#not in this story

[chaotic-orphan]

Medieval Fantasy Fiction

The Prologue

Can someone please tell me why I love expositions in stories, meanwhile my billion other WIPs are in the dark throes of the middle of the story and does my brain work on them? No, instead it starts a new one for shits and giggles~

I need to stop starting new projects before I finish others, this is so toxic and self-indulgent… oh well~ the whump I have planned for this story is delicious 3:)

*~*~*~*~*

Puck woke with the sun, getting out of bed and pulling on his clothes as quietly as he could. His mother and sister were still sound asleep in their bed opposite his, his little brother still snoring softly in Puck’s bed. There was a chill in the early morning air that he hoped would pass by the time he reached the village.

He closed the door to the bedroom softly and stepped into the kitchen, starting the fire in the hearth so the house could warm up before the rest of his family woke. He struck the flint with his knife and after two tries the sparks caught the bundle of twigs in the hearth. He stood and went to grab the oats from the table which were severely depleted.

There wouldn’t be enough for everyone if he had breakfast. Though his stomach protested his decision, Puck grabbed his satchel and packed his knife and flint and walked into the cool morning air. Their cottage stood on top of the hill that overlooked the village, tucked away with a few other cottages on the small side.

He saw dark hair ahead of him and ran to catch up with Marlyn. “Good morning, Marlyn.”

The dark haired girl turned her head, a smile on her face as she said: “Morning. I thought you were sleeping in today.”

“Me? Never, don’t want Arne to give out to me more than usual.” Puck told her, glancing at the game on Marlyn’s back. “Do you want any help carrying them?”

Marlyn smiled sweetly. “If you don’t mind. I don’t know what the birds are eating this year,” she said, handing him a length of rope with dead pigeons that he threw around his neck. “But they’re getting heavier and heavier.”

“The harvest is almost over,” said Puck, his breath reflecting off the air as they resumed walking. “They’re getting ready to fly away.”

“Well, not these ones,” said Marlyn with a wide grin. Puck laughed.

“I wouldn’t want to be a bird around you.”

“You have a much bigger target on your back, Puck,” she replied teasingly.

“Remind me to bring you flowers tomorrow,” said Puck and Marlyn laughed. He liked the way she laughed. It was such an unreserved action, throwing her head back to get more sound out of her voice. Her dark hair falling over her shoulder and revealing her throat.

Puck swallowed and forced his eyes forward as they continued on down, certain that he would marry her one day, Gods willing.

The village was already abuzz with atmosphere and life. Farmer Gruff was leading his cows to the grazing fields, cow manure following the herd as he yelled at them to walk, his two sons acting as trail markers for the cows to follow.

“How’re ye?” Gruff asked, a stalk of wheat between his teeth. “Mmm Marlyn. Any pheasants?”

“Of course, Mr Gruff.”

“Ah you’re a special lass. I wish my boys were half the hun’er you are, miss.”

“You’re too kind, Mr Gruff. I’ll leave a pheasant aside for you.”

“Sure aren’t ya just blessed by the sun itself.”

He smacked a cow on its hind leg and continued on. Marlyn smiled her mischievous smile at Puck and he flashed her a grin. Most of the village knew that Marlyn was the hunter in her family, not her father. Though she still sold them at her stall under her father’s name because women weren’t supposed to be hunters. Her father was far too interested in books and accounting to be a decent hunter.

Marlyn had once said she would never trust a man’s opinion with callous-free-fingers. Puck grinned as he tightened his hand to a fist and felt the coarse flesh from apprenticing under the local blacksmith. They stopped in the middle of the market, Puck helping Marlyn set up her stall for the day. The local butcher stopped by to tell her again she should sell to him, keep the meat more fresh in his shop.

“You’d need to buy at a merchant price,” Marlyn told him sweetly with her disarming, pretty smile. “And pay me a wage, otherwise I’d be losing out.”

“Hmph,” the butcher said, looking between the two teens. “I will ask your father about this arrangement then shall I?”

