot up his arm as he pushed the door open, a jingle filling the room.

The smell of liquor and smoke tainted with the slight scent of sweat greeted Jake as he stepped over the threshold of Kay & Elle. The low rumble of a banjo filled the space, bouncing off the wooden rafters, mixing with the low mumbles and chuckles of the clusters of people scattered around the room. It wasn’t a full house, but crowded enough given the storm outside.

With his footsteps sounding off the wood floors, Jake made his way to the dark-oak bar. He received a few stares and nods of acknowledgment as he walked by men and women alike, sitting at tables and standing by pool tables. As he walked past, he took in the stone walls, the empty stage in the back, the shimmering yellow lights, and the photos of fishermen, smiling ladies, and vast landscapes littered throughout the walls.

He took off his jacket, his heart having settled from the moment he entered the pub. Jake wasn’t a man who believed in faith, but in his bones, deep in his marrow, he knew this was where he was meant to be, for whatever reason.

“Well ain’t you a fresh face,” the elder man behind the bar remarked as Jake sat in one of the barstools, just a few seats down from a hunched over figure nursing a glass of whiskey.

Jake placed his wet jaket on the chair beside him as he chuckled. “Hard to be a stranger in this town.”

“Small-town life, my boy. Everyone knows everyone.” The man threw a towel over his shoulder, his dark hair pulled back in a low pony-tail, causing the wrinkles on his slim, tan face to be on full display. His green eyes sparkled in welcome and his smile pulled at the faded scar on his left cheek. “Passing through?”

The dim lights jumped and danced off the many bottles lining the wall behind the bar. A muted glow hugged the bar, the music changing to the beat of a fiddle.

“I am, but the storm took me off the road for the night,” Jake explained.

“You staying at the Beaumont?”

Jake nodded. “The woman, Vera, recommended I stop by for a drink.”

The words tasted bitter, full of half-truths and false tales. But Jake wasn’t sure why, just as he wasn’t sure how to explain his need to be sitting in the pub at that particular moment.

“That woman,” the elder man chuckled with a shake of his head. “She sends more business this way than any billboard ad ever could. Well, have a drink while you’re here…"

“Jake.”

The music skipped a beat as the fiddle played a harsh note. The air turned bitter and cold. Jake’s limbs urged him to run, screamed that he made a mistake, scolded him for giving his name so willingly. But it was a reflex; the word leaving his lips before he understood what was happening. An impulse came over him, the same one that pulled him to obey the man's demand and order a drink.

No one seemed to notice the odd behaviour, aside from the hunched over figure a few seats down. His depthless brown eyes flashed to Jake, grey hair falling across his pale, sweaty forehead. There was a look of pain and madness in those eyes. Jake opened his mouth to say something when a draft of beer appeared in front of him. And suddenly he couldn’t remember why his limbs felt tense or why there was a cold sweat on the back on his neck.

“Nice to meet ya, Jake,” the bartender smiled with a gleam in his bottle-green eyes. “Name’s Murphy.”

“Likewise,” Jake raised his drink before bringing the glass to his lips, downing half of it in a few gulps.

The hunched man tipped back the last of his whiskey, slamming the glass hard on the bartop.

“Murphy,” he spoke in a husky voice, like the sound of asphalt and gravel.

A flash of irritation, with just a hint of sadness, came over Murphy's face. He didn’t say a word as he quickly prepared another glass, sliding it gently in front of the stranger.

“Take it easy, Harold. That’s your third now.”

Harold grunted, shooting back half the glass without a word.

Murphy sighed, every other emotion but worry washing from his face for the smallest moment, before he turned back to Jake with a smile on his lips.

“So, where were you headed before the rain knocked you off track?”

After another smaller sip of beer, Jake explained his mountain travel plans and his desire to reach the great peak that waited for him at the end.

“Good on ya. Do it all now while you’re still young and can move about,” Murphy said with a chuckle. “This a solo trip? Or are you with someone special? Perhaps they’re waiting for you back in your room?”

“No,” Jake chuckled, ignoring the grunt of clear annoyance from the man a few seats down from him. “Just me.”

A glimmer appeared in the old man's eye. “So no one speical then? No sweetheart waiting for ya?”

Glass rattled as Harold slammed his empty drink back down on the bar.

Jake cast a sideways glance at the stranger. Restlessness rushed through him as he slowly sat up straighter. Tension gripped his limbs as Harold turned to look at him. Those unnaturally dark eyes shined with intensity. They held so much knowledge, so much pain, so much fury that Jake couldn’t look away.

“Don’t waste your time with such things, boy,” Harold grumbled, voice rough and firm. His brows were pulled together so tight they were touching, as the bar cast his face in shadows of back and grey. “Love is pointless.”

He said the word love with such hatred, Jake felt as if the stone structure surrounding them would cave in and collapse.

Murphy, for his part, looked just as on edge. It was a fact that did little to calm Jake's sudden nervousness.

“Harold,” he sighed. “Let’s take a moment-”

“There is one thing that is certain when it comes to love,” Harold continued, eyes gazing unblinkingly at Jake. “It is nothing but pain. Love is made up of pain and heartbreak and bitter ends. It is a useless and pointless part of the whole damn human existence.”

A hush fell over the bar, as if even the other guests could sense the mood Harold had brought about. The upbeat tone of the fiddle suddenly switched to a soulless wail. . A shiver ran up Jake’s spine and he begged his body to turn away, to dismiss the man and be done with it. But he couldn’t. His unmerciful gaze pulled him in and suddenly Jake was drowning in the scent of liquor and smoke and dead leaves and depthless seas.

“You fight so hard." Harold gripped his glass, and a crack started to appear. “You fight with all you have and give yourself completely and it's no good. It doesn’t matter. Nothing you do is good enough. Love is about fighting a losing battle and in the end, only one person suffers the consequences. And it's usually the one who fought the hardest.”

“Harold.”

Murphy’s voice was firm, loud, booming over the music as Jake jumped back in his seat. He didn’t realize how intently he’d been listening to Harold. How he was hanging on to every word like it was air. Or how, while talking to the terrifying man, for the first time since entering the town, Higdon’s Harbour glowed with colour.

An angry, remorseless, pulsating red colour.

Harold held Jake's gaze for a moment longer, intense eyes cast in complete shadow, before turning back to the bar.

“Thanks for the advice,” Jake found himself saying, voice shaking more than he'd like to admit. He didn’t mean to speak, the words simply rushed out of him with an aftertaste of smoke.

Clearing his throat, Jake downed the last of his beer before pushing the glass towards Murphy for a refill.

A hush fell around them for just a few moments, the tension already starting to subside. Jake felt his shoulders drop as he slowly sipped his beer and Murphy slid Harold a glass of water. After some small talk with the old bartender, Jake felt himself able to breathe once more. His body started to relax, the fog lifting from his head. He was breaking the surface and forgetting all about the darkness of the ocean and the murdered limbs of the trees on the forest floor.

While on his third drink, Murphy started to get busy with the other parties of the bar. Tables started to ask for refills, and drenched couples walked through the door, the wind roaring behind them. He drifted more and more between the bar and the tables. And it was about that time that Jake decided he would soon be calling it a night.

“You shouldn’t have stopped, boy.”

Ice crawled up Jake’s spine at the sound of that sandpaper voice. Murphy was off to some seemingly remote corner of the bar. Jake couldn’t help but notice that every new body who walked in stayed far away from the bar, from him, and from Harold.

Jake gripped the tall draft in his hand, foam and condensation running through his numb fingers.

He turned to face Harold, those black soulless eyes dragging him into the abyss. He was in a freefall, too much rushed through him all at once. A thumping started at his left temple and his heart dropped to his stomach as he fell and fell and fell from the bowels of the sky through the open arms of the corpse-like trees.

“You shouldn’t have stopped,” Harold spat, teeth clenched and head hung low. “You should get out of this cursed town before they get you too. They know you’re here. They knew you’d be here before you knew you’d be here. They got to the rest of this damned town. They got her. Get out before they get you too, boy.”

Fear rooted Jake in place. Fear for what, he couldn’t tell. But in the back of his mind, in the depth of his soul, he knew Harold was right. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t have stopped. Yet, the thought of leaving caused his heart to clench and spots to form behind his eyes. Without his control, he found his lips forming the words -

“Who are they?”

The lights flickered with the time of the thunder clashing outside. The fiddle faded out and the haunting strings of a violin floated through the room, accompanied by a soulful woman's wail.

He knew he shouldn’t have asked. He shouldn’t provoke this man. He should just pay his tab, get up, and leave. But it was unexplainable, much like the whole night had been. He simply couldn’t help himself.

Harold completely turned to Jake. The harsh lines on his face caught the glow of the dim lights. His eyes burned with unattainable wisdom and passion. Jake's heart started to race, limbs locking into place as he noticed the music slowed. Along with, somehow, every other body and soul in the bar. A haze filled the room, a mist blurring and engulfing everything that was not Jake and was not Harold. Even the storm seemed to hush, with only the woman's cry continuing on.

“Let me tell you a story, son.” Harold’s voice turned mystical, the words floating in the air between the two. “Cause I’ve lost my friends, my family, this whole damn town, and yet no one will believe me. They think I’m a nut-case, a man full of grief. But I ain’t, you hear? And maybe you’ll believe me. Maybe you won’t. But they took my wife-”

“Your wife is missing?”

Jake’s pulse jumped as Harold leaned in close, his blood-shot eyes burning crimson red. “For years now. Cause they took her.”

“They?” Jake repeated, feeling physically ill.

Harold nodded. “The fairies.”

He should have laughed. He should have backed off. His mind should have been yelling at him that the man was senile, crazy, insane. He should have bid him goodbye, called over Murphy, and been done with this place, this man. This man who was staring at him with all the earnestness in the world.

Fairies.

The word danced around in his head, bells and whistles suddenly joining in with the escalating violin. Suddenly, the whole town made all the sense in the world and yet, none at all.

“Fairies?” Jake spoke slow and steady. “They’re just folklore. A myth.”

Even as he said it, the words turned to dust on his tongue. He wanted to wash the taste out with his beer, but found he genuinely couldn’t move.

“The Harbour Fairies,” Harold whispered. “Nasty creatures. And if you believe they’re just a myth, you’re as foolish as the rest of them. If you believe there isn’t more to this world, that we’re the only beings here, you’re blin. These aren’t just some little buggers who pick your berries and sprinkle dust. They are savage, mischievous demons.”

Jake started to shake his head, mostly to clear the fog that had started to form. “I don’t-”

“We here grew up wearing our clothes inside out and carrying bread in our pockets to stop the little people from leading us astray,” Harold spoke with more urgency than Jake had heard all night, “But little good it did. Everyone was blinded by what was right in front of them. These creatures play tricks. Oh, they love tricks. And not the fun kind. No, the kind that leads you over a cliff or dead at the bottom of the sea. They are unpredictable forces of nature who lead you in the woods, and suddenly you're never heard of again.”

“And they got your wife.”

“They stole her,” Harold spat the words into the air. His gaze flicked towards the red-head who walked past them, beer in hand, before he spoke again. “They took her from me. Everyone here believes she ran away, but I know. I caught them you see, I saw it with my own two eyes. One day she was in the garden, the next…”

… she walked into the woods, never to be seen again. Jake knew because he saw it himself. He watched it play out in Harold’s aged eyes. And suddenly he was inserted into a story that was not his. He didn’t feel right; too tight in his skin, eyes unable to properly focus on the greys, blacks, and whites of the world. But he still watched.

A grass-stained seven year old boy cradled the arm of a pretty girl with messy blonde hair. They sat in a treehouse, feet dangling over the edge, kicking at the clouds. The girl had tear-tracks running down her cheeks and dead flowers stuck in her hair. She was biting her lip, nodding as the boy spoke.

“I told you not to make your papa mad,” he whispered sternly.

“I didn’t mean to,” her lips trembled, gaze moving to anything but the boy before her. “It wasn’t my fault.”

The boy shook his head as he ran his hand over the forming bruise. “You gotta be more careful Cathy. What if something were to happen to ya?”

“Then let's get out of this town, Harry,” a seventeen-year old girl twirled in the headlights of an old pick-up truck. The waves crashed against the shore in the distance, the sun tenderly kissing the horizon goodbye. The girl’s blonde, messy braids whipped around her shoulder, dress bunched at her ankles. She stood before a brown haired boy, grass-stains on his jeans, leaning against the red truck. “Let’s pack up and leave after graduation next week.”

“And go where, Cathy?” The boy shook his head. “I have a job lined up on the boat and you have-”

“Nothing! I have nothing!” She threw her hands in the air. “I ain’t got nothing lined up. Just my next shift at the diner. I want to go to school, you know I do. But papa-”

“Don’t worry about your father,” the boy grabbed at the girls skirts, pulling her so close their hips touched. “I told you, I’ll protect you from your papa.”

The girl bit her lips, forest green eyes glancing over the boy's shoulder. Her face was tender but the look of caution never left. As if she wanted to believe the boy holding her but her heart refused to pay heed. “Promise?”

“I do.”

Applause thundered across the crowd, the waves beating against the rocky cliffs. The man lifted the woman's veil, tucking a piece of messy blonde hair behind her ear before gripping the back of her neck. He leaned in and placed a kiss on his lips. Whistles and wails filled the air, a screaming violin starting to play as the newly-weds walked down the aisle.

She held on her husband’s arm like a life-line, biting her lip as her father clapped the bride-groom on the shoulder. Her eyes darted around the crowd, the same look of caution from five years ago still masked her face.

It was a look that never left her face, a look that was forever present in the back on her eyes. It was the only thought Jake found he was able to form; the look of a woman who was scared. The look of a woman who was holding a secret.

And maybe she was, for that look stayed with her for all the years to come, Jake noticed. He watched Harold's and Catherine’s life play out before him, just as Harold described. The twenty plus years together. The moments of tender love, the moments of bitter fights. The squealing laughter and howling sobs. The funerals and the weddings, The slamming bottles and doors leading to nights together and alone. It wasn’t the best marriage, but what marriage is, Harold said.

They never had kids, their life centred around just the two of them, their fading love and the growing tension. Every second leading up to that moment, in a garden of muted yellows, reds, and oranges.

Flowers in her messy hair, a near fifty year old Catherine knelt before a bed of dirt. Sunglasses covered her eyes, dirt stained her knees, finger nails, and cheeks. She was silent as she worked.

A door slammed in the distance. “Catherine!”

The tension became electricity in the air. Catherine’s head snapped up as footsteps made their way to the backyard.

Jake noticed it at the exact moment she did. The wind switched directions, bells jingled off the tree tops, mystical laughter floated out from the forest on the other side of the garden.

Catherine turned slowly. The flower fell out of her hair. She tossed the sunglasses onto the ground and her bruised, deep green eyes glowed against the muted world. She walked towards the tree line, footfalls light. Laughter bubbled past her own lips and, between one step and the next, she was gone.

“... the forest swallowed her up and I knew they got to her.”

Jack was back in the bar. Everything rested as it had, and he himself wasn’t even sure if what he had just witnessed was real. Surely not, but the description and details felt real, tangible. As if, for a moment, he truly stood in Harold's memories.

“The forest was the only way out,” Harold’s eyes were wide, urgent, and the brightest things in the whole bar. “It was either through the house or the forest. And she’d been acting out for years. Always in the garden, out on her own. They got her, it's the only answer. But,” a pause, eyes shifting. “I know where she is.”

Jake swallowed, throat dry as sandpaper. “You do?”

“An island just a few miles out in sea. A rocky cliff, that's where they stay,” Harold nodded, talking more to himself than Jake. “She's there, with them. I’m taking my boat out tomorrow morning. I’m going to get her and-”

“Harold.”

Murphy’s voice was enough to make Jake jump back. He never noticed how close he had been leaning towards the old man. Just as he never realized how tightly he was holding his warm, untouched third glass of beer. He pulled his hand back, wiping it on his jeans as the pulsing in his left temple grew stronger.

As he looked around the pub, Jake took in all the faces looking his way. Eyes bounced between him and Harold, whispers and murmurs accompanying the flute and violin pair. It was only when Murphy loudly, purposely, cleared his throat that the inhabitants of the bar started to look as if they weren’t listening.

“Harold,” Murphy spoke softly, placing a hand on Harold’s tense shoulder. “I think it's time to head home, friend.”

There was a fight in Harold’s eyes, Jake could see it. That bloodshot, haunting, soulless gaze held a fire and life to them, ignited by the hatred for creatures that couldn’t exist. But the moment Murphy spoke, the moment Harold looked around the pub and saw all the eyes on him, the fire vashined. It was as quick as releasing a breath, there one minute and gone the next.

Harold held Jake’s gaze. There was still so much left unsaid, unanswered, and Jake found he didn’t want him to go. His mind and soul craved to know more about fairies and their secret world.

A laughter echoed off the rafters, and Jake realized for the first time that night how terrified and exposed he truly was.

“Tomorrow morning,” Harold grunted as he stood, the invitation loud and clear. Jake didn’t understand why Harold was inviting him along but it somehow made all the sense in the world.

With no other parting words, with not so much as a glance at any other living soul in the pub, Harold walked out. Back hunched as he disappeared over the threshold, rain and wind howling as they swallowed him whole.

A hush carried on throughout the pub for a few heartbeats. Until the flute faded back into the plucking of a guitar. Someone cheered, laughter followed, and soon the lively atmosphere of the bar was back once more. As if the haunted man with an implausible story wasn’t present a few moments before.

“Is it true?” Jake found himself asking, tongue sliding across his chapped lips. He turned in his chair, facing Murphy, who now stood behind the bar. He hoped his shaking hand wasn't noticeable as he raised his beer to his lips. “About those… about the fairies.”

The word tasted like strawberries and metal on his lips.

Murphy glanced up for the glass he was cleaning, scar strained across his cheek as he pursed his lips. “They’re urban folktales. Myths passed down through all the generations of the Harbour.”

“And his wife?”

Murphy paused. He let out a sign, placed the glass under the bar before turning to Jake. Worry and concern shinned in his eyes.

“She left him,” he explained softly, mindful of the ears around. “Packed up and left, just like that.”

“Just like that?” Jake raised an eyebrow at Murphy’s hesitation.

“There were… rumours about cheating and drunken fights but…” Murphy took a breath, crossing his arms on the bartop as he leaned in close. “Look, Harry's a good guy, difficult but good. Our families know each other well. And Cathy… well she had a hard life with her father. She wasn’t all there before she left and Harold took it hard. He still won't get help and has himself convinced the Harbour Fairies are behind it. Says he’s seen things with his own eyes that explains it.”

Jake swallowed, leg bouncing restlessly. “He’s going out tomorrow morning-”

“Yeah,” Murphy nodded solemnly. “We’ve tried to stop him, talk sense. But he won’t listen. And he’s at the age and point now where we've given up - what can ya do.”

A lot. Jake glanced around the pub, taking in the numerous people laughing, chatting, drinking. He didn’t know these people, he shouldn’t judge, but they could be doing something to help that man. He may be talking crazy but… was he?

