#now i have back pain no parts in my hair an unavoidable sugar rush and school in 3 hours

[ace-with--a-mace]

just spent 3 hours untwisting and retwisting my hair

[thedeeperlayer]

I was fourteen when I first tasted the sweet, aromatic blend of tobacco, sugars, and ammonia compounds. It was 1998. The year of Clinton and Lewinsky. The year the guy from Die Hard was saving the Aerosmith-adjacent Earth from a Michael Bay Meteorite. 

I was fourteen. Instead of navigating the intolerable 3D world of Hyrule in Ocarina of Time, I was out making an imprudent moron out of myself with an RCA Solid State Image Sensor VHS Camcorder. My idiotic entourage and myself thought we were the uproarious epitome of cool. In actuality, we were ridiculous, annoying fuckwits. I was an absolute pain in the ass.

I'm not going to cock and bull with excuses. I started smoking because I thought I was fucking cool. I had older friends that did it and I dated girls that did it. When my mum found out I was flicking the Bic on the cancer stick, she was both disappointed and somewhat content. Her contentment for my lung corruption behavior was only because it meant she now had a smoking mate.

Mum and Pops didn't always have a harmonious relationship. They would cross swords and oppose each other's views a lot. Mum would complain about Pops never being home. Pops would bewail mum's smoking habit. It was always constant repetition down the same path. Dad never knew I smoked. He would of berated mum and blamed her if he ever found out.

Because of our shared toxic pastime, my mum and I became very close. We discussed all things life. Everything from grace and elegance to the septic shithole bottom. We talked about atrocious dislikes and stupefying satisfactions. We told mindless jokes and gave deep-thought opinions. 

For the sake of storytelling length, let's just say we always had each other's back. 

Unfortunately, the clock ticks, and the hours pass. In a blink of an eye, things are different. I grew up. I got married. I moved. Mum was downhearted and sad. I was the first of her children to leave from beneath her roof. 

I've worked lousey, shit jobs just to make ends. It is indeed accordance with fact, smoking does alleviate stress. I didn't think it was cool to smoke anymore, instead I smoked because my shitty job was an emotional mindfuck. Pounding the coffin nails down my throat made me feel better. 

I didn't want to poison my saclike respiratory organs anymore. I tried quitting. I tried the gum that supposedly calms cravings. I tried the rubber band wrist snap when I had the desire. I tried the ridiculous electronic substitutes. Nothing worked. I thought, fuck it. I didn't want to grow old and become one of the dust bags that retire in Florida anyway.

It was October, 2015. I was just finishing a much needed break from my mediocre job. My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was mum calling. I contentedly answered it. 

She said she had a mass on her lungs. She told me not to be worried, it could be pneumonia. She said she would let me know more tomorrow. 

I instantly broke down and wailed. I could feel that something was extraordinarily wrong. My heart was in excruciating pain. It was exceedingly difficult to finish my shift that night. Every time I was alone, my eyes would swell. It was a long, tedious night.

The following day, I anxiously waited for mum to call. 

Haplessly, she called right before I had to go to work. She said it was stage 4 lung cancer. She told me not to worry. She said she was going to get help. I knew stage 4 was the inevitable. It's treatable, but not curable.

I was so heartsick.

I lit cigarette after cigarette.

My family was devastated. Mum is the support beam that holds my lunatic family's structure together. My brother and sister were in severe shock. Pops was completely shattered. 

The following week, my wife and I picked mum up from the hospital. She was being fitted for a radiotherapy mask. Mum was spiritless. She lacked vigor and enthusiasm. She looked defeated. This was the one time I convulsively, and uncontrollably sobbed in front of her. If you knew mum, she was always resilient and enduring. She was wholehearted, and a matriarch to many. It was challenging to see her in that frail condition. 

I lit cigarette after cigarette.

Mum had sort of a short fringe hairstyle with spiky bangs. She would ornament it with a decorative headband. Often she would dye it golden or honey blonde to hide the off-putting grays. 