“You can try,” Marlyn replied easily, her smile turning razor sharp. “Though I must remind you that he does do the books of half the businesses here. So I didn’t get my business knowledge from nowhere.”

Puck couldn’t help the smile he tried to hide from Butcher. Butcher scoffed at him. “You have no right to smile, boy. I’m surprised your family is still four strong. You never buy meat.”

Puck’s smile grew strained.

“He gets the friends and family discount from me,” Marlyn cut in sharply, slamming her hand on the stall counter. “And if I were you, Butcher, I’d treat him a little better. Or I can open up a rival butcher’s and we can see who gets better business.”

“Easy to see your father never taught you manners, girl.”

“Maybe if you were someone worth being mannerly towards, Butcher. Now, please. Get lost.” Butcher stuck his nose in the air and left them with a haughty step.

Marlyn turned to Puck who was already fixing his satchel and ready to leave. “Meet you back here at day’s end?”

“Of course.”

“Great. Have a good day.”

Puck wound through the chickens that a couple of kids were chasing through the patchy cobbled streets and went down towards the seafront, where the bakery and the blacksmith shops were. The best place for water in case there was ever a fire that broke out.

Puck could smell the bread being baked and his stomach growled as he passed the bakery and ascended the little steps to the blacksmith's forge. Mr Arne was inside, leather apron adorned, smoking a cigarette. His clever grey eyes studied Puck as he came in, taking in his slender yet lean physique as he hung his bag and adorned his own apron.

“Did you eat boy?” Mr Arne asked, voice as coarse as coal from smoking like the blacksmith’s chimney for his entire life.

“Hmm?” Puck asked, pretending not to hear the man.

“I said did ye eat, boy?” Mr Arne asked, getting to his feet and walking over to the teen. Unlike Puck, Mr Arne was built as broad as two men, and a good head taller than most. His arms were covered in thick black hair and tattoos from his black clan days that everybody in town was too scared to mention. Besides, Mr Arne was the best blacksmith on this side of the river, and brought a lot of business to the village. If he were to up and leave the village would suffer. “Look at ye, when I was your age I was as big as a boulder. You are strong but skinny, that hunter girl has more meat on her.”

Puck shot him a look, but he couldn’t really argue with the man. Mr Arne wasn’t from around here, so when he said “Hunter” it sounded more like “huntore”, his e’s like o’s.

“You’re just trying to fatten me up like a pig,” Puck said with a wave, shovelling some coal into the furnace.

“If I wanted pig, I would employ animal,” said Mr Arne with a little shrug, as if this was the most logical thing in the world. “I want boy with strong shoulders and good workmanship.”

Puck shot Arne a dazzling smile. “I’m your man.”

“No. Puny.” Mr Arne said and dropped his cigarette to the stone floor, stomping it out. He promptly left the forge and Puck continued with setting up for the day. They had an order from Farmer Gruff for some new hoes and sickles since the Harvest moon was almost upon them.

Mr Arne returned when the bustling in the marketplace was starting to get busy, no longer just merchants and workers, the customers had arisen. Puck was waiting for the metal to smelt, practicing his swings on Mr Arne’s old sword. It was a beautiful piece, never rusting, Mr Arne took care of his blades. When he spotted Puck eyeing the sword, Mr Arne had taught him a few moves for Puck to practice.

After Puck had trained the moves, getting his muscles used to the weight of the blade and the stances, Mr Arne had ordered the local carpenter to make two practice swords to spare with whenever they had free time. Puck preferred to practice with the real thing every now and then though. To remember the weight and feel and power.

Mr Arne brought with him the smell of sizzled meat, sausages and bacon and eggs, and the smell of soft, freshly baked bread.

“Hmph,” he said to Puck, stopping in the doorway and assessing the boy’s form. “Elbow higher, there’s a good lad.”

Puck obeyed and grinned at the praise before putting the sword back on the wall and standing to attention. Mr Arne walked past him and set the food on the table Puck had found him at.