The more Jake studied the bar, the more it felt like a fog was lifting. The pieces were falling into place. The math was suddenly starting to make sense. And Jake refused to acknowledge the answers that were before him.

“Where is she then?” Jake asked, breathing through his nose to calm his racing heart. “His wife. Catherine.”

“No one knows,” Murphy admitted. “She got out of this town, that's for sure. And no one has heard from her since.”

“No one checks in?” Jake couldn’t hide the disbelief from his voice. “No one’s tried to find out where she is or what happened.”

Murphy watched Jake for an uncomfortable moment. His eyes looked him over, mouth twisting as if to say something. But then his lips shut, he blinked, and he shrugged before pointing to the still full glass in front of Jake. “You want another?”

Jake's breath caught in his throat. Claws bit into his spine. His skin felt too tight as a breeze brushed the back of his neck, red flashing in his vision. The room was too small and too big all at once. He didn’t know why he was feeling such a way or what had brought it on. But his gut knew it was because of this town.

And he knew he wanted to get out.

The door to the pub shut as a couple walked out, but the noise still rattled against Jake’s bones as he shook his head.

“No,” he stood up, hand shaking as he pulled out some bills and tossed them on the bar. “I think I’ll call it a night actually.”

Murphy picked up the money, either not noticing the odd behaviour or choosing to ignore it as he smiled. “Well, Mr. Jake, I hope you enjoy the rest of your short stay. Maybe someday we’ll get to see you passing through the Harbour again.”

“Who knows,” Jake gave a nervous chuckle, “It seems anything is possible.”

He left the pub in shambles. The smell of ashes and fowl fish followed Jake as he made his way to the door. Tables were knocked off centre, chairs were tipped over. The banjo played too loud and slightly off key. Men and women alike stumbled over one another, drinks spilled onto the floor. Even Murphy’s slicked back pony was a mess, falling into his dark, sweat covered face.

The illusion was breaking, the corners being pulled back to show something ugly and monstrous. Something those who inhabited Higdon’s Harbour refused to acknowledge.

Jake stepped over the threshold, blood pounding through his veins. He welcomed the rain beating down on his face, the wind biting through his damp jacket and nipping at his icy skin. The door to Kay & Elle closed with a thunderous bang. The banjo and hysterical laughter was replaced by sorrowful wind and wailing rain.

He stood there for a moment, face turned towards the sky as he tried to will air into his lungs.

He needed to get out of this town.

Whatever force pulled Jake towards the pub earlier was controlled by a demon. He didn’t know what purpose it served him, to hear about Harold and the fairies… fairies that shouldn’t, didn’t, couldn’t exist…

Someone squealed and giggled across the parking lot. With a jump, heart in his throat, Jake started to make his way back to the safety of his room.

And he was almost there, just a mere few steps away, when his body suddenly felt as if it were stretched too thin. Nausea overcame him and his head spun. The rain pierced his skin like devilish needles and the wind sang a woman's lullaby in his ear. He could hear his blood pounding in his ears, thunder crashing as someone bumped into his shoulder.

It was an innocent tap, the woman clearly too captivated by the lady on her arm to notice him. But it did all the damage in the world.

“Oh!” She gasped, the sound like a thousand bells. She grabbed his arm, full-lips pulled back in an apologetic smile as all the air vanished from Jake's chest. “I’m sorry.”

He couldn't breath, the pulsing in his left temple was suddenly magnified by ten. The warmth of her hand on his arm spread through his whole body. He no longer felt the wind and rain beating against him, he was too allured by her auburn curls, high-cheekbones, and hazel eyes that glistened like moss coated in morning dew.

She was the most hauntingly beautiful creature he had ever beheld. And every part of his being begged him to run.

“Are you okay, Jake?” Her partner spoke up. They were holding one another so close, arms locked tight, it was as if they were one. Gravity pulled them together; where one moved the other followed. A simple stranger such as himself could not doubt their adoration and love.

Jake ripped his gaze away from the red-headed woman and looked at her partner. He took in her slim face, the dirty dress, and messy blonde hair pinned back with a flower.

It was then that Jake noticed that both women were completely dry.

It was then that Jake realized they knew his name.

It was then that his eyes met the blonde’s green ones, and he saw it all.

“I told you not to make your papa mad,” a seven year old boy with grass stains on his knees told the six year old girl with a bruised arm.

“I didn’t mean to,” she trembled, and Jake realized she wasn’t avoiding the boys gaze. She was looking at someone else. She was looking at the young auburn haired creature standing a few feet away, invisible to the boy and eyes tense with worry. “It wasn't my fault.”

Be more careful, the boy told her at the exact moment the creature met the girl's gaze and said, I know. I’ll protect you.

“I told you,” said a seventeen year old boy as he gripped a sixteenth year old's skirts. “I’ll protect you from your papa.”

You know he can’t, Cathy, The auburn creature said, standing over the boy's shoulder as she held the girl’s green-eyed gaze. I’ll protect you from them both.

The blonde trembled. “Promise?”

With all the power of the forest and the sea. I promise.

She was there, always there. She did all she could to keep her promise. But it seemed even she was limited in her abilities.

Jake watched Harold and Catherine's life play out once more. As the twenty plus years faded together, the moments of tender love vanished. The fights were more frequent, more aggressive than Harold let on. He stumbled home in the dark more than once, eyes bloodshot and words slurred. There were many years of fights and screams. Fists were thrown and bones were broken. And the red-head was there through it all, helping as best as she could. She cared for Cathy, tried to protect her, but it wasn’t enough.

Run away with me, Cathy. It's the only way.

And run she did.

It wasn’t a laugh that called Catherine to the forest that day in the garden as Harold’s raging voice bellowed off the walls of the house. No, it was not a laugh at all, but her name, spoken in bells and chimes, love and warmth.

Catherine stepped over the threshold of the forest, laughter on her lips, as she jumped into the arms of the beautiful red-headed fairy.

She didn’t leave, wasn’t taken. She willingly left her delusional old life for one of magic and wonder and respect.

Jake stumbled back a step, shaking off the hand of the creature before him. His head was spinning, his stomach turned and his vision blurred as he truly saw the two ladies before him. As he noticed the glow around them, the electricity that danced in their wake.

This town, these people… how could anyone let a woman suffer as Catherine did and not do anything? How could they not see what was right in front of them?

And these creatures, the fairies, Harold painted them as the demons and yet, this fairy was Catherine’s saving grace, her lover, her protector...

They shared a look, the two lovers, before turning back to him. They didn’t say another word as the fairy smiled at Jake, white teeth flashing, and blew him a kiss. They turned to leave, Catherine giving him a wink over her shoulder, before disappearing into their hotel room. Right next door to his.

Jake stumbled as fast as he could to his room, slamming the door behind him as he tried to catch his breath and will his mind to understand what the hell was going on.

It took him a few moments to realize, for the first time all night, he was completely dry.

----------

Light had yet to transform the morning sky when Jake sped out of the Beaumont Motel parking lot. The rain had stopped and the winds were whisked away. Grey clouds lingered in the sky, suffocating the rising sun on the horizon.

What was once a piece of art to Jake was now the ugliest thing he had ever seen.

The mountain reached its claws to the sky, holding all the trees and buildings in the palm of its hand. The roads swerved in and out of its fingers, weather-worn homes running up the forest-speckled hills, trying to escape. The ocean leaped for joy as it played with the rocky cliffs, trying to capture and destroy anything it could reach. The boats bobbed in the water, begging to be let free, while the docks pointed their fingers to the open sea, luring in any desperate and lonely souls to the corrupt town.

The ocean was painted an angry blue against the grey light. The white-capped waves pounded against anything in their way. What Jake once thought was a place of harmony, he realized now, was an illusion.

The image had been shattered, broken beyond repair.

The land had won after all, he realized now. It had conquered Higdon’s Harbour and all within it. There was no agreement, no compromise to live in peace. For nothing could truly defeat nature.

The land cackled against the last remains of the raging storm winds. For it knew the game it was playing; it knew who truly ruled the town. And it was not man.

Jake made it out before the first kitchen light flickered on. Before the inhabitants of Higdon’s Harbour woke and started about their delusional lives. His heart pounded in his chest the whole way, hands shaking as they gripped his steering wheel. Even when he passed the city line, his body refused to relax. Not as the sound of chimes echoed on and on and on in his head.

By the time Jake remembered Harold, he was long gone. And he was too far out to turn back. Too far out to hear the news, or see the headline of the Higdon’s Harbour newspaper that morning. And to hear the otherworldly laugh that accompanied it.

Man Crashes Boat Off Rocky Cliffs In Desperate Search Of His Wife.

#oringinal character #original writing #original story #fairies #tog #acotar #fanfiction #tog fanfic #tog fanfiction #acotar fanfiction #acotar fanfic #cas writing #personal

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noctilucid · 4 years ago

Text

DannyMay Day 15: Nature

**References my Day 4 (Stars) drabble, but stands alone.**

"Circle up everybody!" Ms. Teslaff barked, rapping her walking stick on a boulder embedded in the trail. "This camping trip is required by the state to be educational. Therefore, you will be given a group assignment designed to meet municipal standards." Mr. Lancer opened his messenger bag and started passing around packets and paper bags. A ripple of complaints and muttered curses spread out through the group. "You will be assigned a partner, and together you will search for and identify these plants. Bring back a leaf for each plant in the packet to receive full credit."

Paulina grimaced and looked down at her shoes for the tenth time that day. She had thought they'd stay close to the cabins for this trip, and her usual cute flats would have served her just fine on the broad, packed paths cut by hundreds of students' feet in the years before. But here she was, hiking in them. The mud was bad enough, but all the uneven terrain was putting creases in the material every time she had to put her weight on the balls of her feet. And now she was expected to go on a scavenger hunt? What was she, five?

"Paulina," Mr. Lancer said with a tired drawl as he read the names written on the brown paper bag on the top of his stack, "you will be partnered with Sam Manson." He handed her the bag and a packet before moving on to the next group.

Uhg, perfecto. I'm with Creepy Manson. They did this on purpose, didn't they? Paulina cut her eyes at Sam as she stomped over in her combat boots, looking equally thrilled.

"How many plants do we have to find?" Sam sighed, taking the packet from her. She flipped through the pages. "Well, at least these are all pretty distinctive."

"I'm sure you're disappointed none of them can lay eggs in my face," Paulina returned with an edge. She still hadn't forgiven Sam for that incident at the aquarium all those years ago.

Sam narrowed her eyes, not looking up from the paper. "Spores."

"What?"

"Plants don't lay eggs. Some of them have spores." She folded back a few pages and held up a picture of a fern they were supposed to locate. "This one can lay spores in your face."

Paulina raised her hand and waved at the teachers. "Miss Teslaff, I want a different partner! I don't want Sam to murder me and bury my body in the woods. I'm too pretty to die."

"No changing groups!"

Paulina huffed and crossed her arms. "Tough break," Dash said to her as he and Valarie headed off on one of the forks in the path.

"Good luck!" Kwan chimed in, who was paired with Tucker. "Hey, you got a plant identifying app on that thing…?"

"Do I ever!"

Danny put a reassuring hand on Sam's shoulder as he followed Mikey uphill. "Try not to be too hard on her?"

"No promises," Sam grumbled.

Soon the path had cleared out except for the two of them and two pairs of band nerds peering over their packets together.

"Come on, let's get this over with," Sam said at length, grabbing Paulina by the wrist and hauling her off in a random direction.

"Ow! Hey, get off of me!"

Sam did let go, and then scuffled up a tumble of boulders to a trail on higher ground. Paulina let out a dramatic and frustrated groan before following her up much more slowly. By the time she caught back up, Sam was standing in the shade of a tree growing out of a split in the rock, studying the packet again.

"Oriental Thuja?" she said, forehead creased. "Why would they even put that on here? It's not native to this area."

"So we won't be able to find it?" How much is this stupid assignment worth anyway?

"No, it could be here, but it's invasive."

Paulina rolled her eyes. "Don't tell me you're going to be sacrimonious about plants now too."

"Oh, of course," Sam returned. "Because you only like nature if it's pretty and flatters you. You can't be bothered to learn about something complicated like an ecosystem." She headed down the trail at a brisk walk, grabbing a sapling and using it as a hand-hold as she swung herself down another steep portion.

"Would you stop doing that?" Paulina yelled after her, but Sam didn't slow down. "¡Joder!" she swore under her breath. Somehow, she was going to make Sam regret this by the end of the day. She just had to figure out how.

***

A brooding 45 minutes later, and Sam had found five of the plants they were looking for with little help from Paulina.

"Next is the purple coned larch…" Sam said, more to the paper held in front of her face than to Paulina. "We should probably go uphill to look for it…" Paulina died a little more inside. No more climbing hills!

"Oh, is that one of the ones that's going to lay spores in my face?" Paulina sniped as Sam strode on ahead for the hundredth time. "I guess you would end up with some weird kinks after being possessed by an ugly plant ghost."

"You're the one who brought up the face eggs," Sam said, nonchalant, and notably not slowing down. "I think that says more about you than about me."

Paulina clenched her fists. "Ugh! You're such a freak, you know that?"

"Aaaand personal attacks mean you have no convincing arguments left in your arsenal! Looks like it's Sam two, Paulina zero for the day so far." Sam was steadily moving out of range, and Paulina was forced to follow if she wanted to continue the argument. She was busy trying to think of a better jab while watching where she put her feet, but Sam beat her to the punch. "It's kind of sad that you're still hung up on this actually. Move on already."

Paulina gritted her teeth as the angle of the slope forced her to grab a muddy point of rock to haul herself up with. "Would it kill you to apologize? ¡Dios mío!”

"For what?"

"For harassing me with a starfish, Miss Don't-Be-Cruel-To-Animals!" She stood up and tried to wipe her hand clean on a tree trunk. "And I mean a real apology, not that stupid letter the teacher made you write."

"Oh, yeah, to be clear, I didn't mean that apology letter."

"It was clear," Paulina said, quiet and venomous.

"I hope you shredded it or something. I'm kind of embarrassed to have my name on the bottom of it."

"I threw it in the fireplace as soon as I got home that day."

"Well, that's a relief," Sam said with a performative grin. "And no, after what you did to Danny, you'd better believe I'd eat a hot dog before I'd apologize to you."

"I only went out with Danny to get under your skin!"

"Exactly."

Paulina's hands spasmed between gestures as she tried to collect herself. "Did you ever think that maybe, if you weren't such a self-absorbed piece of shit, maybe your friends wouldn't get hurt as much?"

Sam's face went blank for a telling second before she focused back on the paper. Paulina was a little surprised that jab had worked, actually, but she wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. She couldn't think of anything to follow up with, so she decided to allow the silence to be her victory.

And she's back to climbing again. Someone kill me…

They had almost reached the summit of the hill they were on— Paulina was debating to herself whether it was tall enough to be considered a mountain— when Sam finally found what she was looking for. The tree she was examining was scrawny and gnarled, squeezing its roots into the veins of available soil, and it was barely taller than they were.

"I think this is it. The needles look the same," Sam said, holding up the page for comparison. "It would help if the picture wasn't in black and white, though."

Paulina cast a glance over the diagram and the plant in front of them. "No, it doesn't have the little cones," she grumbled. I swear to god, if we have to climb any higher…

"This one's pretty young. I don't think it's old enough to have fruited before. They take a couple of years to get established."

"Well how can you tell if this is the right one? There's a thousand different Christmas trees on this hill, and they all look the same." Paulina shook her head. "You know, whatever. Let's just take a branch and go—" She sputtered to a stop as Sam pushed the packet and paper bag full of samples into her hands. Paulina adjusted the materials in her hands and watched as Sam stooped down, fished in her combat boot with two fingers, and pulled out something long and thin. She pulled off the makeshift cap, revealing the stubby tip of a well-used oil pencil.

Kneeling in front of the tree, Sam drew some intricate shape on the trunk with the dark blue pigment, then murmured something Paulina didn't catch. In the shadow of the trees branches, Paulina saw the symbol glow faintly green, and the same light snaked up the tree along the ridges in the bark until it reached the closest branch. With a quiver, the end of the branch put out fresh needles and then a tiny purple cone.

"See?" Sam said, breaking off the end of the branch. "Perfect match."

Paulina gaped like a fish. "You— Holy shit, you—" Magic. That was honest to god magic! Paulina felt lightheaded. She had been… dabbling. Combing the internet and old bookstores. At first, she had hoped to find a spell that could summon a ghost, or anything else she could use to get Phantom's attention. But as the weeks had stretched into months, she had become desperate to find any scrap of genuine magic. And here it was.

"Are you— is that Wicca?" she finally managed.

Sam shook her head. "Semitic Neopaganism. There's a difference."

Paulina paused to think on it. Could I learn Jewish magic if I'm not Jewish? Would it even work for me? She chewed on her lip. What am I saying? There's no way Manson would teach me anything in the first place. Then Sam started speaking softly, and Paulina had to shake out of her thoughts to catch it.

"I did think about apologizing," Sam said. "Properly. I was… kind of a mess in fifth grade. Um. And sixth and seventh too, actually." Her eyes remained focused on the pine sprig in her hand as she spoke, slowly rotating it between her fingers. "I've never liked you. But that didn't make it right for me to pick on you." She stood up and took back their paper bag, tucking the sample inside. "But then you pulled Danny into it. So, I'll never apologize." She finally looked up and met Paulina's gaze. "And neither will you." Paulina opened her mouth to retort, only to realize that Sam was an image of perfect calm. It was not an accusation, not a barb, just a statement. And Paulina had no idea how to respond. "We're both petty bitches," Sam continued. "It's in our natures. So… let's just move on." She extended a hand to Paulina. "Deal?"

The offered hand was stiff and formal, as if this were a business meeting rather than two sweaty girls talking on a hiking trail, but Paulina saw an earnestness in it. Slowly, she reached out and slid her own palm into Sam's.

"Deal." She watched Sam for a moment, her unwavering gaze, the ridiculous purple contacts, the stillness which had come over her, like a stone come to rest. Not sophisticated or refined, as Paulina sought to be, but… very Sam. Very self-assured, in a way Paulina pretended not to admire. "We don't like each other."

"Naturally." Sam released her hand and turned to head back down the slope.

"But we… don't hate each other either. We just... are. Now."

Paulina saw the little quirk of a smile enter Sam's lips. "Yeah."

"And maybe… we can talk about magic sometimes?" She shook her head, slightly embarrassed. "Like, over text, so nobody gets the wrong idea?"

Sam chuckled. "Yeah. That sounds fun."

A smile crept over Paulina's face in spite of her attempt to hide it. Oh, what does it matter? Sam's not looking at me anyway. She gave herself a moment to squeal silently in her head. Real magic! She'd found someone who knew real magic! She shook her head again. Of course it would be Manson. Of course.

She picked up her pace, in spite of her sore feet, in spite of the damage she was doing to her shoes, to catch up to Sam. It was easier going downhill. "What do we still have to find?"