The days passed. Weeks. My wife and I made frequent visits. Mum was sitting in her recently purchased stationary style comfy chair. She was wearing a sun-style flat brim cap. Mum never wore hats. “I'm losing my hair,” she said. She lifted a grocery sac where she was accumulating a large cache of her hair. 

Eventually Pops shaved her head. 

My wife and I purchased her a collection of hats.

The holidays came. Thanksgiving. Christmas. Mum always took pride in cooking the meals. She couldn't anymore. She was too weak. She could hardly walk. It was now Pop's responsibility to  prepare the brown sugar glazed ham. She shouted out the recipe to him in the kitchen. “Heat the honey and sugar until it dissolves!” Pops would earnestly urge her not to yell. She was always short-winded and depended on oxygen gas to breathe.  

Christmas morning was grim. Mum kept saying she wanted to have a nice Christmas. “This might be my last Christmas. I want it to be nice,” she despairingly would say. 

We wore smiles but they were fraudulent. Inside we were somber. Cheerless. Gift exchange was dispiriting. We were appreciative, but it was hard to express it. The only audio in the room was the pulling and shredding of novelty wrapping paper. We played unintellectual board games while Mum sat in the living room and stared at the TV. The Hallmark holiday collection was on but Mum wasn't interested. She was disconnected, absent of response. 

My wife and I went home. I lit cigarette after cigarette.

January came and went. February came. Mum had gotten worse. We went to visit her on my birthday. She was without emotion. Unresponsive. Pops struggled to make her recognize my company. She was comatose-like. Pops was in a panic. We rushed her to the ICU. She now had malignant brain tumors. Her recent actions were symptoms. The drowsiness. The constant agitation. 

She was given enough treatment to restore her moral senses. She asked to see me and my wife. Mum was stretched out on a hospital cot. She was buried beneath intravenous lines and hoses. She saw us and smiled. “Watch this,” she gently said. She proceeded with plucking the pulse oximeter from her finger to mortify the doctors. She still had her sense of humor. 

Later, Nurse Ratched impertinently pulled my family away from Mum. She disrespectfully spoke of Mum's unavoidable fate. Ratched told us that Mum will die. She told us to make sure we make the correct decision when the time comes. 

No one in my family wanted to hear that. 

The hospital discharged Mum.

My wife and I went home. I lit a cigarette. I took a drag, hardly inhaling. I breathed in a few more. 

I delve into searches about the great demise on Google. I’m not one who appreciates surprises, so I wanted to be hauntingly prepared. 

As the end approaches, your role is to be present, provide passionate comfort, and remove doubts from your loved one with soothing words and loving actions that help maintain their mental ease and dignity.

The entire evening I fixedly scrutinized my phone screen. It made me overwhelmed with grief. It put me in an unsettling place. It was that night that I accepted that my Mum was actually going to be gone.

Her condition continued to worsen.

It was difficult for her to digest food. She no longer could intake any solids. Pops couldn’t accept the harshness of the situation. He was in rack and ruin. Blatantly, he would hurry to the nearest fast-food establishment and order her a strawberry milkshake. In double time he would speed home to give her the malted treat. She would fiercely vacuum in the strawberry drink through a straw. Clearly she was hungry, but her gasping, pain and abnormal breathing patterns made it difficult for her to swallow. 

Pops told me, the prior evening, he strenuously got Mum into the loo. He proceeded to aid her, however she immediately denied his assistance. “Let me help you,” he despairingly said. “But you're a boy and I'm a girl,” she woefully baffled. 

Delirium. One of the common symptoms observed near death. 

Pops was hysterical. This unforeseen responsibility was so unfamiliar to him. He was terrified. He was frightened to lose the one person he spent his entire life with. 

Again he rushed her to intensive care.

My wife and I were at home. I lit a cigarette. I took a drag and quickly put it out.

Mum was denied anymore treatment. She was recommended hospice care and medically necessary equipment for at-home use. 