“Sit. Eat. I don’t need weak boy. Muscles must be fed properly.”

“I already ate,” Puck said, hiding the flush in his cheeks.

Mr Arne stood over Puck, his wide face looming over him. A pair of thick bushy eyebrows raised causing creases in the man’s large forehead. “I have no need for liars, either. Sit. Eat. Or I feed it to the dogs.”

Puck knew better than to refuse man twice and when he sat down at the table, the first taste of the salty meat was divine, as if the Gods had made it themselves.

“Thank you.” Puck said. If Mr Arne heard him he didn’t reply. Instead the burly man whistled a foreign tune as he started forging the molten metal into a sickle mould and went about working.

The day was long, and by the midday Puck was tired. His muscles sore from hard work, sweat clinging to his face like a thin layer of second skin. He didn’t see the soldiers arrive until one was in the forge, grabbing him by the elbow and dragging him out. Mr Arne was out, having a cigarette behind the forge so he couldn’t stop the soldiers as they rounded up everyone into the square.

A tall man dressed in black sat atop a black stallion, overlooking everyone in the village. Puck found Marlyn quickly, asking her what was happening. She told him that the soldiers were sent by the King for something.

“Sorry to interrupt your market day,” the man on the horse said with a smile that showed he was anything but sorry. “I call on you from urgent business from the King.”

The man paused, his dark eyes scanning the crowd. He was a strange looking man, handsome and built, but a strangeness pervaded him that Puck couldn’t quite put his fingers on.

“Yeah?” One of the villagers asked. “What is it?”

Puck was interested to know too, but the man paused as if to create suspense that was lost on the villagers. Marlyn leaned into Puck and said: “I bet they want more soldiers for the war.”

“More than likely.”

“Of course. The King has noticed that in the outer regions there has been a lack of proper law and order. He has been informed that some outskirt villages still worship the old gods, and should be brought up to speed on his majesty’s rules.”

“Why does the King give a fuck?” Another villager asked. “We’re just trying to survive and make a living out here.”

The man’s smile was wan. “Yes, well. The King has appointed new generals to oversee the transition and reinforcements of his laws.”

Puck saw Mr Arne emerge from the forge, leaning against the wall of it, another lit cigarette between his teeth. “When will this general arrive?” Mr Arne asked.

There was a murmur when the man on the horse turned his attention to Mr Arne. The man’s smile turned sweeter, trying to turn on the charm.

“I am that General, good man,” said the General.

Mr Arne inclined his head. “You are the General?”

“Yes,” the man replied, like it was an obvious fact.

“Are you sure?”

Puck laughed as the general fought to keep his expression neutral. “I have a signed order by the King, good man.”

“To change our laws?”

“Not at all. Just to ensure that the King’s laws are followed.”

“Which includes changing our gods?” The previous villager asked.

The general raised his hands, placatingly. “I understand it is a lot to take in, but things won’t change overnight. I am here to ensure that all the changes happen smoothly.”

“Is that why your men have swords and crossbows?” Mr Arne inquired with his thick, knowing accent.

The General plastered on a wide, charming smile, looking over every villager with a pleasant expression. “I’m sure we will all work together to bring about this change. It isn’t a hard task your King asks of you, all you have to do is obey and all will be well.”

Before Mr Arne could reply the general clapped his hands together. “Now, my men and I have travelled far and are road weary. We will set up in the Manor house as has been arranged by his majesty. Please, continue with your days. That will be all.”

The crowd dispersed, muttering between themselves. Puck looked at Marlyn who had a tightness to her face. “I don’t like him,” she told Puck. “There’s something not right with him.”

“It’s fine, Mr Arne put him in his place.” Puck said with a small laugh. Marlyn turned to him, her limbs tense.

“It’s easy for you to say! You’re not a woman who breaks the King’s laws everytime you hunt.” Puck’s eyebrows pinched together, opening his mouth to speak, but Marlyn spoke before he could. “Not to mention the tariffs we’ll have to pay to ensure that the General and his men are well fed while they lounge about in the Manor.”