Sam extended the packet to her, pointing to one of the plants. "Just two left, lady fern and honeysuckle. They both like to grow near water, so I saved them for last. We can head down and check the creek on our way back." Oh thank god, we're almost done. Paulina leaned in to get a better look at the fern diagram. "You know, there's a spell I've been working on that uses ferns. Maybe we should grab a couple extra?"

Paulina squealed out loud this time, and clapped a hand over her mouth. "Sorry," she mumbled through her fingers. "Solemn. Solemn goth witch." She folded her hands in front of her and tried to look composed. Sam laughed.

"Nah, you don't have the wardrobe for that. Go on, be as pink as you'd like." She stepped down a bank of tree roots and held a branch back for Paulina to follow in her wake. Paulina paused in surprise before accepting the gesture.

This will take some getting used to.

#dannymay2021 #phanniemay2021 #danny phantom #Paulina Sanchez #Sam Manson #my writing

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church-history · 4 years ago

Text

Our Lady’s Message At La Salette - Sep 19th 1846

Near this little fountain the two children layed down on the grass and fell asleep. How long their slumber lasted is not certain – half an hour perhaps, or three quarters of an hour or possibly more. In any case Melanie suddenly awoke and called Maximin: “Memin, Memin, let us go and find our cows, I cannot see them anywhere.” Of course, being at the bottom of the little ravine, they could not see the meadow where they had left them. Quickly they climbed the slope opposite Mount Gargas (hence they were standing on what is now the esplanade in front of the basilica). Turning around they could view the entire alpine pasture land and were greatly relieved to see that their cows had remained where they had been left, peaceably chewing the cud. Reassured, Melanie began to redescend towards the dried-up fountain to recover her little sack of provisions before once again watering the cows. Half-way down the grassy slope she paused immobilized, frozen with fear. “Memin”, she called out, “look at that great light over there”. “Where is it?”, the boy replied, as he ran and stood at her side. (At the place of the Apparition two statues represent the children on the slope of the ravine, in the first stage of the Event.) At the very spot where they had slept was a globe of fire, as if, in the children's words, “the sun had fallen there”.

The light swirled, then grew in size and, opening, disclosed within it a woman, seated, her head in her hands, her elbows on her knees, in the attitude of one oppressed with grief. Melanie, in her fright, raised her hands and dropped her shepherd's staff. Maximin thought only of defending himself. “Keep your stick”, he said to her, “I will keep mine and will give it a good whack if it does anything to us” ...Even after she conversed with them, the children could not identify their heavenly Visitor. They would simply call her “the Beautiful Lady”.

The Beautiful Lady:

The beautiful Lady now stood up while the children remained transfixed where they were. She said to them in French: “Come near, my children, be not afraid. I am here to tell you great news”. Fully reassured by these words the children hurried to meet her. Her voice, they said, was like music. They approached so near her that, as they later expressed it, another person could not have passed between them and her. The Lady also took a few steps towards them. They looked at her and noticed that she did not cease weeping all the time she spoke to them. As Maximin put it, “She was like a mama whom her own children had beaten and who had escaped to the mountain to weep.” The beautiful Lady was tall and seemed to be made of light. She was dressed like women of the region with a long dress, an apron nearly as long as the dress, a shawl that crossed over her breast and was knotted in the back, and a cap or bonnet similar to the ones worn by peasant women. Roses crowned her head while another wreath of roses adorned the edges of her white shawl and a third garland surrounded her shoes. Over her brow shone a light in the form of a diadem. On her shoulders shone a heavy chain and from a smaller golden chain hung a resplendent crucifix with a hammer and pincers placed on each side of the Cross, a little beyond the nailed hands.

The Message:

The unknown Lady now spoke to the children. “We were drinking her words”, they would say later, adding, “she wept all the time she spoke to us”. “Come near, my children, be not afraid; I am here to tell you great news. “If my people will not submit, I shall be forced to let fall the arm of my Son. It is so strong, so heavy, that I can no longer withhold it. “For how long a time do I suffer for you! If I would not have my Son abandon you, I am compelled to pray to him without ceasing; and as to you, you take not heed of it. “However much you pray, however much you do, you will never recompense the pains I have taken for you. “Six days I have given you to labor, the seventh I have kept for myself; and they will not give it to me. It is this which makes the arm of my Son so heavy. “Those who drive the carts cannot swear without introducing the name of my Son. These are the two things which make the arm of my Son so heavy. “If the harvest is spoilt, it is all on your account. I gave you warning last year with the potatoes (‘pommes de terre’) but you did not heed it. On the contrary, when you found the potatoes spoilt, you swore, you took the name of my Son in vain. They will continue to decay, so that by Christmas there will be none left.” The French expression “pommes de terre” intrigued Melanie. In the local dialect the word for potatoes was “las truffas”, whereas “pommes” for Melanie meant the fruit of the apple tree. Hence she instinctively turned towards Maximin to ask for an explanation, but the Beautiful Lady forestalled her. “Ah, my children, you do not understand? Well, wait, I shall say it otherwise”.

And she continued her discourse in the local dialect of their region. “If you have wheat, it is no good to sow it; all you sow the insects will eat, and what comes up will fall into dust when you thresh it.” “There will come a great famine. Before the famine comes, the children under seven years of age will be seized with trembling and will die in the hands of those who hold them; the others will do penance by the famine. The walnuts will become bad, and the grapes will rot.” Here the Beautiful Lady addressed the children separately, confiding to each a secret. She spoke first to Maximin, and though the little shepherd did not perceive that her tone of voice had changed, Melanie at his side could not hear a word, though she still saw the Beautiful Lady's lips moving. Then came Melanie's turn to receive her secret under like conditions. Both secrets were given in French. Again addressing the two children in the idiom familiar to them, the Lady continued: “If they are converted, the stones and rocks will change into mounds of wheat, and the potatoes will be self-sown in the land. “Do you say your prayers well, my children?”, she asked the shepherds. Both answered with complete frankness: “Not very well, Madam”. “Ah, my children”, she exhorted them, “you must be sure to say them well morning and evening. When you cannot do better, say at least an Our Father and a Hail Mary; but when you have time, say more.” “There are none who go to Mass except a few aged women. The rest work on Sunday all summer; then in the winter, when they know not what to do, they go to Mass only to mock at religion. During Lent, they go to the meat-market like dogs.” “Have you never seen wheat that is spoilt, my children?”, the Beautiful Lady then asked them. “No, Madam”, they replied. “But you, my child”, she insisted, addressing the little boy in particular, “you must surely have seen some once when you were at the farm of Coin with your father. (Coin was a hamlet near the town of Corps). The owner of the field told your father to go and see his ruined wheat. You went together. You took two or three ears of wheat into your hands and rubbed them, and they fell into dust. Then you continued home. When you were still half an hour's distance from Corps, your father gave you a piece of bread and said to you: ‘Here, my child, eat some bread this year at least; I don't know who will eat any next year, if the wheat goes on like that’”. Confronted with such precise details, Maximin eagerly replied: “Oh yes, Madam, I remember now; just at this moment I did not remember”.

Then the Lady, again speaking French as at the beginning of her discourse and when giving the secrets, said to them: “Well, my children, you will make this known to all my people.” Now she turned slightly to her left, passed in front of the children, crossed the brook Sezia, stepping on stones emerging from it, and when she was about ten feet from the opposite bank repeated her final request, without turning around or stopping: “Well, my children, you will make this well known to all my people.” These were her last words. Meanwhile the two witnesses were still standing motionless at the spot where the conversation had taken place, when suddenly they realized that the heavenly Visitor was already some steps away from them. In their eagerness to join her again, they ran across the brook and were with her in a moment. Thus, in the company of Maximin and Melanie, the Lady moved along, gliding over the tips of the grass without touching it, until she reached the top of the hillock where the children, after their sleep, had gone to look after their cows. Melanie preceded her by a few steps, and Maximin was at her right. On reaching the summit the Lady paused for a few seconds, then slowly rose up to a height of a meter and a half. She remained suspended in the air for a moment, raised her eyes to Heaven, then glanced in the direction of the southeast. At that moment, Melanie, who had been standing at the left of the Lady, came in front in order to see her better. Only then did she notice that the celestial Visitor had ceased weeping, although her features remained very sad. The radiant vision now began to disappear. “We saw her head no more, then the rest of the body no more; she seemed to melt away. There remained a great light”, related Maximin, “as well as the roses at her feet which I tried to catch with my hands; but there was nothing more”. “We looked for a long time”, added Melanie, “to see if we could not have another glimpse of her”, but the Beautiful Lady had disappeared forever. The little shepherdess then remarked to her companion: “Perhaps it was a great Saint”. “If we had known it was a great Saint”, said Maximin, “we would have asked her to take us with her”.

The Great News Spreads:

At dusk, a little earlier than usual, the children brought back their herds to the hamlet of Ablandins nestling on the mountainside below. Pierre Selme had been impatiently awaiting Maximin's return to the farm house. “Well, Memin”, he asked him, “why did you not come back to me in my field, as I told you?” “Oh”, Maximin replied, “You do not know what happened? We found by the spring a beautiful lady who entertained us a long time and talked with Melanie and myself. At first I was afraid and did not dare to go and fetch my bread which was near her, but she said to us: ‘Come near, my children, do not be afraid, I am here to tell you great news’”. The boy then related the story of the Apparition, hardly pausing for breath. He was very surprised that the people of the valley had not noticed the bright light in the ravine. He then scampered lightheartedly over to the home of Melanie's master, Baptiste Pra. The girl, busy in the stable, had as yet said nothing. Maximin, more communicative, spoke at once to the assembled Pra family about the Beautiful Lady. He was immediately surrounded and questioned. On hearing the story, the old mother of Baptiste Pra began to cry, and with the intuition her simple faith gave her exclaimed: “This beautiful Lady can be none other than the Blessed Virgin”. The others were not so sure and waited for Melanie. As she did not hurry, her mistress, old Mother Pra, ran to the cow barn to fetch her. “Come quickly and tell us what you saw with Maximin”. “I saw as he did,” the girl replied, “and since he has told you, you must know it by now.” But all insisted, so back in the kitchen of the humble cottage she stood before them and related, for the first time, the wonderful event. All were amazed to hear both children, while reciting the Lady's discourse, speaking French fluently, for that same morning neither of them knew anything or very little of that language. The pious old grandmother, more and more moved, repeated her conviction: “She is certainly the Blessed Virgin, for there is no other person in Heaven whose Son governs”. Then she turned reproachfully to her young son James: “You have heard what the Blessed Virgin said - go now and work again on Sunday!” “Bah”, came the retort, “you will make me believe that this little one has seen the Blessed Virgin, she who does not even say her prayers!” “But that night”, declared Melanie later, “I remained a long time on my knees although I hardly knew any prayers by heart”. It was eventually decided that this affair was something to be submitted to the Church. Hence, first thing in the morning, the two children descended to the village of La Salette to tell their story to the pastor, Father Jacques Perrin. A knock at the rectory door brought the priest’s housekeeper, a kind but inquisitive spinster. They said they must see the priest. Must they, indeed? And why? They had something of great importance to tell him. They could tell it to her, Francoise insisted; it was the same thing. Seeing that she was immovable, the children began their recital. Father Perrin, in the next room, heard them and as they continued, he lay down his pen (he was writing his sermon). For a while he sat motionless, then moved noiselessly toward the kitchen. When the account was complete, he stepped into the kitchen and with tears in his eyes said to the children: “How fortunate you are, my children, for it must have been the Blessed Virgin whom you saw!” It was time for Mass and when Father Perrin mounted the pulpit he began telling the people of the children’s strange experience on the mountain. But his voice was choked with emotion and his words were unintelligible save by someone who already knew the story. The people looked at each other, mystified. But there was one who understood him - Monsieur Peytard, the mayor of La Salette. In the afternoon Peytard was on his way to the hamlet of Ablandins. He did not advertise his real purpose but would casually drop in at the Pra’s house for a friendly visit. He spoke to Melanie and asked to hear again the story she had been telling (by this time Maximin was already back in Corps). When she was through, he said: “Be careful, my child, to add or suppress nothing.” “I have said everything the beautiful lady told me to say”, was her reply. Then he began to cross-examine her mercilessly, passing back and forth from threats to bribes. It was fruitless. He could not shake Melanie or get her to vary her account by a word or persuade her to say no more about it. The lengthy interview, however, did induce Pra to abandon his attitude of disbelief. There must be something to this affair. He must put the story down on paper, with the help of his friends Selme and Moussier. So, that evening Melanie was made to tell the story one more time, but now very slowly, so that Pra could get every word down on paper. How right was his instinct in giving documentary form, as quickly as possible, to what the unforgettable voice had said on the mountain just the day before! Monday morning M. Peytard descended to Corps to question Maximin. He returned to La Salette, won over by the amazing self-assurance, candor and tenacity of the boy. His account accorded perfectly, down to the last detail, with that of Melanie. Now the news spread rapidly. Pilgrims, unbelievers, skeptics, took turn in questioning the two young witnesses, trying in every way to cause them to contradict each other. Among them were journalists, delegates from the civil authorities, but most importantly ecclesiastics commissioned by Monseigneur de Bruillard, the bishop of Grenoble. For, according to Canon Law, the ultimate decision rested with the bishop in whose diocese a reported miracle or apparition had taken place.

The Judgment:

After five long years of diligent inquiries, Bishop Philibert de Bruillard of Grenoble, published his longawaited decision, on September 19, 1851: “We judge that the Apparition of the Blessed Virgin to the two cowherds on the 19th of September, 1846, on a mountain of the chain of Alps, situated in the parish of La Salette, in the archpresbytery of Corps, bears within itself all the characteristics of truth, and that the faithful have grounds for believing it indubitable and certain.” The mission assigned by Our Lady to Maximin and Melanie was now ended. On September 19, 1855, Monseigneur Ginoulhiac, the new bishop of Grenoble, thus assessed the situation: “The mission of the children is now ended, that of the Church begins.” Innumerable today are the men and women of all races and countries who have found in the message of La Salette the road to conversion, a deepening of their faith, the needed dynamism for their everyday lives, and the motives for their commitment with and in Christ to the service of all peoples.

Read more at: https://www.lasalette.org/about-la-salette/apparition/the-story/705-the-message-of-la-salette.html

#catholic #Catholic History #la salette #our lady of la salette #Christian #blessed virgin mary #mary the mother of god #france #september 19th

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away-from-anthills · 4 years ago

Text

chapter three-

(prologue) (chapter one) (chapter two)

Although WindClan was the closest of all the Clans to it, the road to Fourtrees had never seemed longer.

The thick-barked trees seemed to stare down at Antstar as he led WindClan towards the hollow. On one side of him was Whitetooth, always looking ahead and always alert; on the other side was Russetfoot, who Antstar had decided to make his deputy almost as soon as he had returned from the Moonstone when he had received his nine lives.

A shiver scattered down his spine as he remembered the events that had happened after the last gathering. Rainleap gone, in an instant; a Clan suddenly left midair after being thrown off the cliff. And yet in all the turmoil, he had risen triumphant.

Or at least that was the impression he had gotten. He was supposed to feel triumphant, wasn’t he?

It had been a long ladder for Antstar to climb from Clanless kit to leader of all of WindClan, but he was beginning to realize at the top that he had a fear of heights.

Eventually, Fourtrees began to come into view, and Antstar could identify the four feline figures who sat at the Great Rock. All of them- even Currantstar, although he had only been leader for about twelve moons- seemed so used to it all, not even reacting to the leagues of chatter that surrounded them. It was as if their paws had melded with the granite below them.

“And I thought ShadowClan was bad with being late…” Pigeonstar’s coarse tone rang out above the crowd. The blue-gray tom was sporting a new scar that framed his left cheekbone.

“WindClan will be here soon enough,” said Tulipstar reassuringly. She had a tangy quality to her voice- not hostile, but not exactly warm either, like a mentor about to take their apprentice to a rigorous day of battle training. “I’ve heard rumors that something’s happened to them. Surely Shalestar will tell us.”

Shalestar. That was another thing. How was Antstar going to explain all that? Rainleap and Shalestar, both dead in the span of a month.

Part of him worried the others would think he killed him.

WindClan dispersed into the clearing, blending into the crowds. Spiderpaw was, very clearly, trying her best to not brag about her mentor now being the Clan leader. Toadpool and Webwhisker were striking a pleasant conversation with a dark red tabby tom from RiverClan with tufted ears. Adderthorn, a rather reclusive WindClan cat, kept to herself, although her gaze seemed to be fixed on a small dark brown tom from ShadowClan who had a marbled coat.

“Come, Antstar.” Whitetooth, with Marblepaw by their side, led Antstar through the gathering crowd, weaving in and out of the clouds of conversation. Eventually, they reached the medicine cats, who were having a friendly debate about whether yellow or orange marigold was more effective.

“I leave you here.” They pointed their tail at the top of the rock, where an empty spot sat between Tulipstar and Currantstar. “Best of luck. May StarClan look upon your first gathering with smiling faces.”

With a bit of effort, Antstar leapt onto the rock. He was surprised at how smooth the summit was- as if generations of pawsteps had carved it.

“Greetings, Antstep.” Tulipstar bowed her head.

Currantstar, however, looked a tad more confused. “Have Shalestar and Rainleap taken ill? I wouldn’t expect Shalestar to skip a Gathering. That old workhorse would go even in downpour…”

Antstar stammered. “I…”

He looked to Whitetooth for a second, who gave him an encouraging nod. He then looked to the other leaders. Their eyes felt like hot coals launching towards him.

But he would have to say it now.

“…Shalestar and Rainleap both passed away this prior moon.”

A sudden commotion hit the Gathering. Cats of the other Clans looked to their WindClan acquaintances in shock; WindClan simply nodded their heads and sighed.

“Both of them? How?” Pigeonstar’s eyes narrowed as his face twisted itself from comprehension into a scowl.

“On the way back from the last Gathering, there was an accident involving a monster. Shalestar appointed me as deputy in his stead-“ -he shot a quick glance into the crowd, seeking approval- “-and he passed away of illness not long after. We in WindClan mourn them both greatly, and have spent the past moon grieving for them.”

Pigeonstar, however, looked unconvinced. “How do we know you didn’t kill them?”

Antstar felt ill, unsheathing his claws to keep himself from falling off the Great Rock from dizziness. But the SkyClan leader continued, fashioning himself the great detective. “For all we know, you could have killed Rainleap, made it look like an accident, have Shalestar elect you as deputy, and then kill him, too!” He drew his lips in a snarl. “And it doesn’t help that cats of your kind don’t become WindClan leader so easy.”

But then, Currantstar stepped forward. “Many of us in ShadowClan are not Clan-born, like Antstar here. One of my medicine cats, Rosettepelt, is among them, and she is one of the most gifted healers we know.” He advanced forward towards Pigeonstar, his gaze steady and stern. “So if you want to remain on positive terms with us, I suggest you watch it.”

Pigeonstar seemed as if he were about to say something, but reason got the better of him.