Pops thought hospice may not only be valuable to Mum, but also beneficial to him because the workers could assist him through the inexperience and unexpected. We all knew what misery and despair would come next, but Pops was in a idiosyncratic denial. 

Hospice was fucking useless, but more on that a little later.

My wife and I visited her everyday. 

Each day she worsened and disintegrating. 

She was often confused. She would appear asleep, but her breathing would be noisy, congested. She would appear peaceful and at rest, and within seconds she would begin screaming. She would holler agonizing cries. Dad would have to pump her with morphine to tranquilise her treacherous pain.

Day after day, her conditioned intensified. Her skin's pigment distorted to a grayish tone. Her face had depressed and sunken below her eyes. Her lips dried up and shriveled. 

The drainage bag connected to the catheter began to fill with a rust color. 

She had abnormal growths swell in unusual parts of her body.

Day after day we visited. She no longer would move. The congested breathing was the remaining sign of life. We attentively watched over her like this for days. She didn't want to go. She dearly loved her family. The Oncologist asked her, “what do you live for?” Her response was so straightforward and emotionally rewarding. She said, “my family”. Mum was uncomplicated. She lived to be a loving mum and caring wife. She always put her family first. That's who she was. 

She died on August 22, 2016. She battled cancer for seven months. She spent nearly four weeks in hospice care. Only four short instances was Hospice workers available for aid, one of the times being immediately after death. The available nurse plucked an orange Marigold from the neighbors’ garden and lied it in my Mum's cold hands. She called the Funeral Home to coordinate arrangements for pickup and hastily left. 

It was a horrifying experience for my family. Not only for us observing every nightmarish minute, but for Mum too. I can't imagine how afraid she was and how she felt. I just hope it wasn't guilt that resonated with her in her final days. She was the reason my family was so profound and passionate about things. The reason we were all there, again and again, expressing our sorrow and love together.

I haven't smoked a cigarette since her later days in hospice care. 

She was a beautiful, loving person, and we watched her severely weaken and diminish largely because of a lifelong bad habit. I never want to put anyone I love through that, ever again.

[eilonwiiy]

Bookends ; a Witchlands AU

Summary: Iseult det Midenzi never expected to go to a top university, so when her mother falls ill and she is forced to drop out to make ends meet, life has never seemed so unfair. But when she starts working at the local library and is unexpectedly assigned in the Children's Room, a certain monosyllabic man and his thrice-damned demon child start showing up and Iseult begins to wonder if the threads of fate have a plan for her after all.

Ships: Iseult/Aeduan, Safi/Merik, minor Ryber/Kullen (and more... stay tuned!)

Tags: modern AU, college setting, family, friendship, humor, fluff, slow-burn, romance, eventual smut

Read on AO3: here

Tag list: (please let me know if you’d like to be added!) @lseultdetmidenzi

*   .   *   .   *   .   *   .

chapter 1

811.34 Courrier

811.34 Gaines

811.34 Vasiliev

Iseult reached for another book from the cart.  She ran a pale finger along its spine, noting the title vaguely, before settling on the call number at its base.

813.01 Balthazar

Her gaze lifted to the long line of books shelved in front of her, scanning for one in particular, before bending low and craning her neck to read the next row underneath. A twinge of discomfort radiated through her neck protesting the awkward angle, but she stayed hunched over, reading the call numbers until she found what she was looking for.

813 Allein

813.2 Husmond

Ah. She slipped Balthazar’s book neatly between the two titles, then drew herself up with a tired slowness. Stifling a sigh, she rolled her shoulders and let her head loll back before rotating it from side to side. Standing upright was decidedly more comfortable than the 90 degree angle she’d bent in and out of all throughout the day, but no amount of stretching seemed to ease the ache in her neck and back. An unavoidable caveat of working at the Venaza City Library.