“Hey,” Puck said, grabbing Marlyn’s wrist and holding her palm to his heart. Marlyn softened, her cheeks growing rosy with a blush. “You’re smarter than him. Nobody will rat you out. As far as the general knows, you sell what your father catches. You have nothing to worry about. Under the king’s laws women can be merchants.”

“Or is that just our customs?” Marlyn demanded, her eyes flashing a mix of desperation and anger. Maybe Puck shouldn’t be promising things that he didn’t really understand, but he used to make deliveries with his father in other villages where women merchants were allowed so he just assumed…

“I don’t think it matters who sells goods, Marly. Really.”

“You don’t know.”

Puck set his mouth into a thin line. “No. I don’t.”

Marlyn sighed. Puck rubbed circles over the back of her hand, and Marlyn stepped closer, her face flushing. “You shouldn’t do that in front of the entire village.”

Puck flashed her his charming smile. “Why not?”

“You know why,” Marlyn said with a smile of her own, retracting her hand gently. “Go back to work already.”

“I love it when you’re bossy.”

She shoved him playfully on the shoulder. “Go!”

Puck held his hands up in surrender, already walking backwards towards the forge, not taking his eyes off her. “I’m going.”

Marlyn rolled her eyes, shaking her head before turning back to her own stall across the square. Puck’s smile widened as he turned and walked up the steps of the forge and into the building.

Mr Arne was staring out the window, up the hill where the soldiers disappeared to. “Kingsmen are never good,” Mr Arne grumbled.

“You seemed to handle them just fine,” Puck replied, grabbing the liquid metal from the furnace and setting about work.

Mr Arne hummed disapprovingly. “Hmm. We better keep our heads down, Puck.”

“You can’t seriously be scared of—” Puck began but faltered. His eyes flicking to Arne who was looking over his shoulder at Puck with a grave expression on his face. “But you’re not afraid of anyone.”

“All brave men are afraid,” Arne said with a humph. “And all smart men are cautious. If those kingsmen discover my past—”

“They won’t,” Puck said quickly. Was he the only one in this village that believed there were like one big family? That they were neighbours? And neighbours don’t turn on neighbours. Maybe he was being naive. Maybe Marlyn and Mr Arne saw something that Puck couldn’t, or maybe they were the paranoid ones.

Mr Arne puffed out his chest, looking back out the window. “I hope you’re right, Puck. Gods help us if you’re not.”

[rudamaruda520]

me as a writer

[kzlatkova]

Anyone who's ever done anything creative needs to fucking see this.

[chunkysoup22]

[trekscribbles]

This week, I read a fic that was around 20 years old, which had originally been posted on the author's personal website and which she added to AO3 a few years ago. She listed her email address with the fic, so after I finished reading, I sent her an email saying how much I enjoyed the story, how much I appreciated the work and effort she obviously put into it, and thanked her for uploading it to AO3. She responded the next day and thanked me for my message, then said she had a few more stories in the same series that she hadn't gotten around to uploading. I checked this morning--she added a 35,000 word novella and thanked me in the summary.

👏 comment 👏 on 👏 old 👏 fics 👏

[theaftersundown]

the holy grail types of fanfic

[write-on-world]

[yeepof]

I understand that tall men are our POV characters, but surely being like a foot taller than everyone around them would have some occasional consequences

[sanct1f1ed]

funniest shit is going down on discord rn

[thestuffedalligator]

“Are you the witch who turned eleven princes into swans?”

The old woman stared at the figure on the front step of her cottage and considered her options. It was the kind of question usually backed up by a mob with meaningful torches, and the kind of question she tried to avoid.

Coming from a single dusty, tired housewife, it should’ve held no terrors.

“You a cop?”

The housewife twisted the hem of her apron. “No,” she muttered. “I’m a swan.”

A raven croaked somewhere in the woods. Wind whispered in the autumn leaves.