“Furthermore, my friends,” started Whitetooth from the medicine cat crowd, “I can assure you that Antstar speaks truth. I prepared both bodies and aided Shalestar in his final hours. As he lay dying, he was content with his choice in Antstep.”

There was a low murmur throughout the Gathering discussing the death of the old leader. Even though Antstar tried not to, he bent his ears towards the crowd to get a better listen.

“Well,” said Pigeonstar, “we have no proof he didn’t kill Shalestar, now, do we?”

Currantstar and Tulipstar looked unconvinced as they looked over the Burmese tom in front of them. “You realize Antstar was Shalestar’s own apprentice, Pigeonstar,” added Tulipstar dryly. “And Shalestar took quite the liking to him.”

Tatteredstar of ThunderClan, however, was studying him, very very deeply, like she was inspecting the double barrel of a rifle she was about to stuff with gunpowder. Finally, she stepped back. The massive molly sat down, her expression unchanged as always.

“I don’t think the boy killed Shalestar.” She spoke in a thick ThunderClan drawl. “But we shouldn’t underestimate him.” She paused, as if she was taking the moment to rehearse her thoughts to herself. “He’s got killer between his eyes.”

Killer in his eyes. Antstar felt unsettled. Killer? What does she mean? And why-

But the other leaders simply seemed to nod, as if a silent agreement had been reached that they shouldn’t further push Antstar.

Perhaps they all had killers dancing in their eyes.

Pigeonstar seemed to back off, although he didn’t look pleased.

“Is there any other news in WindClan to report?” asked Tulipstar.

“…There is nothing else to report.”

Antstar stepped back, and Tatteredstar began to prepare herself to speak. Tatteredstar’s mere presence alone made Antstar feel weaker. Tatteredstar was an almighty oak; massive, muscular, battle-scarred and a pillar of her Clan, he was a mere dandelion, who bent over and crumpled in the slightest breeze, beside her. Having a good look at her didn’t help. He saw more scars on her now than he ever had before- across her face, across her flank, even down her legs. Her claws were off-white and long, jutting out from the tufts of fur betwixt her toes, and while her fur was generally well-groomed, a mat or two seemed just under the surface in the ruff of fur around her neck. She had two bottom fangs that stuck out; they had yellowed in their years of exposure and her bottom lip seemed to have shaped itself around them. Her tail was short, compared to her body, and it would not surprise Antstar if she had lost part of it in the throes of battle. Her big, yellow eyes, which were surrounded by oily discharge that discolored her fur, seemed to both stare into the horizon and at whatever was in front of her at once.

“ThunderClan has been doing well this past moon. We extend our condolences to WindClan for their loss of Shalestar,” she began. “He was leader alongside me for many years. We had our disagreements, but I held the tom in high regard, as I am sure all of us do.”

Shalestar and Tatteredstar had been the two oldest leaders, Antstar recalled. She had been leader for about twelve seasons by the time Shalestar ascended, and while the two didn’t interact much and had their differences, there was an air of respect between the two.

Antstar recalled how hollow-looking and feeble Shalestar had appeared in death. Tatteredstar, however, had no sign of slowing down. He wondered how she managed to do it.

“We have been lucky to have had two healthy litters of kits born into our Clan. Sleetwhisker has given birth to two mollies, Vinekit and Shrikekit; and Sootspots has given birth to four toms and a molly, Mothkit, Fogkit, Stumpkit, Cedarkit, and Clawkit. In addition, Foxbriar is set to give birth to her kits within the next quarter-moon. We will have our paws very full… and it will also mean we will have more mouths to feed.” She shot a pointed glance at Tulipstar.

“Also- in addition- there was an attempted uprising by a ThunderClan cat named Rosefire.” The Gathering crowds pricked their ears- Rosefire was a cat who had been known by many for his friendly nature and how he disliked Tatteredstar and her deputy, Eelwhisker. He was a very vocal cat, and would often joke about starting genuine rebellion against them in order to pursue a dream of all five clans being united. Many thought he was a tad extreme, of course, but he was generally well-liked.

But Tatteredstar never minced words. “The so-called uprising was over as soon as it began. I dealt with Rosefire. You will not be seeing him again.”

There was a stunned silence.

It was only then that it really struck Antstar what cat he was dealing with. The matter of Rosefire, to Tatteredstar, was not a personal matter, and there was not a look of cruelty, resentment, or even annoyance in the ThunderClan leader’s yellow eyes. Rosefire had intruded on ThunderClan’s safety, and Tatteredstar had dispatched him. It began and ended there.

And then, Tatteredstar stepped back. “ThunderClan has nothing more to report.”

After what seemed like forever, Currantstar stepped up to speak. “ShadowClan has spent the moon recuperating after the fire we reported at the last Gathering. We are, again, very lucky that it did not affect us too harshly. Besides that, we have no new news to report; we are deeply sorry for WindClan’s loss of Shalestar and Rainleap.”

As soon as he had begun, he had ended. Antstar admired his charisma, his charm, the way he looked like a sculpture; Currantstar was a perfect leader.

And he had become leader so young, too. He and Antstar were about the same age, after all.

If he can do it, and be a perfect leader, I can do it, too…

“We have been experiencing difficulties with rogues on SkyClan territory,” Pigeonstar announced. “I suspect this is the same group that has been bothering RiverClan territory. However, we have fought them off successfully,” he said. He was very pointed with his words. “In addition, two of our apprentices became warriors- Bumbleshade and Silverskip.”

There was a round of cheer for the two freshly-graduated warriors. Pigeonstar then backed away, and Tulipstar, the very small white molly with ginger splotches, at long last took the stage.

“We are continuing to deal with the rogues on our territory. We have started to drive them off, but it’s a tough process. Just this moon alone we have had to deal with the untimely deaths of Yellowstripe and Sleekwater, and our resources are running dry. However, there is hope. Oatwhisker became a warrior this month, and one of our mollies gave birth to two fine young kits, Magpiekit and Frondkit.”

The little white-and-orange molly kept a steady eye on Tatteredstar- giving a clear implication about how much she wanted Sunningrocks. Their agreement would run out by the next Gathering- and, by the looks of it, Tulipstar had every intention to keep the territory.

Slowly, the gathering would down like a spring-powered toy. SkyClan was the first to leave; then ThunderClan, and then ShadowClan, until only WindClan and RiverClan were left. Antstar would have left earlier, but he still felt dizzy and his head felt sore from sheer mental pressure.

“Are you alright?”

He turned and looked down to see Tulipstar. She looked… genuinely concerned, or at least as genuinely as Antstar could convince himself another leader could be.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, as reluctance tried to keep his lips locked together.

“…You sounded nervous. I get it. Don’t fear the other leaders; they’re really not as scary as they like to make themselves out to be.” She thought on her words for a moment. “Well, except for Tatteredstar.”

“…What is it to you?” Antstar backed away slowly. Did she want something out of him? Then he doubled back in his mind- what if that sounded too rude, and now she was mad with him?

“Antstar, relax. I was especially close with your mentor and predecessor, Shalestar. We were very good friends, and under our allyship our two Clans were very close. I would like to continue that partnership with you.”

RiverClan had been friendly with WindClan for at least as long as Shalestar and Tulipstar had led them both. Slowly, Antstar let his guard down, correcting his posture so he didn’t look so hunched over.

“I would like to continue it, as well.”

“Great,” she said. She smiled, and Antstar could see how middle age had made her face look bony and her dimples more noticeable. “Besides- I was in a very similar scenario to where you are now, when I became leader.”

Antstar sat up in disbelief. Perhaps he wasn’t alone! Perhaps someone, somewhere out there… someone might just understand! “You… you became leader the same way?”

“Similarly. I mean- there weren’t as many accusations as you had to face from Pigeonstar, that joyless rat, because both my parents were RiverClan and the previous leader’s death wasn’t exactly a private occasion.” She leaned in, her jade eyes wide. “Did you hear about how I came to be leader, Antstar?”

Antstar shook his head.

“I feel you will find it very similar to your situation. The leader before me was a tom named Boarstar.”

Antstar remembered hearing of a Boarstar in nursery tales when he was a kit. Everyone knew him as a leader who had died in a battle he himself had started, but Antstar had not heard much of what he was like beyond that.

“Boarstar was very, very young when he rose to power, younger than you by a few seasons. He was a mean thing. Always picking fights with ThunderClan and WindClan, always on the attack. He was a serial womanizer and deeply narcissistic. Not many of us liked him much. He placed his brother, Oakbelly- who shared every ideal with him- as his deputy, and the two wreaked havoc on RiverClan. Boarstar lost his lives quite quickly because of all the battles he started…”

“So how did he choose you?”

“I honestly don’t think he did. We were in the midst of a battle with ThunderClan in their camp, and Oakbelly was fighting some ThunderClan cat while trying to get to the nursery. As he was taunting them, he made a miscalculation- and the ThunderClan cat shredded his belly open. And now, you know I and ThunderClan do not get along, but…” She smirked.

“And Boarstar?”

“Boarstar was filled with more rage than his namesake as he saw his brother bleed out… So he ran right to Tatteredstar herself and attacked her. She and him went one-on-one. It was a quick battle. I didn’t see much of it, but in the glimpse of his death that I got from the other side of their camp, she was clamping down on his head with her paws, crushing his skull.”

Antstar grimaced.

“The next thing I knew, the medicine cat rushed up to me and asked if I could take the mantle of leadership, telling me it was what Boarstar wanted in his last moments. In hindsight, it was probably the last thing he wanted, and the medicine cat was the one who made the decision. But it was my duty to my Clan, and so, I became leader. I cannot say the road of leadership has been an easy one, or a gentle one. But I want to be the cat for you who I wished was there for me.”

Antstar stepped towards her. “You mean, you’re going to help me?”

“I can’t lead for you, Antstar. Only you know your people. But I will be here as your mentor in leadership. Our Clans will be close. Feel free to ask me if you need help, and I will do my best to be there. It’s what Shalestar would have wanted.”

Antstar’s shoulders felt lighter. Someone out there was on his side!

“Trufflepelt, organize RiverClan so we can leave.” A tall, gaunt cinnamon tabby tom, twice the height of his leader, stood at the end of the hollow as the trademark plump bodies and shimmering pelts of RiverClan surrounded him. Pebblesky, RiverClan’s medicine cat, receded into the crowd, leaving Whitetooth and Marblepaw alone. They disappeared into the forests, southward; towards the faint smell of freshwater that beckoned from their territory.

Antstar stood alone on the rock for a moment. It was smooth, cold; almost calming now that the other Clans had left. He looked above and saw the leaves of the great oaks shiver above him; and a sky full of stars, who all blinked and winked as they stared upon him.

He heard pawsteps behind him, and turned to see the familiar face of Whitetooth, staring him in that inquisitive way they always did. “Are you alright, my leader?”

“…Yeah.” Antstar didn’t break eye contact as he stared at the stars above him.

“...You’ll get used to it,” Whitetooth added.

“I know.”

And then, after a further moment, Antstar left the Great Rock, where Russetfoot was already organizing WindClan to go home. Whitetooth followed, and then Marblepaw, and away they went, into the night.

“He did terribly,” said Sparkthistle dismissively as soon as the Gathering group got back.

“It couldn’t be that bad,” said Houndnose, a tortoiseshell tabby-and-white permaqueen, who emerged from the nursery with two of Cherrycloud’s kits clamping themselves onto her fur like a pair of bread clips.

“Oh, he made the biggest ass of himself- which is saying something because Pigeonstar was there.” The ginger molly rolled her eyes. “You really hate to see it. I’m astonished Rainleap hasn’t unearthed himself with all the spinning he must be doing in that grave!”

“Don’t talk that way about my brother!” growled Stripedwing, who was just outside the nursery. The gray tabby molly, who was visibly pregnant, had been inspecting the nursery while the gathering group was gone.

But Sparkthistle simply groaned and sauntered off, as if she was annoyed at Stripedwing for not liking the joke.

Antstar passed by the nursery, and something bit his foot. He looked down to see Brindlekit, a little tortoiseshell, gnawing at his toes. “Got you now, ThunderClan rat!” she squeaked.

“Brindlekit, that’s our leader!” said a ginger tabby tom-kit, panicked- but with a slight edge of authority. But Brindlekit, pugnacious as ever, simply pounced onto her brother, and the two began to wrestle. Eventually, Cherrycloud- her ginger coat near identical to the one of the little tom-kit- pried them apart. “Brindlekit, be nice to Antstar. Rosekit, it’s my job to parent her, not you.”

“Antstar! Antstar!” cried another ginger kit, who pushed her way out of the nursery between Houndnose and Cherrycloud. “Didja see Tatteredstar?”

“Is she really the size of a dog? That’s’ what Amberkit told me!” added a tiny solid black tom next to her. “…She’s big. Definitely one of the biggest cats I’ve seen. But not that big.”

The black tom-kit looked smugly at Amberkit, who seemed flustered that her descriptions weren’t accurate. But they had more questions to ask.

“Do the RiverClan cats really smell like fish?” “I heard ShadowClan eats frogs!” “Can Tatteredstar really kill a rat just by looking at them?” “Is the RiverClan medicine cat really secretly from ThunderClan?”

Antstar felt bombarded, but he still tried to answer each question. “They kind of do… they do eat frogs, but they seem fine with it… I don’t know, but she is scary… She is, and it’s not much of a secret, both Clans agreed to it…”

Cherrycloud gave a motion to the two kits, and they silenced themselves. “I’m sorry if they’re being a bother to you, Antstar,” she said apologetically.

“Oh, it’s no bother,” Antstar said. “They’re the next generation of warriors, after all.”

“Patchkit, would you like to say hi?” Cherrycloud asked to a little tortoiseshell, similar in shape and appearance to Brindlekit, who clung next to her. Patchkit gave Antstar a small glance and then buried herself further into her mother’s fur.

“She’s very shy and anxious,” Cherrycloud said. “We hope she’ll step out of her shell a little more soon.”

Antstar recalled he had been a similar way, as a kit. He recalled the permaqueen who had nursed him- a kind, pleasant molly who had passed away a few seasons ago from a wound infection- had a conversation with him about how he was then.

“You were a shy little thing. Very quiet, very meek. But when we were alone, you’d do these little tricks- kneading the ground, cuddling up to clumps of moss and cotton. It was cute, but… it was weird. It was like you were putting on a show for approval. And maybe it was coincidence- but sometimes it felt like you knew what you were trying to do.”

Antstar had thought about that a lot, since he had became leader.

“Oh,” Cherrycloud added, “and I’m sorry for how my sister, Sparkthistle, has been acting recently. We don’t talk much anymore. I will never understand why she has such a bug up her tail about everything... She should mellow down soon, I hope.”

She picked up Patchkit and went back into the nursery, with Houndnose alongside her and her other kits soon following. Antstar soon found himself alone again outside the nursery, the pale moon giving everything a glow. He saw Sparkthistle from across the clearing. The ginger tabby, her teeth in a permanent scowl, made brief eye contact with him before turning away into the warriors’ den.

Antstar worried. What if they began to believe her? What if she’s not an outlier- but an early critic? What if she turns the Clan on him? What if-

Something white caught his eye, and he turned to see Whitetooth, watching him from the edge of the medicine cat on the far side of camp.

He couldn’t fully read their face, but they had the glint in their eye of someone with an answer.

#warrior cats #warrior cats ocs #story

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charlthotte · 4 years ago

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Breaking Through the Iron Wall - Aone Takanobu x Reader

Chapter 17

In an instant, I sprung up from my bed - no longer tired. "I'm coming." I stated, immediately changing into to some more appropriate clothes than the pyjamas I was wearing at the time.

Speeding down the stairs, I grabbed a hold of my coat, while clumsily fumbling with the laces of my shoes. My dad seemed to be disturbed by the humungous racket I was causing, standing at the summit of the stairs, tiredly rubbing his eyes, his voice raspy from being abruptly woken up. He must have noticed the panicked expression on my face, understanding the situation rather quickly – giving me a sullen smile, “I’m proud of you, kiddo. Come back when you’re ready.” He said, waving me off with a sleepy hand.

I hastily locked the door behind me, almost running down the street – even though the moonlight barely lit up the pavements before me. Even after squinting to try to get my eyes to adjust to the lack of light – I could hardly see a thing; but even so, my legs carried me the whole way to Takanobu’s house, as if they were being called towards it.

Someone must have kept the front door open for my sake, as I had no trouble in opening it. Trying my best to make as little noise as possible as I stepped over the threshold into the house, I laid my eyes upon the scene on the living room’s floor. Both Ejiri and Takanobu were sprawled out on the carpet, either side of Shiro – both of their pairs of eyes brimming with abundances of tears, with some already cascading down their faces.

Somehow, Shiro appeared even more sickly than the last time I had seen him, his hair much sparser, his bones protruding more than before, his eyes glistening with a type of pain I had never seen before – pleading for a sense of relief that no one could grant him.

Underneath Takanobu’s eyes sat sunken bags, the pallor of a bruise. His expression sullen, sapped and unchanging – seemingly exhausted from being far too anxious to sleep. His cheeks were gaunter, parodying those of a malnourished child – it was obvious that he hadn’t been eating either – too internally turmoiled to do anything.

Whimpering and cowering on the floor, Shiro began gasping frantically for whatever air he could fathom – the colossal amounts of anguish he was experiencing reverberating from his frail self.

I couldn’t help but run straight towards him, beside the broken figure of Takanobu, whose eyes were shining with a stinging shade of red. Collapsing onto the floor, I ran my hand over Shiro’s back, feeling unnerved by each of his vertebrae jutting outwards. I tried my best to console his cries, softly telling him that everything would be okay. But I wasn’t really saying that to Shiro, I knew, in reality, that I was actually uttering them to solace he who sat to my side.

Almost instantly, Takanobu’s head fell down onto my shoulder, immediately letting himself go – as if all the sorrow and trepidation he had been bottling up inside were tumbling outwards. First, he lightly sobbed onto me, his breath hitching slightly, then, he began blubbering and weeping as if it was his last day on Earth – which, being frank, was probably exactly how he felt.

In a matter of minutes, his grieving grew so intense that he struggled to intake oxygen, with his face still buried in my shoulder, lamentation taking control of his body. Gingerly, I raised my hand until it sat atop his hair, gently caressing it while I let it swirl and run around my fingers. He almost seemed to sink at my touch, his shoulders releasing the tension they were holding, the pressure inside of him completely fizzling out. For the time being…

While Takanobu nestled into my shoulders further, he never let his eyes leave his companion laid on the floor – who has quickly losing his grasp on the living world. By his side, Ejiri sighed with an undertone of unease laced into her expression – and from my inference, I knew exactly what she was thinking.

I tenderly nudged my shoulder that Takanobu laid on, signalling to him that Shiro’s end was right in front of our faces. As he rose, he took a deep breath of reassurance to himself that he could get through it. Without a second thought, he scooped Shiro up delicately in his arms, careful not to move in any way that could potentially cause him any discomfort.

Sentimentally, he smiled at his friend, perhaps reminiscing about past times they spent together, the times when the spindly fingers of death weren’t looming down upon their lives. Takanobu cradled the frail form in his arms, rocking him at a steady, gentle rhythm – stroking his fur with an extremely light touch.