Five months ago when she’d taken the job, Iseult det Midenzi had not considered the physical toll books could have on a person. Sure, she had read Eridysi’s Lament enough times to know books could break your heart worse than any one person could. But books existed to exercise the mind. The most Iseult had exerted herself for a book was forcing herself to stay awake long enough to read just one more chapter a dozen or so times before resigning herself to being a filthy liar. And that was admittedly more a testament to her mental willpower than any physical endurance she may have possessed. Besides, the price she paid for a sleepless night was well worth the reward. It certainly didn’t leave her physically disabled.

Yet here she was, 22 and condemned to live in the body of a 90-year-old woman. All because she shelved books for a living.

Safi told her she’d have the ass of a model by the time she quit, what with all the squatting. Iseult had yet to notice any improvements. (Not that she was checking, of course.)

Maybe it really was time to go back to the gym, she thought as she massaged the painful knot at the base of her neck. Finally start going to yoga again like her best friend had been nagging her to do every Saturday morning since school term had started. A year ago it would have been Iseult dragging Safi out of bed at 7 A.M., succeeding only by using the one means of bribery she possessed: the promise of a double chocolate double whip hazelnut macchiato from the campus coffee cart, followed by a hash brown heist from the dining hall. Nothing quite curbed a sugar rush more than an adrenaline rush and some grease.

Iseult dropped her hand. The spot on her neck faded into a dull throb at the thought of her and Safi running from the dining hall, pockets stuffed with hash browns wrapped in napkins and a breakfast sandwich fisted in each hand, while cafeteria staff shouted after them as they escaped with their spoils.

No. She hadn’t stepped foot on campus since she dropped out. She wasn’t about to now. And not just because she and Safi now had copies of their student I.D. photos posted on the community board in the dining hall asking students to keep an eye out for the notorious thieves.

Drop out. There wasn’t an aspect of her life that didn’t seem to revolve around those two words. She could hear Safi scolding her.

“Don’t say that! ‘Drop out’,” she'd said one evening while they closed up her uncles’ coffee shop shortly after Iseult had made the decision. “You didn’t drop out of anything. You made a graceful exit. To do something more noble than any of those old toads sitting cushy in the administration have likely ever done, might I add! They should consider themselves lucky that you’ll even be coming back!”

Iseult fingered through the books on her cart. Well. That had been back in September. It was now January, the first week of second semester had just wrapped up and Safi had changed tactics.  Instead, she ranted about how the collegiate system was the world’s biggest scam, squeezing their generation of every last drop of money and happiness they had, and that she should drop out too just to have the satisfaction in giving Dean Henrick a big FUCK YOU. It was a touching offer, though, not exactly the most ambitious plot for revenge. Safi was running on a free ride. Henrick’s deep pockets wouldn’t be any lighter if she left. He’d still be sitting pretty on the proverbial throne.

“Iseult.”

Iseult looked up to see Evrane gliding down the aisle towards her, thoughts of school and Safi interrupted. As always she was impeccably dressed, from the silver dangling from her ears all the way down to the perfectly polished stilettos she wore. Her long white hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, leaving her bronze face bare, radiant even under the library’s miserable lighting - a feat aided by sorcery, Iseult could only assume. It was a wonder what patrons must think of her roaming the halls, what with her pale moon skin and midnight hair. She looked more like the ghost that was rumored to haunt the library tower.

But Evrane wasn’t the library’s director for her otherworldly cheekbones or dazzling emerald eyes. She was also the sharpest person Iseult had ever met and someone she couldn’t believe she had the privilege of calling a mentor.

Iseult hastily tugged off her earbuds. “Hi Evrane.” Her voice cracked; sshe cringed inwardly. She hadn’t spoken a word to anyone during her 8 hour shift. Evrane didn’t seem to notice.

“How are you, dear?” Evrane asked. She nodded to Iseult’s cart of books. “Tackling the nonfiction, I see.”

“Good,” Iseult replied, this time willing her voice to sound normal. “I’m almost done with the nonfiction, and then I have some books I need to bring down to Children’s. I think someone may have mixed up the carts. My shift ends soon, but I could stick around to shelve them. There aren’t too many but...” She trailed off watching Evrane shake her head, as though amused.