Then: “I think I can guess,” the old woman said slowly. “Husband stole your swan skin and forced you to marry him?”

A nod.

“And you can’t turn back into a swan until you find your skin again.”

A nod.

“But I reckon he’s hidden it, or burned it, or keeps it locked up so you can’t touch it.”

A tiny, miserable nod.

“And then you hear that old Granny Rothbart who lives out in the woods is really a batty old witch whose father taught her how to turn princes into swans,” the old woman sighed. “And you think, ‘Hey, stuff the old skin, I can just turn into a swan again this way.’

“But even if that was true – which I haven’t said if it is or if it isn’t – I’d say that I can only do it to make people miserable. I’m an awful person. I can’t do it out of the goodness of my heart. I have no goodness. I can’t use magic to make you feel better. I only wish I could.”

Another pause. “If I was a witch,” she added.

The housewife chewed the inside of her cheek. Then she drew herself up and, for the first time, looked the old woman in the eyes.

“Can you do it to make my husband miserable?”

The old woman considered her options. Then she pulled the wand out from the umbrella stand by the door. It was long, and silver, and a tiny glass swan with open wings stood perched on the tip.

“I can work with that,” said the witch.

[inbabylontheywept]

my grandpa was a good man. and it really wasnt his fault - recreationally lying to kids is a proud family tradition - but he told me, once, that cutting a worm in half resulted in two worms.

i think he said it so i'd be more morally okay with fishing? i actually dont remember the context.

point was, he told me this, and he understimated (by a very large margin) how much i liked worms. i was a worm boy. very wormy. and after hearing that, i went home, and i dug through the garden, flipped over every rock, did everything i could to gather as many worms as i could, and then i uh.

i cut them all in half. every worm i could find. all of them. with scissors.

i then took this pile of split worms, and i put them in a box with a bit of lettuce and some water and stuff and went to bed expecting to double my worms overnight. i have math autism, so i had a vague understanding that if i did this just a few times in a row, i would eventually have a completely unreasonable amount of worms.

i was very excited to become this plane's worm emperor.

(i think i was...six?)

anyway, i did not become the inheritor of the worm crown. i instead woke up to a box of dead worms and cried. a lot. i got diagnosed with panic attacks as a teenager, but i think i had them as a kid, i just had no idea what they were. i was kind of processing that a.) i had killed what i had assumed was every single worm in my yard, and thus would have no more worms, and b). i was going to like, worm hell.

(six year babylon spent a lot of time worrying about god.)

so i kind of freaked out, and i climbed a tree, because god can only smite you if you're touching the ground (?) and i sat up there mostly inconsolable until my mom came out and asked, hey, what's up? what happened?

so i explained to her that i had killed all of the worms, forever, and was also Damned, and she took me to the compost pile, and we dug for all of five seconds and found like twenty more worms.

the compost pile was full of worms.

she then told me that a). there were more worms, and we could put them back under rocks and stuff and recolonize our yard and b). that one day, i would die, and go to heaven, and be able to talk to the worms face to face. that i'd be able to tell them all that i was very sorry, and that i killed them on accident, driven only by excessive Love, and that she was positive they would forgive me because worms have six hearts and no malice.

at that point, i think i was sixty percent tear-snot by weight, and i had no choice but to gather enough worms that i could hug them. which my mom helped with. and then after that she helped me put some worms back under each rock.

and for my epilogue: i spent a significant portion of my childhood in trees. and for many years after, even when my mom didnt know i was watching, i would catch her giving the space under the rocks a light spritz with the hose. not because she loved worms.

but because she loved me.

[mintaii]

take responsibility

[biowho]

My housemate's cat came into my room while my dictation was on...

[american-tyger]

ᴇᴢʀᴀ ᴊᴀᴄᴋ ᴋᴇᴀᴛs Artwork from his 1962 book The Snowy Day.

[charbroiledchicken]

if it's good enough for you, then it deserves to be made. don't let anyone else decide if your story is worth it or not.