Slowly but surely, Shiro’s panting for air became truly exasperated – the agony from the lack of it clawing and scrabbling at his throat – the whimpers exiting from his mouth cutting through the atmosphere in an excruciating manner. He writhed around in Takanobu’s arms, the pure hurt overriding everything else around him – burning every single nerve in his body, as if he was being stabbed by white-hot knives.

And suddenly, a stagnant plateau ripped through the air, no longer was Shiro struggling for breath, no longer was he writing around in absolute agony, but somehow he still hung on, clinging onto his last thread of life. Feeling despaired, Takanobu lovingly stroked his dog’s head for the last time, savouring the feeling of his warmth for the final minute, smiling down at him for the final moment. Just as he murmured his last ‘Goodbye’, was when Shiro spluttered – the last of his existence trailing out from his body.

He was dead.

Gone.

The air fell reticent, no one dared to say a single word. Instead, Takanobu dropped to his knees, still clutching onto the newly deceased corpse of Shiro, burying his face into his fur; sobbing as if his world had ended. Which was probably the figurative truth for him.

“Why… Why… Why… Why… Why…” Takanobu uttered meekly, falling into a pit of tremendous grief.

Sensing his distraught state, Ejiri shuffled towards him, prying Shiro’s lifeless body from his arms – having to put a substantial amount of effort in to do so. She smiled solemnly at her nephew, brushing her hand along his bicep, telling him that now was the time to let go of the corpse of his truest friend – who once was everything to him. But now, he was nothing more than a gradually waning memory.

Eventually, Takanobu gave in, cautiously handing Shiro over into the arms of Ejiri, a distraught look upon his face. He shakily raised his hands up to his chest, winding them around each other, each hand grasping onto the other – pressing them into his torso, his face contorting from overwhelming emotions.

Ejiri softly spoke from out of the blue, “I think you should say goodbye now, Takanobu.” Setting Shiro down on the sofa, wrapping him in a blanket acting in the role of a shroud.

Takanobu knelt on the floor nest to the sofa, hesitantly uncovering the fabric from Shiro’s face, cupping it in one of his hands – beginning to blubber at the sight of his former pet’s eyes glazed over, “Thank you, Shiro,” He began, pushing back his tears. “You were always there to make me smile – even when I felt like I couldn’t. When I felt like I had no one to turn to, you were there, always. When I felt like the whole world was against me, I was never truly alone. Even though we never spoke, you taught me that there was good in this world – and for all of that, thank you, goodbye.” He paused, wiping his eyes, while swiftly glancing up at me, “And, I love you.”

I froze when he said that, even if those words weren’t directed at me, they still resonated within me, as if… I wanted to hear them.

After saying my short farewell to Shiro, Ejiri bundled the shrouded corpse in her arms – finally taking it away, presumably to the crematorium. A distant look of longing reflected in Takanobu’s eyes as he watched his aunt carry the bundle to the car. Looking at him in that agony made my heart burn, so I immediately guided him to the sofa, setting him down so he lay against it, letting his head loll against the cushions, having no energy to use his strength to keep it held upright.

I pushed myself upwards, heading towards the kitchen in order to prepare a glass of water for the wreck in the living room. After placing it down on the coffee table, trying to stir up as little commotion as possible – I hopped placidly onto the sofa, crossing my legs, directly behind where Takanobu rested his head. But rather than rise to quench his thirst from unrelenting mourning, instead he gazed straight at me, the nape of his neck upon the edge of the sofa. His eyes were glazed over with a sheen of unadulterated hurt – but there was something behind them – just the way he looked at me… It was so bittersweet.

I couldn’t help but stroke his hair, letting the crisp, white blades run passed and around my fingers, while giving his scalp a small massage. A small, earnest smile cracked from his lips – the left side of them curling upwards like it always did. Releasing a sombre sigh, he let a single tear roll down his cheek; and as if by instinct, I reached over to his face to wipe it away, as if I didn’t want his melancholy to sully him – as if I wanted him to stay okay, at least – for which I was truly desperate for.

Chuckling mirthlessly, Takanobu gruffly spoke, his voice damaged from persistently grieving, “Thank you, (Y/N). From the bottom of my heart, honestly, I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t stayed with me, even though… You deserve so much more than me. You’re one of the kindest people I’ve met – if not the kindest. You mean so much to me.” His face crumpled with tears, which I soon wiped away, assuring him that I was still there, and always would be – no matter the time of day.

“No, Takanobu, thank you. You have been nothing but the paragon of a friend, since the first day we met. And even if you feel as though you haven’t done enough to ‘deserve’ me, you should know that that isn’t true at all. Not one bit. You mean so much to me, too – you really have no idea” I replied, smiling fondly while caressing Takanobu’s cheek with my thumb, wiping away any tears that continued to fall.

Without saying another word, Takanobu outstretched his arm, tenderly placing his hand upon my own, rubbing his thumb comfortingly over the back of my hand – staring straight into my eyes while smiling serenely – his pupils heavily dilated, despite the more than adequate amount of light in the room.

I don’t remember how much time we spent in that position – our hands and eyes intertwined with his head very nearly resting in my lap – but I do now that a small eternity passed before Ejiri returned from the crematorium, the house one soul shorter. But when she walked through the door, Takanobu abruptly removed my palm from his grasp and diverting his line of sight. Wringing his hands together in his lap, he stared down at the floor – quite obviously flustered.

Clearing her throat, Ejiri broke the newly awkward silence, “Do you two want anything to eat? We don’t want you to go to sleep with an empty stomach, now do we?” She smiled, walking over to the kitchen, her usual pep in her step having disappeared, yet she still kept up her cheery front, as if she felt unable to break in front of her nephew.

Takanobu nodded in affirmation, still not looking up from the ground. “Is there anything you would like, my dear?” She asked, turning to me from across the way.

“Oh no, I really don’t mind.” I responded.

“Do tell me if you change your mind though, darlings.” She averred, turning to the cupboards to find the ingredients to whatever she planned to make.

Little time had come before Ejiri placed three bowls upon the dining table, each one brimming with a steaming soup – they smelled delicious.

However, after I sat down to indulge in the small meal, I entirely lost my appetite, even though it looked rather appetising. The same could seem to be said about Takanobu, who was feverishly trying to force the soup down his throat, much to no avail, as he began heaving at the food in his mouth. Desperately, he scampered to the bathroom with his hand clamped over his mouth. Immediately and without a single second of hesitation, both Ejiri and I rushed to the bathroom door, which had been strangely locked from the inside.

Ejiri softly wrapped her knuckles against the wood, asking to be let in, trying to raise her voice above the sickening sound of Takanobu’s retching. But there was no reply from him. So, I decided to ask if I could be let in the bathroom, to which my request was granted.

Closing the door behind me, leaving Ejiri at the other side of the threshold – instantly dropping to Takanobu’s side while rubbing his back while he clung to the toilet’s lid, violently throwing up. The sight before me was truly agonising to look at, especially since Takanobu had hardly consumed a thing that day.

Takanobu eyes watered in agony from the absolute discomfort of regurgitating a highly acidic substance – he pushed through the uneasiness, trying to push out dialogue, “I’m sorry, (Y/N). You shouldn’t have so see this.” He croaked in between the constant heaves.

“I really don’t care about that, Takanobu. What matters now, is that I’m here with you.” I smiled, “Just take your time.”

He glanced at me through the side of his eyes, his vision moving up and down my person – his eyelids drooping from overexertion – smiling with a nature that I couldn’t quite pinpoint.

Quite some time passed before the ailing wretch before me curtailed his vomiting, but after he did, the only noticeable aspect of him was his pure enervation – his entire frame collapsing onto mine, the added weight nearly toppling me over. I tried to steady the both of us, clumsily striving to lead him over to his bed – which required quite the amount of vigour.

As soon as I deposited him upon his bed, it seemed as though he completely passed out from heightened fatigue – however, I was deeply mistaken. Just as I was about to leave to slumber on the sofa downstairs, Takanobu firmly grasped onto my wrist, preventing my exit, “Stay... Please…” He tiredly rasped.

Pausing in my tracks, I turned back around – setting myself down on the carpet, leaning towards him – gazing at his sleepy figure. “I could stay on the floor, if you’d like?” I whispered serenely.

Sluggishly, he shook his head, gulping before he spoke, “Could you stay here, with me? I don’t want to be alone tonight.” His eyes shining hopefully in the dimly illuminated air.

“Oh…” I said in shock, as a reflex to his question.

Takanobu peered off to the side sheepishly, “Only if that’s okay with you, of course.”

I cupped his face, encouraging him to look at me directly. Noticing his expression had been greatly saddened, I couldn’t find the heart to refuse his request. “I’ll stay with you.” I chuckled, “Just scoot over a bit.”

Without hesitation, I clambered into his bed, expecting the encounter to be deeply awkward. But to my pleasant surprise, it was nothing of the sort.

Almost immediately, Takanobu wrapped both of his arms around me tightly, as if he couldn’t stand to let me go, nuzzling his chin into the top of my head. Exhaling calmly, I let all of my previous stress and discomfort depart my body, until my mood was nothing but mellow. In his arms, even though I had no way to move, I felt right at home.

It took little time for Takanobu to fall right into the depths of torpor, his breathing calming considerably as it managed to make every single hair on my body stand on end. But while he lay in his stupor, almost like a reflex, one of his hands made its way towards my own, our fingers intertwining like a perfectly clad jigsaw. At any other time, I would have felt utterly smothered, but there was something there… Something in the way he clung to me, his touch still remaining as gentle as a collector handling their porcelain doll.

A hammering beat rang through my ears, my heart thrumming out of control – I tried to assure myself that my flustered state could be chalked down to nothing more than the sudden contact. But I didn’t let that thought trouble me for too long, instead relaxing into the warm embrace of Takanobu’s body. Soon, every tension in me released itself, unwinding each of their unrelenting grips from around me – coercing me into the pits of slumber.

Despite the heart wrenching turn of events of that day and the day to come, that night was perhaps the best sleep of my life – dreaming of being cast into a field adorned by an abundance of romantically red tulips, much like a field I remember from my childhood back in Hokkaido, frolicking around without a care in the world. However, something about that field felt strikingly new, as if there was something major to be discovered there.

As I woke, my eyelids fluttering, adapting to the morning sunlight – I was met with a pair of eyes gazing straight into mine, pupils dilated greatly. Sheepish, they became upon realising that their watching session had been uncovered. Immediately, Takanobu shot up from his lying position, springing backwards awkwardly. Perplexed by his sudden display of discomfiture, I sleepily raised my eyebrows. “Sorry.” Was all he replied.

“You don’t need to apologise.” I softly spoke, reaching my hand forward to clasp onto his – caressing my thumb over his knuckles. With his knees tucked beneath his chin, he spun his head towards me, casting a somewhat adoring glance my way – tightening his grasp around his hand as if he would never let go.

I too sat up, taking my place beside Takanobu, not once releasing my hand from his – resting my head on his shoulder, warm and secure – with him, in due time, laying his head upon my own. He didn’t have to say anything for me to know the pain he was in – even if his stoic expression had barely a crack in it.

We stayed in that position until Ejiri knocked on the door, calling us downstairs for breakfast, even if Takanobu’s appetite had yet to return. By the time I had finished my plate of comestibles, there was barely even a dint in his, the gargantuan lump in his throat preventing him from ingesting anything. I couldn’t tell what part of him would break first.

As Takanobu and I lay on the sofa, our hands intertwined still – Ejiri having left for her shift at work – he proposed the idea of inviting Futakuchi over to the house, and of course I couldn’t deny a broken man.

Less than fifteen minutes after calling him, Futakuchi arrived at the door, devoid of his trademark smirk, as well as a snarky remark, for the time being…

Just as he hung his coat up, he made perhaps the worst timed quip he had ever made, “So what are you two doing here alone?” He inquired, oblivious to the events of the previous night.

Straight away, I shot him a deadly glare, “Kenji.” I scorned, not in the mood for entertaining one of his jests. That being the first time I had called him by his given name, he was immensely taken aback, but I wasn’t completely sure why. Was it the fact I had called him by his first name, or the fact that someone had shot him down from his pedestal and into the mud.

“Ohhh…” He said in shock, realising how distasteful his statement was, “God, I’m so sorry, Takanobu, I really didn’t realise.”

Takanobu shook his head to show he wasn’t fazed by what Futakuchi has insensitively spoke – but I knew that wasn’t genuine dismissal, at all.

A few moments of awkward silence passed by before the shattered boy broke it, “Kenji, can we talk?” Takanobu queried, while twiddling his thumbs around one another.

“Sure…” Kenji replied, curiously – seemingly endeavouring to the infer the subject of the coming conversation before it arrived. But just before they left for Takanobu’s bedroom, he turned to me, “Hey, your highness… The hour seems to rather adequate to that in which civilised people would dine, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, Futakuchi – it is lunchtime.” I sighed.

“So, Takanobu and I were wondering… Could you perhaps prepare us a fine dining experience of some lavish kuri kinton? It’s my here friend’s very favourite food in the entire world. For him, of course.” He acquiesced, guiding Takanobu up the stairs before either him or I had the chance to reply.

For Takanobu.

Luckily, I knew the basic recipe for kuri kinton, nothing special – I hoped my making it would at least encourage him to eat.

All the ingredients were conveniently hidden around the kitchen, allowing for a stress-free preparation, for the most part. I believed that everything was flowing absolutely swimmingly, until I somehow managed to set the smoke alarm off while boiling the sweet potatoes. Deafening were the alarm’s whines.

Frantically, I attempted to turn it off, beginning to panic. But just as I was about to turn the alarm’s sensor off temporarily, a wide-eyed Futakuchi came careening down the stairs, his face screaming the epitome of dread. He ran over to the switch, managing to turn it off before I could, acting as if he saved the house from a crisis, his smirk as broad as ever. Little did I know, the crisis had already been set into motion.

Kenji joined me in the kuri kinton’s preparation – resulting in a merely adequate meal. Holding the steaming plate in my hand, I wrapped my knuckles upon the door to Takanobu’s room waiting to be let in. There was no reply – just silence. Nervously, Futakuchi and I stepped into his room in tandem, only for it to be completely devoid of his presence. My heart dropped.

I motioned over to the bathroom door, noticing the lock latched tight. We both pressed our ears against the wood, hearing a faint whimpering behind it. My body froze, dropping the plate of kuri kinton all over the floor, the plate crashing with a shuddering clank.

I knew exactly what was happening, and it hurt… so much.

And in that moment I realised exactly why that pain I felt was so immense. It was because…

I loved him.

#aone #aone takanobu #aone x y/n #aone x reader #aone takanobu x reader #aone takanobu x y/n #haikyuu!!#haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #aone x gn!reader

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seeds-and-sins · 5 years ago

Text

Something Special

Pairing: Vaas Montenegro / Reader

Rating: T (Strong language, violence)

Description: You find out Vaas is actually a pirate lord, he makes a deal with you in promising to keep your friends alive and safe...

You didn't know what it was about him. There was something off, but you just couldn't put your finger on it. It wasn't the scar that spanned the side of his head, nor the unruly Mohawk, or the blank stares. No. It couldn't have been the dirty wraps around his fingers, or the way he spoke, or the rough pads of his thumbs. No, not any of those things. It must had been something though, as your friends pulled you around the island, the strange tour guide in tow. It must had been something. Even your friends knew it, before arriving on the island, Tony warned that the guide was a bit rough around the edges, that we should all keep our distance. No. You couldn't keep your distance from this particular stranger, no indeed.

While the others all had their bathroom breaks, you held your bladder for the sake of being alone with said person. He considered you with that same fixed stare, something akin to a pout sitting on his lips, arms crossed. You crossed your own arms, mocking him to some extent. It was a silent exchange. You smirked at him, then came closer, even as he shifted his back towards you. You slid around, closer even, knowing that if your friends were nearby they would certainly disapprove. You stared, gazed, narrowed your eyes every now and again, focused on his features. When you came close enough his eyes widened at the proximity, and his lips parted as if to say something. Hand snatching your own with snake like speed, just as your fingers tenderly caressed over his scar.

"You're playing with fire, hermana." His grip was tight, but not painfully so. His voice didn't quite reach the way his eyes analyzed you with curiosity, no intent to follow through with his indirect threat.

"How did you get it?" You asked, and he released your wrist, turning his back to you again. You were surprised he would turn his back to anyone, but you figured he had deduced long before that you were no threat.

"That's none of your business."

"Oh," You shrugged, then nudged your hip into his, he grunted in annoyance and sidestepped away. "Just curious."

"Curiosity can be dangerous, ya'know."

"Only to someone who is afraid of death." His hazel eyes followed you again, before shaking his head and finding anything else but you to busy himself. "Hey, I'm sorry, you just seem pretty cool."

"Pretty cool?" He cocked his head at you, biting his bottom lip in frustration, his fists fell to his sides and he stomped that extra space between you both. Then his face was an inch from yours, a snarl on him, rage in his every huff of a breath.

"Do you even fucking know who I am?" You remained calm, hoping he was all bark and not all bite. "Do you?" He spat.

"Not really," You forced a smile, that was somewhat genuine, but his negative energy was only making you more nervous. "But I would like to..." You cleared your throat, the tip of your bare foot tenderly circling in the wet soil of the jungle floor. "Know who you are." His expression softened, not without the slightest bit of confusion crossing his features. His lips then twitched into a grin of some kind, before he distanced himself from you again, finding a tree to lean back against.

"Oh, hermana, you wouldn't want to know."

"It can't be that bad, what's your name?"

"It doesn't matter." You washed a palm over your lips in deep thought and then finally came to a conclusion.

"If I tell you stuff about me, maybe you can tell me stuff about you." He rolled his eyes, and sighed.

"Why the fuck do you want to know about me? Huh?"

"Well, you're our guide, and um," You didn't want him to know that you thought he was attractive, even the slightest bit exotic and alluring. The tattoos that ran over the taut muscles of his biceps, the baggy sides of his tank top straps, exposing the edges of his toned pectorals, dark chest hairs bordering the neckline of the red, and thick thighs underneath the camo green cargos. "Like I said, I think you are cool."

"You don't know anything about me, how can you say that?"

"Earlier, I saw you tying up some knots on our boat, you know your stuff..." You then pondered another time where the man practically fascinated you. "Then you made that fire for us last night, it took you less than thirty minutes with hardly anything but some sticks and moss. That's not easy." You stepped closer, only for him to flinch slightly at the movement. "And I have to admit, when we climbed the summit you were absolutely ripped. You were ahead of us the whole time." Vaas couldn't hide his amusement, he snorted and shook his head.

"You've been watching me quite a bit then, hermana." He stated, gave you a once over and then stepped towards you, those lengthy arms swinging at his sides. He placed them on his hips when he was close enough to grab you, the very thought excited you. "My name is Vaas."