“That won’t be necessary,” she said, then adding, “Pleased as I am with your progress, I was actually wondering how you were doing… How was your trip home?”

Iseult stared blank-face at Evrane. She should have expected this. Evrane had taken to Iseult from the moment they’d met, always seeking her out between bookshelves, pulling her aside to talk about the latest book Iseult was reading or simply inviting her back to her office to join her for tea. Secretly, Iseult was pleased. To have a woman like Evrane be genuinely interested in what Iseult had to say… well.  It was more than she could have dared to hope for.

Which was exactly why couldn’t help asking herself, why?

Iseult never did come up with an explanation for why Evrane hired her in the first place. She could only assume the woman had done it out of pity. Her resume had been woefully thin to the point of being downright pathetic with only her part-time barista gig at Mathew and Habim’s coffee shop to her name. She had no other achievements. No special skills. And of course, now, no academic prospects to boast. Iseult had nothing to offer.

And yet... here Evrane was asking the one question Iseult wished she wouldn’t.

Home was the same as always. Saldonica never changed. It was still the grimy, cut-throat city it had always been, with its streets teeming with crime and illegal trade. That was the accepted way of life there. But it didn’t phase Iseult. She never really considered it home anyway. She hadn’t grown up there. There was only one thing, one person, who made Saldonica home.

Her mother. The true subject of Evrane’s inquiry.

So how was she?

Sick. Very sick. And showing little improvement. Though, she’d probably be worse if not for Alma caring for her day and night. If not for the money Iseult sent home each week to ensure she was getting the medication she needed. If not for her mother’s damned stubbornness to shirk life’s more unsavory aspects and persist in the face of uncertain fate. That in itself was likely aiding Gretchya more than Iseult and Alma’s contributions combined.

“Fine,” Iseult said, expression unchanging. It was automatic. Succinct. Gretchya would have approved.

Evrane merely hummed, bowing her head slowly. As though Iseult’s meager reply required deep and philosophical deliberation. “You know,” she continued after a moment, “I know this,” her eyes panned the bookshelves on either side of them, “wasn’t exactly where you expected to be by now. I am sorry your plans to return to school didn’t work out as you had hoped, Iseult… but I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you that I’m happy to have you with us for a little longer.” Evrane raised a hand to Iseult’s arm and gave it a reassuring squeeze, a gesture that should have been comforting, yet only turned Iseult to stone. “If there’s anything I can do to help, my door is always open.”

Iseult tried to nod. Swallowing suddenly became painful. Speech, impossible. Mercifully, Evrane let go of her arm and changed the subject.

“Now tell me, where is that cart you were talking about?”

“O-oh you d-don’t have to -” Iseult stammered. She immediately snapped her mouth shut. Hell-gates, did she have to stutter like that now?  In front of Evrane!

The woman seemed to take no notice and simply waved a hand. “I am the director of this institution, am I not? I think I am more than capable of handling a couple books.”

“By circulation,” Iseult forced out. Evrane gave her an appreciative smile, then walked away, her silver circlets tinkling prettily in the quiet of the library.

For a moment, Iseult simply stood there, staring down the aisle where Evrane had left. Eventually, she untangled her earbuds and popped them back in. She opened Spotify on her phone and swiped through the playlist she’d been listening to before Evrane showed up. However, after a few minutes of mindless scrolling, stuffed her phone into her back pocket, abandoning her search. Silence filled her ears.

Iseult grabbed a random book off her cart. She read its cover, though not really taking in the the words, and when she went to find its place on the shelf, it was as though she had not read it at all. This happened with every book she picked up over the next ten minutes, and when she finally forgot the author of The Autonomy of Dalmotti - a book she had personally read at least five times - she finally gave up.