"Vaas," You nodded, muttering the name under your breath in admiration, you couldn't deny the blush that soon dusted your cheeks. "Thank you for telling me." He licked his lips, and this mischievous nature came about him.

"Just being polite is all, hermosa, who wouldn't want to put a name to the person they are crushing on?" Your jaw dropped and you sputtered out some pathetic response.

"B-But-I-I-" The bushes beside you shoveled and Hunter was leading a trail of your friends back towards you.

"Hey guys, we going to keep going? Or what?" Oh shit! You forgot you really had to pee.

Later that day, the lot of you found yourselves at a waterfall, with a small pond beneath it. And of course, all of your friends wanted to go for a swim. You changed out into your bathing suit, after finding a large rock to change behind with the others. You couldn't explain how excited you were to finally get into some cool water, it was sweltering hot that day on the island. You sprinted to the edge of a smaller cliff that hovered over the lake, and just as you were about to follow the others into the waters below, you paused. You carried your feet up to Vaas, who was leaning against a tree, a cigarette hanging from his lips. His eyes openly eyeing your body again, except this time all too freely.

"Come swim with us." You urged, a hint of laughter bubbling up in your throat. He dragged from the cigarette, slotting it between his fingers and exhaling the smoke as he freed his lips.

"I don't know if your friends would like that so much, sol." You smiled and reached out, grabbing his free hand.

"Come on, I would like it if you did, who cares what they think?" He dropped his head for a moment, then his fingers came to life in your own, tenderly wrapping around yours. He smirked up at you, teeth bright and white, much to your surprise. Especially considering that most of the natives you had crossed paths with so far, didn't seem to have good dental hygiene. He tossed his cigarette at the ground and stepped on it.

"What's your name, chica?"

"(Y/N), why?" You snorted and he released your hand to pull his shirt over his head, revealing the sheets of abs sitting on his toned stomach. His eyes met yours, now hunched over to untie his boots, still holding your gaze.

"So, I can put a name to the person I am crushing on." You smiled so wide, the muscles in your face stung just a little bit, blush creeping up your neck. The blush only reddened further to a point that it was greatly noticed under the shade of the tree, when he unbuckled his pants, a pair of boxers sitting underneath. He stood and closed your jaw shut teasingly, drawing your attention back to his face. "You think this is bad? You're lucky I decided to wear underwear today." He joked, but you weren't sure if he was really joking. Together, the two of you ran, and jumped off the small rock into the waters below.

That night you sat beside Vaas by the fire, much to the distaste of your peers, but you liked Vaas's company more than you could explain. There was definitely something about him, without question, something special, you thought. He pointed out the stars to you in his native tongue, as the both of you strayed from the group along the beach. Your bare feet shuffling in the sand along his bigger boot prints, your hand wrapped around his forearm. You were slightly drunk, but that didn't make his words any less clearer or fascinating. You gripped onto his muscles, grasping more for his touch and warmth as the chilly winds blew through from the shore.

"And that, that one right there, do you see?" In your drunken haze, you thought that standing up on your tip toes would make you see the tiny glowing dot better. Instead, you fell forward into Vaas's arms, he took advantage, nudging his nose against your temple. "I might just name that one after you? Huh?" You laughed, and wrapped your arms under his armpits, nose sniffing at the red tank. It smelled, oddly, of a mix between copper and earth and sweat.

"Can you do that? Name a star after me?" You finally found balance as your hands propped themselves on the creases of Vaas's arms, meeting his steely gaze.

"I can do whatever the fuck I want on my island."

"Your island? Really?" You poked at his chest, feeling his pec tense under the jabbing of your pointer finger. "You are the king here, then?" You were simply playing along, figuring this was just some fantasy world that Vaas had created for himself, that he was introducing you to.

"I am, you think I am joking?" His expression turned stern and serious, eyebrow raised slightly, and his fingers came up to caress your cheek.

"I don't know..." You smiled like a fool, "But if you aren't I am glad you trust my friends and I enough to share it with us." You stumbled back, and twirled around, the wind pushing against your clothes, the stars suiting your natural glow. "Your beautiful, fantastic island." You fell back, giggling over the sound of the thrashing waves and roaring winds. He came up beside you, staring down at you, in this darkness, at this distance, his face was unreadable. He then crouched down beside you, and laid down, arm propping up his head as he gazed down at you.

"And tomorrow you will leave my island?" You turned over, the both of you on your sides, facing one another. You grabbed the green gem of his necklace, fiddled with it as you shyly made eye contact with him.

"I will," You sighed. "But can I tell you a secret?" You closed the short space between your lips, and Vaas reeled back in shock for a moment as you sought his kiss. When you drew away, nervous to see his reaction, you found he was in awe. "I don't want to though." He cupped your cheek, and scooted closer, sand bunching up between your bodies. He tilted his forehead down to press to your own and he smiled. "I wish I could stay here forever." Vaas snorted, fingers trailing down to just under your chin, where he gripped it gently and brought your lips up to meet his.

"Be careful what you wish for, mi sol. You might not like what you recieve." That next day you woke up to a thundering headache and an empty indent in the sand beside you. The sounds of the waves had almost lulled you back into bliss, if it hadn't been for the sounds of screams and shouts in the distance. Your eyes fluttered open and you sat up, the blurry vision subsided to reveal seven specks of black along the white sand, where your friends had set up camp the night before. You immediately jumped to your feet, sprinting as fast as you can, despite the hungover nausea that took you. When you approached, you could finally see your four friends being held at gunpoint, and three men dressed in red, one of them Vaas.

"(Y/N)! Run!" Hunter shouted, protecting Brittany as she clutched behind him. “Get HELP!!! GO!” You ignored them and went straight to Vaas, one of the men almost grabbing you if Vaas hadn't gotten to you first. He pulled you to the side, over the screams and cries of your friends, past the demands of the two gun totting men.

"Vaas, what's going on?! What are you doing?!" You breathed out shakily, adrenaline running through you. He cupped your cheeks and sent you an eerie smile.

"Oh sweet hermosa, I am a pirate lord. This is what I do. I pull stupid Americans onto this island, like your friends, and I ransom them and sell them. It's that simple." He chuckled, turning to get back to what he was doing, as if you weren't with them, as if you had come to the island of your own volition, like you were a separate entity. You gripped his hand and yanked him back to face you, albeit with some struggle.

"But you won't with them, right? You won't." Tears of panic started to slide down your cheeks, uncontrollable, Vaas returned to you, still smirking. His thumbs brushing away the tears on your cheeks, and his smile fell dramatically into a serious glare.

"It's okay, Hermosa. You're safe with me. I am granting you your wish." And he turned away, like you weren't clinging to him like he was your last breath.

"Stop! Wait!" You could see he was getting agitated as he swung back to face you, gripping your shoulders in a vice grip.

"What is it?! What the fuck?!"

"If you do this, I won't forgive you." You said, with more courage than you thought you could muster, with such fierce stubborn determination that you thought Vaas would kill you. He was silent, lips shut tight as he considered whether you were being truthful or not. The sounds of your friends screams intensified and you glanced over to find that one of the men had thrown Ellie to the ground on her face. "Please." Your voice cracked as you begged, lowering your head and closing your eyes in some odd form of prayer, "Please, with all my heart. I won't ever say no, I won't ever reject you, I won't ever leave you, just please." The words came out so naturally, but with such frantic abandon. His silence was borderline deadly, until his grip on your shoulders slackened.

"I won't let them go. They know too much." He said plainly, his hand gripped your chin, raising your eyes to level with his own, yet again.

"WE WON'T SAY ANYTHING!!!" One of them screamed, as those light hazel eyes pierced your soul.

"If you swear to me these things, I will keep them safe and maybe..." You felt relief come over you, because you would gladly do anything for your friends, even swear on the things you told Vaas. "Maybe..." He emphasized, with a strict finger now tapping your nose in playful jest. "We can work something out to set them free." You nodded your head, jumped up into his arms, wrapping them around his neck.

"I swear," You whispered in his ear. "I swear on my star."

Return to Prompts

#vaas montenegro #soft #reader #vaas montenegro x reader #farcry 3 #Imagines #prompts list

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captain-kelli · 5 years ago

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Wayfarer // Fernweh Collection

Wayfarer (n): “a person who travels on foot”

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Type: Challenge // One-Shot // Fernweh Collection

Word Count: 2,093

Summary: With a second lease on life, you and Steve cross off an item on your bucket list in Peru.

Warnings: mention of alcohol

A/N: This outrageously late one-shot is for @wkemeup‘s writing challenge! Congratulations on the milestone, Kas! Thank you for being patient with me while I whipped up the inspiration for this. 💕

Prompt: “You’re going to have to trust me.”

Italics are thoughts

You’ve been dreading this day.

Sure, hiking the Inca Trail has been on your bucket list since forever, but that dream does nothing to ease the pain currently shooting through your calves or replenish the air in your burning lungs.

Dead Woman’s Pass is the highest point on the route to Machu Picchu, its elevation making altitude sickness practically inevitable. To make matters worse, the never-ending stone steps carved centuries ago are unforgivingly steep.

In this moment, you’re cursing yourself for not just taking the train to the ancient Inca citadel like most sane people.

But no, I wanted to earn my adventure.

The morning, though still filled with steps, included a trek through the jungle with lush greens and a raging river. The coca tea fueling your stride, it made for an enjoyable hike

But now your legs feel heavy and every breath is labored. The pair of hiking poles the only thing keeping you upright, you plow forward in an attempt to reach the rest of your group.

And Steve.

Steve, of course, is fine. The former asthmatic has no problem breathing now. The porters, locals who navigate the trail and carry the equipment, watch in awe as he passes even them.

He looks over his shoulder in search of you and then his smile disappears. Close to the summit, he turns around to meet you at the back of the pack. A groan escapes your chest in anticipation of what you’re sure will be a painful pep talk.

To your surprise, he doesn’t say anything when he reaches you. Instead, he silently removes the pack from your shoulders and offers you a water bottle. The absence of the bag’s weight along with a break in the climb offer a much welcomed respite.

“It’s beautiful up here.”

Steve’s positive attitude is refreshing - especially considering you’ve convinced yourself that this was to be your final resting place.

Dead Woman’s Pass, indeed.

Silver linings. The bright side. Steve’s always been an optimist, but retirement has taken it to a whole other level. Ordinarily, it brings you joy. Today, however, he might as well be begging you to throw him off a cliff.

“Uh huh.”

He’s right, of course. The view is stunning. The peaks of the pass catapult into the sky, giant as they tower above you. The dried tall grass paints the valley a golden shade of yellow, the dirt path meandering through it with you and Steve standing in the middle of it all.

“I know you’re tired, but you’re going to have to trust me. The view from up there is worth all of this.”

Steve settles your pack atop the one already on his back and continues his ascent with you falling in alongside him. The tiny rocks on the trail grind against the bottom of your boots while the hot sun rages against your skin. Every last bit of energy you have is spent pushing towards the top.

I didn’t come all the way here just to give up. Not after everything that happened.

Looking ahead, the rest of your group has made it. You’re not far. The immense agony you’ve been feeling is replaced by excitement. Joy. Digging the hiking poles deeper into the ground, the trail moves beneath your feet. Adrenaline courses through your body, aiding your breath. Closer and closer you climb.

And now you’re here.

The top of Dead Woman’s Pass.

Clouds loosely blanket the pale blue sky, their shadows crossing the valley’s floor. Standing in awe of the Earth’s creation, you marvel at the winding trail that brought you here. Looking to your left, you find a smiling Steve.

“I told you.”

It’s so fun when he’s right.

After a few moments spent memorializing the feat with photographs, you, Steve, and the rest of your group start the downward journey to tonight’s camp. It’s another three hours, but the descent is far more forgiving.

When you finally make it down, you drop your gear and head for the meal tent. These group gatherings have become one of the highlights of the journey. Like you, several of them are chasing after old dreams thought lost to the blip and you find fellowship in their company under the Peruvian sky.

At the table, Steve shares stories of his adjustment to the 21st century while you and your new friends compare bucket lists. The meal is filled with laughter, gratitude, and hope for the days to come.

Not long after eating, you decide to sneak in a quick shower. The sweat from the day’s climb is sticking to your skin and you’re acutely aware of the stench reeking from your armpits, so it’s worth the momentary discomfort. The water rushes down from a mountain stream, the cold sending shivers up your spine and raising bumps on your flesh.

Steve likens it to his time spent in the frozen waters of the Arctic.

By the time you and Steve are clean again, the day is ending. The sun rests far beyond the Andean mountains, allowing the night sky its evening brilliance. Without the glow of the moon, the ink-colored heavens are brightened instead by a sea of stars and the world is quiet. Still.

Before crawling into your tent to sleep away the hike’s aches, Steve takes you by the hand and leads you to a place far from the group. On a blanket nestled in the grass, you lie wrapped in his arms reflecting on the accomplishments of the day.

“I can’t believe we’re actually here. We’re in Peru.”

Steve’s hand softly strokes yours while keeping his sights on the sky above, listening to you all the while.

“When I came back, it felt like the world passed me by. There’s a peace being in a place that’s somehow timeless.”

With this, Steve could relate.

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be. And no one else I’d rather be with.” He says this before placing a kiss on your temple, resting his head against yours, and closing his eyes. When you peek over your shoulder to find him this way, you insist on going back to camp. Sleep is calling.

The next afternoon brings with it an easier hike. It’s a relaxed pace after yesterday’s endeavor, the gentle ups and downs kinder on your tired legs. The umber mountain sides are replaced with a familiar forest filled with shady moss and various shades of green in a dramatic change of scenery. When you aren’t in the thick of vegetation, you are crawling through tunnels, clinging to cliff edges, and crossing ancient Incan terraces with Steve at your side every step of the way.

Though the longest day, it is easily the most beautiful.

The final group lunch is bittersweet and you’re loath to see your time with them come to an end. You’re not the only one to feel this way, you learn, when you find the porters have baked a surprise cake for the group.

The gesture, this small hint at humanity, brings you to tears.

Lunch is quick and your group hops back on the trail. Hours pass before the day’s trip is done and fatigue finally takes over. Everything is throbbing - your ankles, your knees, your back. Your entire body is absolutely done with this foolish dream of yours.

Why couldn’t my dream be sitting on the beach with a margarita?

Dinner is swift and mostly silent, weariness quieting the usual conversation. Afterwards, you meet with the porters to thank them for a journey well navigated and tip each of them more than you ordinarily would.

Now, it’s finally time to rest.

It’s time to prepare your heart for tomorrow. For the first destination of what you hope will be a never ending journey of discovery.

In the tent, you find Steve wiggling his way into the sleeping bag and it’s a funny sight. The giant, retired super-soldier fights for room in the bag, for comfort, and you can’t help but to laugh. Your amusement only adds to his frustration.

With infinite more grace and ease, you shimmy into your sleeping bag next to Steve. The nights in the mountains are far colder than the days, so you scoot closer to him in an effort to keep warm. Wrapping an arm around your back, he pulls you in tight.

His hand finds your cheek and he lightly brushes his fingers across it. In his eyes are wonder and adoration, the expression prompting you to lift an eyebrow at him.

“What?”

It’s his turn to be amused. As if you didn’t disappear for five years. As if he didn’t battle every day just to survive without you in his life. As if he didn't move heaven and earth to bring you home. Every time he looks at you, he’s filled with thankfulness. But he doesn’t tell you that.

“Nothing. Just tired.”

Instead, he resolves to follow you around the world for every adventure you dream up. It’s the least he can do after you suited up for every mission of his. His kiss lingers over your lips before he whispers his love for you like a secret into the night air.

Sleep isn’t longer than a blink, it feels like. Darkness still drowns the tent and the world is quiet, but Steve is awake. Tenderly he tries to rouse you, but you’re having none of it. Even while sleeping, your subconscious is aware of your body’s exhaustion and all you want to do is rest.

“C’mon, Y/N. I thought you wanted to be the first group through the Sun Gate.”

The Sun Gate. The entrance used by the Inca to reach their hallowed city hundreds of years ago, so named for the way the sun’s light passes through it in the early hours of the day during the summer. Steve knows you want to watch the sunrise from there, so he’s persistent in his pushing.

A promise of coffee does the trick.

It isn’t long before you, Steve, and the group are stumbling through shadows, rushing to beat other travelers to the first checkpoint. Then it’s a waiting game. Crowds at your back, you know you’ll have to race to beat them to the Sun Gate.

Your body strong and hardened from the days prior, you do so without trouble.

Because I am a badass woman following in the footsteps of the badass women that came before me.

Yeah, you’re worn out. Your muscles are practically screaming. You can’t help but be jealous of the serum surging through Steve’s body as he plods forward so easily.

But the anticipation charges your momentum, your mind pressing on despite the protests of your body. The encouraging words of the group guide serve as a reminder to maintain a rhythm and keep it without stopping.

And you do.

You do until you see it. Mist stretches across the valley, dispersing as a way to greet you to the lost city. When it clears, you’re met with Huayna Picchu, the soaring mountain standing guard of the remembered ghosts, showered in the morning rays of the sun.

You’re not sure if it’s the altitude or the view, but the ability to breathe escapes you.

The feeling of Steve’s fingers interlocking with yours brings you back to the moment and you let out a sigh. This is the end of Inca Trail. You’ve made it. Tears unwillingly stream down your face at the majesty below and the triumph behind you. More photographs, a kiss from Steve, and a mile walk separate you from the site you’ve spent the past four days trekking towards.

Machu Picchu is more than you could ever imagine. The guided tour is filled with an abundance of history. Steve steals time to sketch the mountains and the ruins tucked beneath them while you make friends with a llama.

Or is it an alpaca? You know what, who cares? It’s cute.

When it’s your time to leave, you commemorate your expedition with a special stamp for your passport. A memory to keep with you. Proof. Taking one final look, you utter a quiet goodbye to the first adventure of your new life.

On the bus ride back to Cusco, you watch the sun sinking behind the mountains nearly twelve hours after you saw it rise. Your head resting lightly on Steve’s shoulder, you’re reminded that life moves on and you’re grateful for a second chance at yours. If you had to guess, so is Steve.

And neither of you plan to waste a single second of it.

#kas4kwc #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers x you #steve rogers/reader #captain kelli fernweh

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studiousmusings · 4 years ago

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What if Dream Won?

AU Fan Fic of the Dream SMP final showdown between Tommy & Tubbo vs Dream

Warnings: Angst / Major Character Death / All the heart break

Words: 2619

A/N - I just binge watched all of tommyinnit’s vods and am in love with the lore and story line of the Dream SMP (just starting to get into Ranboo’s Arc). I had this stuck in my head and just needed to get it out there. Hope you enjoy!

__________________________________________Tommy's heart was pounding in his chest. Lungs burning for air as he hid behind the pile of dirt, a half eaten golden apple in hand.

"Tommy."

Dream's voice echoed over the mountain top, ringing in Tommy’s ears and sending a shiver down his spine. Every moment he could ever remember the green clad man saying his name overlapped in his mind. Never had his tone been as ice cold as it was now.