Frustration prickled the back of her throat. Gripping the book tight, she leaned her forehead against the oak bookcase. The smell of old paper filled her nose as she let her eyes to sink shut, breathing in the musty air through her nose. What she would give to fall head-first into a book right now...

Stasis, she told herself. Stasis in your fingers and in your toes.

Gretchya sick.

Stasis.

Evrane. Broken words. Broken.

Stasis.

Drop out. Drop. Out. Drop. Out.

Stasis. Stasis. Stasis.

Over and over again Iseult silently whispered this to herself, until a familiar calm resettled in her chest, until every last thread of emotion was pulled tight. Nothing out of place. She took several more slow, deliberate breaths for good measure, then, she opened eyes.

That’s when she saw them.

Through the narrow opening between shelves, Iseult spied Evrane standing by the circulation desk. But it was who she was speaking with that caught Iseult’s attention.

It hadn’t taken Iseult long to familiarize herself with the people who passed through when she began working at the library. Though Venaza City was largely populated, the library had its regulars, and even those who visited only once in awhile had become catalogued in Iseult’s memory like the books she shelved. In fact, on more than one occasion, she found herself recognizing patrons outside of work - an oddly unpleasant experience. She already spent enough time dodging former college peers whenever she ventured out into the city. They now had competition.

That being said, Iseult knew nearly everyone who came to the library. Except for this man talking to her mentor.

Even from behind, there was something striking about him. He towered over Evrane, his imposing figure standing impossibly still in dark form-fitting jeans and a muddy burgundy leather jacket. Iseult wished he’d turn around so she could see his face. Regardless, two features immediately stood out. Or rather, accessories.

First, a blue, opal earring in his left ear. And second, the child held in his arms.

These two things seemed to clash together in Iseult’s mind. The girl, she guessed, was no more than five. A mop of dark hair obscured most of her face with only a red, chubby cheek visible resting on the man’s shoulder. As for the earring, Iseult wasn’t old-fashioned enough to believe men couldn’t wear jewelry. In fact, depending on the piercing’s style and placement, she found them rather appealing. However, the more closely Iseult looked at the gemstone, the more it called out to her as some sort of statement - and not one of the fashion variety. It lent little to the rest of his dark ensemble and stuck out like a sore thumb. It was too ornate. Too deliberate. Something worn out of habit.

Iseult inched forward, bracing a hand along the edge of the shelf as she watched from her hiding place amongst the books. She knew she was teetering on the edge of polite observation and straight-up creeping, but she was too curious to care. Evrane stood close to the young man, too close for him to be an ordinary patron. And there was something in the way that she looked at him that gave her the impression that she wasn’t simply giving him a book recommendation. Even through the warmth Iseult was so familiar with in her expression, she couldn’t miss the urgency in her eyes. Her lips were moving carefully, and she imagined the melodic gentleness of her voice, the same voice that had spoken to her only moments ago. Soft words only meant for him.

As if on cue, Evrane reached for his arm.

Iseult immediately noticed the mystery man’s shoulders stiffen. It was the first indication of life she’d seen from him during the entire encounter. A pulse ticked in his jaw, the only sliver of his pale face she could see. Evrane had stopped talking, but kept her hand on his arm, her thumb gliding back and forth, and appeared to be listening attentively to the man’s response. But as the seconds dragged on, her eyes - never wavering from his - glimmered with a touch of something new. Sadness, perhaps. Her expression dimmed, and eventually the hand holding his arm stopped moving and returned to her side.

Iseult’s nose was practically brushing the books blocking her from view now. Who was this guy? Evrane had never spoken of family or a significant other. On one occasion, she had mentioned a nephew - something about how he’d just returned home after studying abroad. But other than that, no one else. This couldn’t be him, could it? He had a child with him. A child who - Iseult suddenly realized with a jolt of horror - was staring right at her.

“What are you doing lurking in the shadows?”

The Autonomy of Dalmotti dropped to the floor with a rustle of paper and a soft thump as she whirled around. How her best friend had managed to sneak up on her in the dead silence of the library without her hearing, Iseult didn’t know, but the self-satisfied look Safi was pinning her with made her curse the Moon Mother for turning her momentarily deaf.