“T-tommy…” Tubbo. enemy traitor YOU EXILED ME NO! His friend, his best friend. His first friend ever since he arrived on the SMP. This was just Dream getting into his head again. Tommy shook clear the haze and memories and froze as a cry came from the other side of the mountain's summit. Tubbo was sprawled across the grass, trapped under Dream's boot, sword tip resting against his friend's throat.

The disc burned in his pocket, the weight of it was like a thousand pounds. Everything he and Tubbo worked for. Every war, every skirmish, every death. Wilbur... L'Manburg. BURNT TO THE GROUND . The smell of sulfur and smoke filled his nostrils, the blasts of TNT and the Wither's cries ringing in his ears.

Dream sighed, "Come out Tommy" his sword moved, stabbing into Tubbo's shoulder as the teen pleads.

"Please, NO! DREAM! STOP. You're killing me! TOMMY!!"

"STOP!" Tommy stood, dropping the apple as he gripped Techo's axe his axe. The worn leather cutting into the skin of his palm "just stop."

"Tommy. Tommy. Tommy" He could hear the crazed smile behind the blank white mask. the soulless eyes and smile mocking him. "You're nothing! I haven't even gotten started yet! Look at you, your armor is falling apart and I haven't even brought out my potions. I had our poor Mr. President crying within three hits!”

“I have one of the discs Dream” Tommy can hear his own voice wavering.

Tubbo yelped as Dream withdrew the sword, bright red blood coating the glowing metal and slowly dripping onto the grass. “Give me the disc Tommy. Or I’ll kill Tubbo. I’ll even count you down”

“Ten”

“Don’t give it to him Tommy!” Tubbo tried to surge forward, hand gripping the wound as blood continued to spill past his fingers but Dream just kicked him down again.

“Nine”

“I… Tubbo….”

“Eight”

What does he do? What does he do? What does he DO!

“Seven… Six”

Thousands of thoughts rushed through Tommy’s mind. Heat building behind his eyes, as his free hand wrapped around the circular bit of metal. The memories behind it, the history… Then he looks into Tubbo’s watery gaze. The strength behind them, telling him it’s ok. BUT IT’LL NEVER BE OK!

“Five.”

Tubbo flinched as the sword cut into his cheek, leaving a small trickle of blood to run down his chin. “Four.”

Tommy’s heart stuttered, moving before he could even think the disc soared through the air and clattered at Dream’s feet. He could feel the man’s surprise as he stepped away from Tubbo, letting the teen scramble to Tommy’s side. Bending down he picked up the disc, a manic laugh bubbles past his lips. “I- I didn’t think it’d be that easy. No, I should have known. You’re such an idiot Tommy.” the thin metal shattered in his grasp.

Tubbo gasped “wha- no!” and Tommy felt like the world had disappeared beneath his feet.

“They were FAKE TOMMY!” Dream threw down the other disc, Mellohi and stomped on it, the thin metal shards cutting into the earth. “Did you really think I would bring the real discs with me!? Do you think I'm stupid? Do you think this is a game! It’s not!” he laughed, high and crazed. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” He cocked his chin, the green glow of his eyes just barely peeking out from behind the mask.

“Drop your armor and items Tommy.”

The familiar phrase made Tommy freeze. His heart hadn’t stopped pounding, the pain lancing through him. The rush of emotions almost sending him to his knees, this was it.

“You too Tubbo” He raised his sword, nearly slicing the teen’s other arm.

“OK! Ok…” Tubbo moved quickly, tearing at the leather straps with shaking hands and dropping his apples and potions. “Tommy...” he looked between them nervously.

“Now Tommy.”

He moved like a man on strings, a movement that was well oiled and familiar. How many times had Dream made him do this while in exile? He had lost count truly. He dropped everything, even the seeds he had no idea why he had grabbed in the panic of battle. Ghostbur’s crossbow and pickaxe… all the pearls and potions. Dream picked up the Axe of Peace before tossing the dynamite down, letting all the items go up in flames. Hours upon hours of work, mining… farming… all of it gone. Left in only his clothes, still slightly singed from Doomsday as the sun began to set, the freezing wind burning his skin as it whipped around them.

“You’re a bastard Dream.”

“I know. And now, we’re going to take a trip. I’ll even show you the real discs.”

Held at sword point, Tommy gripped Tubbo’s wrist as Dream marched them towards the edge of the summit, the waterfall they had used to climb the sheer cliffs was now their trip down, death hung above the two teen’s heads.

“Go” Dream shoved Tommy’s back, nearly making him tumble over.

“Ok! Ok!” he helped Tubbo into the water, with his shoulder useless he would need help to safely get down. At least the spring water would somewhat clean out the wound.

Dream stops them at the mountain’s base, a stretch of rock too flat and uniform to be anything but suspicious. “I’ve been one step ahead of you two the entire time. Tubbo thought I was his friend Tommy. You thought I was your friend.” He laughed and knocked Tommy up against the wall, pushing Tubbo aside. “What an idiot, right Tommy?” he whispered, sword waving dangerously in Tubbo’s direction.

“You’re evil Dream… do you know that? I gotta wonder how you sleep at night.” Tommy couldn’t help the words flowing from his mouth even as the back of his head stung from knocking against the stone. The white mask darkened for a moment, the taller man stilling, his frame rising to block out the moon and cast an angry shadow.

“I sleep just fine. L’Manburg’s gone, I have the discs, I have you two at my mercy.” The glee returned, and Tommy’s heart nearly stopped when the pickaxe came swinging at his head, the metal breezing past his cheek, as it smashed into the stone behind him. A warm trickle of blood drips down his cheek a matching pair to Tubbo's.

“Go in Tommy,” Dream bent over to whisper into his ear.

“What the fu-” the cavern had torches haphazardly scattered along the walls, the dim light just barely illuminating a section of the floor made of obsidian.

“Get on the platform.”

Tubbo’s fingers intertwined with Tommy’s, helping pull him to the black stone. His eyes were pleading as he whispers, “just do as he says Tommy, we might still get out of this.”

The sounds of pistons filled the room as Dream hits a button, and with an almighty lurch the platform began to lower. There’s a moment of tense silence in the dark, only the glow of Dream’s armor reflecting off of his manic mask to see from. “Listen Tommy,” from all the thick stone it sounds like Dream’s voice is coming from every direction. “Ever since you arrived here, you’ve been a headache! You’ve brought war… terrorism. And above all else, you’ve brought the reason for all the violence, you brought attachment. Your attachment to the discs, to friends, to pets, lands, countries, items.” he laughed short and loud as the platform finally lowered into a huge underground cavern.

The walls made of thick, black obsidian towered high over them as they slowly lowered to the floor of bedrock. On the other side of the room, illuminated by glow-stone lamps the discs sat on pedestals on either side of a Nether portal.

“What the fuc-”

“You brought attachment Tommy.” Dream continued, even as the platform stops at the bottom and an eerie gong rings throughout the room. “It took me a long time to realize just how important attachment could be. But when I did, it made me stronger. And I realized you- you’re important. Come see, come see you’re discs. They’re right there… you could take them.. Run through the portal… but then I’ll just kill Tubbo. See, they don’t matter anymore.” he looks at Tubbo, “because I know what your real attachment is.

I’ve cut my attachment, I became free. I lost my friends, blew up my house… my crossbow… everything that was important to me. I cut everything because that’s what gave people power over each other, attachments. I had to lose everything, to gain control.” The manic tint to his words made Tommy shiver, Dream was becoming more and more twisted with each word. Or maybe he was always like that and Tommy just never noticed.

“You’re a sick bastard!”

“If I can control the things people are attached to... then I can control the world again." He laughs gleefully, scowling "This isn’t Tommy SMP or Tubbo SMP. it’s DREAM’S SMP! I can control it all if I have everything anyone’s ever cared about. I’ve already started my collection.” a wide sweep of his arm drew Tommy’s attention to the other pedestals around the edges of the room, and signs labeling them. Dream put Techo’s Axe on one with a glass case. Another podium had a bucket with a little clown fish in it, the label said Beckerson.

“LOOK! LOOK TOMMYINNIT!” Dream spun on his toes, green glow all but erupting from behind the mask. “I have a spot for everything, and room for more! I will take it all and no one will be able to go against me again.”

“You’re a terrible man!” Tubbo spat, “wha- what have you done…”

Tommy could feel himself shaking, looking over the few items Dream had already collected. Ghostbur’s friend… Henry for god sake. He thought Henry was DEAD! “You are sick Dream! A fucking psycho!”

Tommy pulled Tubbo behind him as Dream marched into his space, towering over the teens all while still glowing that ghostly green. “Everything I’ve done is for a reason!” he snarled. “To take back control of the world!” he lent back, a smile growing in his tone again, “and it’s all thanks to you Tommy.”

“Just kill us already!” Tommy screamed, behind him Tubbo was shaking. He couldn’t tell if it was because of the panic or because he was feeling the same anger that burned in Tommy’s stomach.

“You’re the KEY Tommy!” Dream scoffed, “You bring the attachment, so no… I can’t kill you. I can’t let you free either. Your exile was perfect! People could visit you, not that I didn’t do my best to stop them. But you were out of the way… just how I wanted, and then you left. You disappeared and wrecked EVERYTHING.”

Dream spun, sword back in hand it’s cold metal caressing Tommy’s chin, making him look up into the mask’s painted eyes. “So I made a prison.” He tilted his head, letting the mask focus on Tubbo. “I’M GOING TO LOCK TOMMY AWAY FOREVER TUBBO. I need him, but I don’t need you. You’re just a pawn, a follower who has lost his usefulness”

Tommy shoved the man back, not that it moved him much. Pure fear ran through his system, at the anger that was directed at Tubbo, at the blatant threat. “Tubbo isn’t a follower! You’re a monster Dream, evil… just pure evil!”

“Evil…” Dream laughed, dark and gritty that echoed around the vault. “Evil is in the eye of the beholder. So if I’m the evil in your story, that means you’re the hero Tommy. And every hero needs and origin story.”

“NO!” the fear that soaked Tommy to the bone gripped at his throat, his voice breaking and wheezing. Even as Tubbo grasped at his hand, clammy skin with a heartbeat fluttering fast under his touch. “Absolutely fucking not! NO! What do you mean.” Tommy desperately looked around the hall, they were trapped, Dream stood between them and the portal. The platform had long risen back to the surface. They had no tools, no supplies, no way to break through the impossibly strong obsidian.

“Tommy. I want to give you your chance to say good-bye. I’m not the monster you think I am.” Dream said lightly, like he was giving a present on Christmas day, “It’s Tubbo’s time to go, so say your good-byes, because after this… you’ll never see him again.”

“Keep the discs!” Tommy panicked. “I don’t care about them, let Tubbo and I go.”

“I don’t give a shit about the discs Tommy. I care about power, and Tubbo is the power over you that needs to go. Say you’re good-byes.”

“FUCK YOU BITCH! NO! Wha-what the h-hell…” Tommy resisted the urge to pace, to move so he could think, try and come up with something that could get Tubbo out of here. But the small hand clutched in his kept him rooted in one spot.

Dream tilted his head, like Tommy was some sort of interesting painting “You’ll miss out on your chance to say good-bye to your best friend? I’m not kidding, I am going to kill him!” The anger was back, the flip flopping of emotions coming from the older man was like two sides of a coin, one moment blistering anger, the other a child filled with excitement.

“Tommy…”

“NO!”

“Tommy!” Blood soaked fingers grasped onto his shirt and spun them so Tubbo stood in between Tommy and the green man.

Tommy’s muttering continued in full force, “if we run, if we get to my old base, we could make it Tubbo, we could make it…” He gripped Tubbo's sleeves, anything to ground himself.

“It’s alright. This is it…” Tears streaked down the slightly chubby cheeks of his best friend.

“Don’t just accept this Tubbo! We- we- you can’t….”

“Tommy, it’s over” the smaller teen pulls Tommy into a hug, arms wrapping around him like a lifeline. “All good things must come to an end. We had a good run” he mutters into the fabric of his shirt, tears soaking through, “I didn’t think this would be the end for me, but we had some fun times.”

“...What am I without you?”

“Yourself. Your amazing, funny, and brave self. I believe you’ll get out of this on your own, it won’t be the end for you Tommy.” Tubbo pulled back, eyes roaming over Tommy like he was trying to memorize everything about him.

“Tubbo...even though, ever since I met you, I've always regarded you as my sidekick.” Tommy ignored the hot tears stinging the scratches across his cheek. “But really Tubbo I was your sidekick.”

Tubbo takes a step back smiling, arms dropping to his sides. “You’ll always be my best friend Tommyinnit”

The sword erupts from Tubbo’s chest with a wet sound of singing metal. Blood bubbling up past pale lips. Face still stupidly stuck in that small smile, eyes never leaving Tommy’s even as he watches the light fade from them.

“NO!” Tommy feels his world fall apart. Catching Tubbo as he falls, like a puppet with its string’s cut. Dream stands over him, blood dripping onto the stone as he wipes the blade clean. Clinical and oppressive.

“Time to go Tommy.”

Hands still stained, and blood soaked shirt and jeans sticking to his skin, barely dry unlike the cold body of his friend. Tommy feels the rage fester and build as he looks up at the maniac, the murderer. Even as the lava slowly falls over the cell’s doors, blocking his view and locking him in the obsidian room with only empty books for company. Tommy makes a promise, a declaration. Whatever it takes, Dream is going to pay.

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feferipeixes · 4 years ago

Text

The Good Lines (1/3)

Trapped in an unfamiliar world, Alcor finds that he doesn’t mind the loneliness. He doesn’t care about finding a way out. He doesn’t even care about Mizar. All he cares about is solving puzzles, and drawing the good lines.

(or: I Think Dipper Should Play The Witness)

Chapter 1: Tutorial (link to chapter 2) (3)

I promised this a year ago and it’s finally happening! No knowledge about The Witness necessary -- this is basically a TAU fic. Thanks @toothpastecanyon for beta reading it!

(See the most updated version on AO3!)

===

One of the first signs that something was wrong was the silence.

Alcor didn't know when it had happened, but at some point he realized he couldn't remember the last time he'd heard a living thing. Sure, he could hear the grass crunch beneath his shoes, and the babble of the river cascading down the mountainside. When the silence got to be too much, he’d listen to those things as closely as he could.

He never heard a cicada screech, though, never heard a squirrel chitter, never heard a wolf howl. One time, he wandered through the forest and was assaulted by the chirping of birds, but when he looked closer he noticed that there were speakers hidden in the trees. That confused him even more, because who decided a forest needed assistance in creating an ambiance? Would the speakers switch from birds to crickets when it got dark out?

The next thing he noticed was that it never got dark out either.

Another strange thing: his magic wasn't working. He walked upon the ground instead of floating above it. He saw the physical shape of things instead of the shape of the ideas they embodied. And his hand didn't alight in flame when he snapped his fingers. He was still a demon -- he could see it in the pitch black reflection of his eyes when he looked in the ocean -- but it seemed less relevant right now. Which was without a doubt extremely odd.

However curious these things were though, he didn't have much of a chance to dwell on them. He was too busy drawing the good lines.

The panels were everywhere on the island. They were all sorts of materials -- some made of metal with a plastic border, some made of glass so he could see the scenery as he drew, and some were just embedded into the concrete he walked on. Many of them were connected with thick wires. They all had a grid of some sort on them, sometimes containing fanciful shapes and dots. All had one or more bulbous circles somewhere on the grid, as well as one or more rounded off ends. Some of them were pretty to look at, but he knew they weren't just for show. They were puzzles.

He couldn't remember when he'd discovered it. Maybe someone had told him (who? He was all alone). Maybe there were instructions on one of the panels (but he'd never seen any text on the island). Or maybe it was just instinct that led him to reach out and touch a panel, right on one of the large circles. It made a little popping noise, letting him know this was okay to do, and to keep going. So he dragged his claw across the grid, and as he did so, he drew a line. It was simple, it was effortless, it was satisfying. He drew the line around intersections in the grid to one of the rounded off bits and lifted his finger. The panel flashed angrily and highlighted some of the symbols on the grid.

Oh no. That was a Bad Line.

Frowning, he tried again; touching the circle, dragging his claw through the grid in a different pattern this time, and letting go at an end. The panel made a squeaky little beep, and the wire leading out of it lit up.

Alcor smiled. That was a Good Line.

---

There was a mountain at one end of the island. Well, it looked like a mountain, and the climate at the top was dramatically different from that at the bottom, but there was no way it was tall enough to really be considered a mountain. It only took a few minutes for Alcor to follow the path to the top, and he wasn’t even using any kind of demonic superspeed.

The summit was covered in weird stuff, but at this point Alcor would’ve been surprised if such a significant-looking location on this weird island wasn’t covered in weird stuff. Still, he wouldn’t have guessed that it would be covered in random statues of humans. There was an old man speaking at a podium, a figure in a trenchcoat using a camera on a tripod, a librarian gesturing angrily, and so on.

There were two statues at the center under three parabolic arches. One was a young man with a strange ladle-shaped mark etched onto his forehead, struggling to carry a large yellow box covered in images of eyes and which had a thick cable coming out of it. The other was a young woman in a sweater, holding the box’s cable taut and seemingly trying to pull the first statue back. All of the statues seemed vaguely familiar -- especially the two in the middle -- but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He eventually decided it was just because humans all look the same.

There was another thing he found while observing the statues: a tape recorder, sitting on a rock near the statue with the tripod. It looked positively archaic in design, and only had one button on it. When he pressed the button, the voice that came out was so clear that it was almost as if the words were being transmitted directly into his brain.

“Up there you go around every hour and a half, time after time after time.”

He frowned at the odd device and cocked his head. It was nice to hear a voice for the first time in what seemed like forever, but he had no idea what it was talking about. He pressed the button again to no effect. The voice just kept talking.

“And you realize that in one glance that what you’re seeing is what was the whole history of man for years.”

Whatever. He decided to ignore it and take in the lovely view instead. He could see almost the whole island from up there, from the desert to the quarry to the forest to the swamp. There was something stunning about the diversity of landscape he could see from one spot. And yet, it wasn’t quite the beauty of the sights before him that made him marvel. It was the thought of all of the unsolved puzzles he was yet to find.

“You finally come up across the coast of California and look for those friendly things.”

There only seemed to be one panel at the mountain’s summit, and it was hardly a puzzle -- just a single zigzagging line. Quick as a whistle, he tapped the starting node, dragged his finger up, and released. It made all of the same sounds the other panels did, but it was kind of disappointing. There was no challenge in it, nothing to occupy his mind or give him a sense of accomplishment. It wasn’t a Good Line or a Bad Line, it was just… a line.

Huh.

“And you do it again and again and again. You look forward to that, you anticipate it. And there it is. That whole process begins to shift of what it is you identify with.”

He set off down the mountain again, and headed toward the greenhouse he’d noticed on his way up. Just as he expected, it was full of puzzles. Surrounded by colorful flowers, he stared at a panel and thought, and thought, and thought.

Hours passed. He solved two more.