“If by lurking you mean shelving books,” Iseult replied smoothly, kneeling down to pick up the fallen book as though nothing had happened, “I’m working. It’s kind of in my job description.”

Safi cocked her head to the side, eyebrow arched. “Is spying on hot guys in your job description? Can’t see his face, but the view from behind is certainly enough to go on.”

Iseult felt a rush of unwanted heat flood her cheeks, but aside from that, her face betrayed nothing. Yes, she had been spying. But not in the way Safi thought, and the idea that she had been caught not only by her best friend, but by that strange little girl made her want to tear every book from the shelf and bury herself underneath them.

“What?” Safi persisted innocently as Iseult turned her back to her. She slipped The Autonomy of Dalmotti between two volumes, not particularly caring whether or not that was where it belonged so long as she didn’t have to see the infuriating smirk on Safi’s face. “I don’t blame you. You can’t be expected to stare at dusty, old books all day - no matter how much you love them.”

“Wanna bet?” Iseult muttered. For all her love of the library, she had thought she’d be back in school by now, trading in its dusty, old books for overpriced textbooks.

“I’d love to. Tonight, in fact. At The Cleaved Man.”

“I - ” Iseult began, but Safi’s hand slashed through the air cutting her off and she pointed a finger in Iseult’s face.

“Don’t say you can’t! I’ve barely seen you all week!”

“As if that’s my fault,” Iseult countered, grabbing another book and the opportunity to turn the tables. The last thing she wanted to do right now was spend the night in an overcrowded bar. “Where were you last night? You never came home.”

Safi picked up a book from Iseult’s cart and examined its cover. “Polly’s.”

Iseult paused mid-shelving. “Leopold’s?”

“Mhm.” Safi opened the book, casually flipping through its pages.  Silence stretched.  She looked up. “What?”

“I thought you weren’t going to see him again,” Iseult said, watching her friend carefully.

Safi lowered the book and frowned in confusion. “Not see him? What are you - ?” But as soon as the unfinished question left her mouth, Iseult saw the life in her eyes freeze for half a heartbeat, and comprehension slowly dawned on Safi’s face. A second later, her expression hardened. “Hell-gates, Iz! I didn’t mean him.”

Him. Or as he was known as in their apartment, the Chiseled Cheater. To the rest of the world, he was simply Caden. Handsome, strong-jawed, infuriatingly charming Caden.

Safi gave Iseult a disparaging look before snapping shut her own book and stuffing it onto a shelf where - Iseult noted - it should not be. Now wasn’t a good time to be pointing out mistakes. The hard line of her pursed lips may have grown taut like she was fighting to feign indifference, but Iseult knew when her best friend was hurt. And this time, it was her fault. Safi crossed her arms tightly over her chest.

“Like I’d ever,” Safi huffed, tossing her unruly sun-streaked hair over her shoulder, looking anywhere but Iseult. She let out a strained laugh and shook her head as though the thought of her and Caden together was ludicrous - though, it didn’t stop a tinge of pink blossoming across her cheeks. “Spend the night with him. Honestly, Iz. You know we’ve never - I’ve never -”

Pink turned to a vibrant red as she struggled for words before making a disgruntled noise and giving up.

“Sorry,” Iseult murmured, her expression void of all emotion. “I was just worried.”

Safi finally met Iseult’s gaze. The silence of the library was deafening. Then, she shook her head. “It’s fine,” she relented, and Iseult was relieved to hear sincerity in the statement that was universally known to mean the opposite. “I don’t blame you. I mean... he is Polly’s roommate and it’s me so…” Safi’s eyes darted away self-consciously and she took a fortifying breath, arms unwinding from her chest and hands bracing themselves on her hips. When she spoke next, there was no question as to whether or not they were moving on from the subject of the Chiseled Cheater. “By the time we got out of Two Left Feet and grabbed dinner, it was so late that I just ended up crashing at his place.”