“You look down there and you can’t imagine how many borders and boundaries you crossed again and again and again. And you don’t even see ‘em. All of history and music and poetry and art and war and death and birth and love, tears, joy, games, all of it is on that little spot out there that you can cover with your thumb.”

Alcor bounced between areas on the island when he got stuck, always breezing past the scenery without a second glance because there were more important things to attend to. Across the island and toward the desert. Across the island to climb through a treehouse. Across the island to get lost in a boat. He waited for it to blur together but it never did.

“And you realize with that perspective that you’ve changed. That there’s something new there. That relationship is no longer what it was.”

It was peculiar, if he did let himself think about it. He didn’t want to -- didn’t want to give the voice that kind of victory -- but in between panels he sometimes needed a little break and there were only a limited number of things to put his attention to in this place. So, occasionally, he let himself wonder why he was alone.

This was not an unfamiliar question for him. He could come up with a million reasons for it right off the top of his head. He was immortal, so maybe everyone else in the universe was just dead. He was a monster, so maybe everyone else in the universe was just scared of him. He was a dream demon, so maybe he was just buried so deep in the Mindscape that he couldn’t find his way out.

Somehow, none of those reasons felt like the truth. If they were, he’d probably be sadder.

“And you think about what you’re experiencing and why. Do you deserve this? This fantastic experience? Have you earned this in some way? Are you separated out to be touched by God to have some special experience here that other men cannot have? You know the answer to that is No. There’s nothing that you’ve done that deserves that, that earned that.”

Besides, there wasn’t anything to be sad about, if he really really thought about it over and over again until words lost all meaning. He was Alcor the Dreambender, after all! He was the most powerful entity in the universe. Feared like a demon by the masses, revered like a deity by the foolish. All because he’d had the great fortune to rid the world of a villainous creature of destructive chaos.

He did deserve it. He was special. He spent a day lying face up on a rooftop in the town, thinking these things to himself on loop.

“When you come back, there’s a difference in that world now, there’s a difference in that relationship between you and that planet, and you and all those other forms of life on that planet, because you’ve had that kind of experience.”

Past the town there was a little peninsula with some sort of old building on it. Alcor made his way over, but when he got there he was dismayed to find not a single puzzle in sight. There was, however, a statue of a man kneeling on the floor. Alcor jumped when he saw it out of the corner of his eye, reaching for him with a crazed look on its face, but relaxed when he realized it wasn’t alive.

It was an odd sight, to be sure. Alcor followed its gaze to a glass shelf behind him, on which sat a chalice of some sort. He reached up to grab it -- almost knocking the shelf over as he did -- and cautiously stuck his tongue in.

Whatever was in the cup, he thought as he walked away from the building, it was delicious.

“And all through this I’ve used the word ‘you’ because it’s not me, it’s you. It’s us. It’s we. It’s life. And it’s not just my problem to integrate, it’s not my challenge to integrate, my joy to integrate -- it’s yours, it’s everybody’s.”

There was a long pause, and Alcor thought the recording might finally be over. He took a sip of his drink and smiled. Back to thinking about the current puzzle. It was a tough one -- three different colors of symbols on it -- and he was glad that the voice wasn’t distracting him from it anymore.

And then:

”Please come back, Dipper.”

Alcor did a spit take at the sound of his true name. The panel he was working on made a sizzling noise and deactivated.

“Did that work? Can you hear me?”

He shot to his feet and looked around in all directions. No one. He was still as alone as ever.

“You’re not responding so I don’t know if what you’re doing is just a coincidence.”

“What? Hello?” he yelled.

“Oh, thank the stars, it worked! Dipper you have to get out of here.”

“What are you talking about?” he sputtered. “Who are you?”

There was the sound of a deep breath, inexplicably broadcast from the sky. “I’m your sister, S- I mean, uh. Mizar. I’m Mizar.”

Alcor’s eyes widened. “Mizar?”

“Yeah. I’ve been trying to contact you for so long. I can’t believe it finally worked.”

“I don’t understand. What finally worked?”

“You need to listen to me. This isn’t the real world. You’re in a virtual reality game.”

“I’m what?” Alcor said. He backed up, accidentally leading himself to the edge of the platform he was standing on, but instead of falling off, his back hit a wall. He spun around to see what had happened, but there was nothing there. “Mizar? I’m- I’m so confused.”

Mizar sighed. “I told you. None of this is real. It’s a computer program. Haven’t you noticed that things aren’t quite right?”

“Well, yeah,” Alcor replied. He flapped his wings, but stayed firmly glued to the ground. “My demon powers don’t work. Honestly though that’s fine with me. I’m just having fun drawing the good lines.”

“The what?” Mizar demanded, incredulous.

“The good lines!” Alcor squeaked, and waved at the puzzles behind him. “I don’t know what they’re for or what they do, but I’ve been so busy solving all these puzzles that I’ve barely thought about… why… things are… off…”

He trailed off, and Mizar sniffed.

“That’s the point. They’re there to keep you occupied.”

Alcor frowned. “Why though? Who’d go to so much effort to make all of this for me?”

There was no response.

---

Alcor continued to solve puzzles. He didn’t know why Mizar’s voice had stopped, but he was glad it had -- she was the true distraction, not the puzzles. And yet every once in a while, he’d be staring at a particularly difficult panel with one of those Y-shaped symbols on it that made no sense to him, and his mind would begin to wander.

And when it did, he’d notice another one of those tape recorders nearby. There were a lot of them on the island, and they all had boring quotes from philosophers or whatever on them. But then Mizar’s voice would cut in, with a note of glee like she’d thought he’d never speak to her again. Every time she sounded more and more desperate for him to leave. And every time it made him feel more and more frustrated.

“Okay, so,” Alcor said as Mizar's voice faded in for the 20th or so time, “you said last time you might’ve figured out who made this island.” He didn't look up or take his finger off the panel in front of him.

There was a rustling noise, and then a loud pop. “Sorry, had to plug in my headphones. That’s right, though. I’ve done some more research since then and I’m sure of it now.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“It was an advanced artificial intelligence,” Mizar replied. “I think you might be familiar with it. It’s called ‘the Alcor Virus’.”

“Oh.” Alcor paused for a moment. “Yeah, I wrote him to mess with fanfic writers. Why do you think he made the island?”

“I don’t think,” Mizar said. “It definitely did. There’s traces of it all over the computer network in this building.”

“There’s traces of him all over every device with a processor in the whole world,” Alcor countered. “He’s a really good virus. I’m very proud of him.”

Mizar groaned. “I also found its executable embedded in the binary for this game. Also a few summoning circles, and a big ASCII art picture of it giving me the middle finger.”

“Okay, maybe you’re right,” he conceded. “Why, though?”

“How should I know?” Mizar said, with more than a note of irritation in her voice. “I’m not a psychologist and I’m definitely not a computer scientist. Also why does it matter ‘why’ it’s doing this? Isn’t it time to get out of there already? I’ve already asked you like a million times!”

“No!” Alcor exclaimed, throwing his hands up. He walked out of the structure he’d been standing in and headed toward an area with some shady trees in which he’d noticed puzzles he hadn’t solved yet. “I like it here. It’s fun for me. And I deserve a vacation from all the people who bother me all the time. Why would I leave?”

“Because you can’t just run away from your problems!” Mizar shot back. “You think this is healthy? Literally living in a virtual reality world so you don’t have to talk to anyone anymore? How do you think I feel?”

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Horrible! I thought you cared about me, Dipper, but all you care about are those stupid puzzles! Stars, sometimes you act like such a demon!”

Alcor frowned. “You know that I -”

“Yes, I get it, you ARE a demon and you can’t help it that you’re a selfish piece of shit. I GET it. Is this how it’s really going to end? You’re just going to turn me down after I’ve spent all this time trying to get you out?”

Alcor’s ears turned red as he felt Mizar’s furious, extraplanar glare land on him. “It really means that much to you that I leave?”

He heard Mizar smack herself in the face. “Yes, yes, a hundred times yes! It kills me that you’re not in my life anymore! You probably thought I could get along just fine without you and no one would be affected by you staying forever on your fantasy puzzle island vacation, huh? Why do you think I keep asking you? I’m starting to get sick of it!”

Alcor felt every muscle in his body tense up at that. He squeezed his eyes shut as Mizar continued to shout, tried to fend off the words violently striking at his ego, and only opened them again when she cut off mid-word. The light on the tape recorder had turned off.

He tried to let himself relax again but he couldn’t. It felt like his chest had become a black hole and it was taking all he had not to shrink up into a tiny little dot and vanish. He hated being yelled at. Hated it.

Maybe Mizar was right, though. Maybe he was just being a selfish jerk. He'd done it before. Countless times, to countless Mizars, his self-serving actions had caused harm to mortals and it was always his fault because he couldn't put himself in their shoes. Maybe he was a monster after all. It was just like a monster to have wants and needs that inevitably end up hurting people.

Alcor exhaled, long and heavy, and pressed the button on the tape again. When the pre-recorded message ended and Mizar’s shouts returned, he interrupted her.

“Okay. I’ll go.”

#gravity falls #transcendence au #the witness #dipper pines #alcor the dreambender #mizar #reincarnation #fic #my stuff #long post #the good lines

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tsarisfanfiction · 5 years ago

Text

WIP #59b

(Send me a number 1-60 [or a fandom/character I guess] for the corresponding wip) because I’m bored and brain-fried and have too many wips that’ll otherwise never see the light of day.

@purfectpurple asked for more of this one! Which, tbh, I get the feeling a few of you wanted, judging by your reactions to it.

So, we’ve had our nasty accident and a nice healthy dose of emotional and physical whump for Scott. Let’s see what the rest of the brothers are up to, shall we?

(If it wasn’t obvious by now, I’ve had so much fun writing this one. It’s definitely getting revisited once I have the time. And no, this still isn’t everything I have written for this wip because it’s a pretty long one... considering it was supposed to be a oneshot)

Gordon was last to the scene, summoned by Alan’s shouts and John’s too-loud voice transmitting from every speaker in the den, and arrived just in time to see Scott disappearing from the room with hunched shoulders. In front of him was carnage: Alan wriggled in Virgil’s grip, determined to escape the thickset Tracy even though Virgil showed no indication of releasing him, and John was hovering with crossed arms above them, eyebrows furrowed in an expression of worry more usually seen on Virgil.

He didn’t need any explanations. Late to the party he might have been, but he had ears and he was fairly sure Alan’s explosion could have been heard in Australia.

“Let. Me. Go. Virgil!” Alan ground out, but the bear of the family simply held tighter and made his way over to the nearest sofa, writhing brother in his grip.

“What’s got into you?” their elder brother demanded.

“Nothing!” Alan snapped.

“Nothing doesn’t lend itself to you telling our eldest brother you wish he was the one presumed dead,” John cut in coolly. Gordon startled, not expecting their space-bound brother to be quite so harsh towards Alan. The two astronauts tended to band together, and a division in those ranks meant things were serious.

“I never said that!” Alan argued back, giving up on trying to escape Virgil’s death grip and assuming a pose that could only be described as sulky.

“Maybe not in so many words,” John conceded. “But that’s what I heard and, more importantly, that’s what Scott heard.”

“He’s just being so annoying,” Alan defended himself, as though there was really any defence for saying that to anyone, and Gordon knew once he calmed down he’d be regretting it. “Alan don’t do this. Alan, don’t do that. Alan, you’re too young,” he mimicked, kicking his legs out. Virgil took the hits without commenting.

“He’s trying to protect you,” he said instead. “He does it to all of us, you know that.”

“I know,” Alan grumbled. “But it’s too much! How are we supposed to save people if we’re being smothered into being safe all the time? He’s going too far!”

“He was there,” John cut in quietly, reclaiming all of their attention. “You might not know – you were all away at the time – but Scott was with Dad on that mission.”

Something heavy and unpleasant lodged itself at the bottom of Gordon’s stomach, and from the sudden look of horror on Alan’s face, he wasn’t the only one. Virgil looked sad, like he’d already suspected it.

“Scott was there?” Alan’s voice came out strangled. “Then… how…?”

“It was supposed to be his mission,” John continued, and Gordon felt sick at the idea that it might have been Scott lost back then, or worse, both Dad and Scott. “Dad changed his mind at the last minute and told him to hang back.”

“‘I couldn’t save Dad’,” Virgil murmured, and Gordon’s attention snapped to him. He wasn’t restraining Alan anymore, instead holding him in a hug that wasn’t being protested. “He said that to me, once.”

“I didn’t mean it.” Alan sounded small, even younger than his fifteen years. In Virgil’s hold he looked it, too. “I was just frustrated… he knows that, right? Scott knows I don’t actually wish we’d lost him?”

“I’m sure he does,” John said, sounding more like his usual self and taking Alan’s side once again. “But you should still apologise when he gets back.”

“Where has he gone, anyway?” Gordon wondered out loud, and John checked something out of their sight before frowning.

“His comm signal is by the pool,” he said.

“But sitting still isn’t Scott’s thing,” Virgil pointed out, and John nodded in agreement, lips pressed together thinly.

Gordon took it upon himself to head out onto the balcony and sneak towards the edge, only to find what they already suspected. “He’s not there.”

“Maybe he dropped it?” Alan sounded hopeful, but Gordon knew he didn’t believe his own words – their communicators were designed to stay with them no matter what. The only way it would come off of Scott’s wrist would be if he took it off on purpose.

He couldn’t imagine what Scott could be feeling to intentionally cut himself off from the rest of them.

“He’ll be back in his own time,” Virgil said, heaving a sigh and finally letting go of Alan. The youngest sprang to his feet and ran straight down the stairs; Gordon watched from the balcony as he rooted around beside the pool for a moment before bending and picking up something blue. It didn’t take a genius to know what it was.

If he’d gone for a run, they were probably looking at an hour before he came back. Resigned to an awkward wait, Gordon followed his younger brother down the stairs and flopped onto the nearest lounger. The pool gleamed invitingly at him in the early afternoon sun, but his swimming gear was in his room and he couldn’t muster the motivation to leave the poolside.

Alan stood at the edge of the paved section, staring out down the path around the island, Scott’s communicator clutched in his hands.

Together, they waited.

And waited.

“He hasn’t come back.” Alan’s voice was quiet and trembling as it broached the silence. Above them the sky was changing into greys and oranges as dusk loomed. “Why isn’t he back?”

Gordon tapped his own communicator.

“John? Any sign of him?”

“He isn’t back yet?” the ginger asked, popping into holographic existence immediately. “It’s been four hours.” His fingers flew over an invisible keyboard, and Gordon watched his face get more and more frustrated. “Scanners can’t tell him apart from the other wildlife,” he finally admitted. “But there aren’t any lifesigns on his usual trail.”

“Well we know he hasn’t left the island,” Virgil said from behind them, a second holographic John hovering over his wrist. “None of the jets are unaccounted for.”

“We have to find him!” Alan sounded close to tears. “It’ll be dark soon!”

Earlier, Gordon – like Virgil and John – had been of the opinion that Scott should be left alone to chew through the argument in peace. Now, he agreed with Alan.

Four hours was too long and his squid sense was prickling uncomfortably.

“Alan, you’re with me,” Virgil said. “We’ll check the main trail first and try to find which route he took. Get your boots.”

Boots.

What had Scott been wearing? Gordon couldn’t remember.

“I’ll take the trail the other way,” he said. “Meet you halfway.” Virgil nodded and they scattered to change.

“Don’t forget a torch,” John said from his wrist. “You have just over an hour until sunset.” Gordon threw one into the bag he was hastily packing, alongside a first aid kit – hopefully not required, but better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it – and a grapple with several packs.

He didn’t reconvene with Alan and Virgil, simply striking out as soon as he was ready with a quick message across the comms to let them know. Scott’s favourite trail was easy to follow, well pounded into the earth by years of running, but Gordon knew he wouldn’t find him on there. If he’d ditched his comm, he didn’t want to be found, and John’s minimal information confirmed that the trail was still devoid of life.

Scott would have taken one of the other, tougher, trails. The problem was that Scott was the only one who knew all of them. Alan knew the rock climbing trails, Virgil knew the ones that led to good viewpoints, and Gordon knew the ones nearest the ocean. To find him, they’d need to use all the old fashioned tracking knowledge they had, drilled into them by Dad and Grandma with the threats that technology wouldn’t always help them.

With Scott’s comm still firmly in Alan’s possession and too many lifesigns on the island to differentiate which one was their brother, technology was decidedly useless.

Gordon almost missed it – unevenly spaced footprints snaking away from the main track and up over a steep incline. He called it in, but Alan and Virgil were almost at the other side of the island already. By the time they reached him, the encroaching dusk would make the trail too hard to spot. He made the executive decision to proceed alone.

It was slow going, the path tough and often fading into little more than craggy outcrops the closer he got to the summit of the volcano. Scott did these for fun? He always knew his eldest brother was crazy. Said crazy brother was currently missing, though, and Gordon couldn’t bring himself to poke fun at him when he’d been gone for too long.

A gash yawned in front of him – a jagged line cutting diagonally through the rocks – and Gordon eyed it carefully as he started to manoeuvre his way around it gingerly, only to stop as he caught sight of something that didn’t look like it belonged there.

Darkness was looming, encroaching on his visibility too much for him to confidently identify it with the naked eye, so he dug through his pack for the torch John had told him to bring. He almost wished he hadn’t when the something turned out to be a scrap of light blue fabric caught a little way down the crumbling edge of the rockface.

He knew that colour, just as he knew what the dark smear accompanying it was.

“John,” he called, and his brother appeared instantly. “Any of those life signs directly below me?”

Please say no, he begged silently as he stared into the darkness.

“There’s one,” John said after a moment. “About fifty feet below you. It’s not moving.”

There probably wasn’t a worse thing to hear right then. The first aid kid in his bag suddenly felt heavy, and he reached for his grapple.

“I’m checking it out,” he said, pleasantly surprised that he sounded in control still.

“What have you found?” Virgil cut in – of course John had linked them all together. Gordon didn’t answer as he shot the line and, praying it would hold and that the rocks wouldn’t give way like they clearly had earlier, swung down over the edge.

It narrowed quickly, the chasm turning into a slit barely big enough for Gordon to get through. Virgil would never have fit, and Gordon wouldn’t have expected Scott to except the smear of blood dragged all the way down through it, more snatches of blue shirt snagged on outcrops at random intervals.

He had to push the pack through first so he could get through, and counted the seconds until he heard it thud against something. Only two – not too bad of a drop. If you had a grapple line.

He touched down easily, sweeping the torch across the volcanic cavern to first locate his pack, and then the source of the life sign.

It didn’t take long for a shadow to look wrong, and he hurried over, heart in his mouth.

The good news was that it was Scott.

The bad news was that Scott didn’t look good, at all.

“John, see if you can find another way into this cave,” he said. “Virgil, if he can’t, make one.” His torch caught the unnatural angle of Scott’s leg and he bit back a curse. “And bring a stretcher.”

WIP #59c>>>

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #wip excerpt #gordon tracy #alan tracy #virgil tracy #john tracy #scott tracy #thunderwhump #thunderangst

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