“Two Left Feet?” Iseult repeated.  

“Modern dance," Safi replied, as though this was the most ordinary explanation in the world.

“Oh.” Iseult wasn’t sure what to say to that. “I didn’t know we had a modern dance company.” Or that Safi was interested in modern dance. “Um, how was it?”

“If that’s what modern dance is, then I’m not sure what I’ve been doing at the club all these years.”

“Two Left Feet.” Iseult paused. Her mouth twitched. “Seems like a counterintuitive name.”

“Ohh no trust me, they hit the mark on that one.”

Any hint of a smile left Iseult’s face. “Please tell me you didn’t heckle them.”

Safi’s hand flew to chest and she gasped. “Heckle? Us? Two purebred members of high society like ourselves? You insult me.”

“Don’t scoff. Last year you two almost single-handedly disassembled Pobody’s Nerfect.”

Safi shrugged half-heartedly. “It was an improv show. It’s supposed to be interactive.”

“You made that freshmen kid cry! I could have sworn I overheard him talking about transferring as we were leaving.”

“Audience participation was encouraged!” argued Safi. “Besides, the fact that we even went to their little dance performance was generous enough. You think I wanted to spend the first Thursday night of the semester watching people roll around on the floor trying to sell it to me as art?”

“Then why did you?”

“We were expanding our horizons?” Iseult rolled her eyes and turned back to her books as Safi laughed. “I don’t know. We were walking around campus after class and saw the sign and I was like, “Well, I have nothing else to do” so -” She stopped suddenly, as though a thought had just thought of something. “Should I have texted you? It didn’t even occur to me that you’d want to go to something like that.”

The concern in the question made Iseult pause… which irked her. The concern or the pause, she couldn’t tell which. Maybe because if she had been on campus with her and Leopold, there wouldn’t be a question of whether she’d have gone. Safi would have dragged her in there whether she liked it or not, and Iseult would have gone along with whatever Safi wanted to do as she always did - good idea or not. Modern dance would have been decidedly not. That never stopped Safi, though. Or Iseult.

“No,” Iseult simply answered.

Safi nodded, and though it was almost imperceptible, Iseult saw her lips purse, like she wasn’t entirely convinced. “Next time,” she only promised.

“There’s going to be a next time?”

“You never know.” Safi’s sea-blue eyes flashed mischievously. “Come on, I’ll show you a couple moves I learned at the Cleaved Man.” She gyrated her hips for emphasis, causing Iseult to look away embarrassed on her behalf. This only prompted Safi to bump Iseult’s hip with her own.

“Saf, I wasn’t kidding before,” Iseult insisted, stumbling over her feet as Safi went in for a second, more forceful hip check. “I really can’t -”

“Hey, you owe me after that comment about Chiseled Cheater!”

“30 seconds ago you were saying that I was right!” Really, the grudges this girl could hold. Iseult almost felt sorry for Caden.

Safi heaved a wistful sigh. “You know, if I could come keep you company at work, I would.”

“I’d never get anything done,” Iseult said, gesturing the pile of untouched books on the cart between them.

“Right. As if I’m the one distracting you, you little stalker.”

“I wasn’t -” Iseult began to protest, but Safi was already backing away down the aisle, doing what had to be the world’s worst attempt at the moonwalk.

“I’ll be warming up the car!” Safi whisper hissed, rattling her car keys in the air for emphasis. When she reached the end of the aisle, she spun around on the spot theatrically, and then she was gone.

Iseult shook her head after her ridiculous, wonderful best friend, then peered down at the pile of books in her cart. An hour ago she had been daydreaming of ordering the Arithuanian take-out that Safi never wanted to get and hunker down with one of her all-time favorite books, The Raider King. She’d be in bed by 9 and asleep by 9:15.

So much for that.

It was ironic, really. Safi could rant all she wanted about the injustices of the modern day collegiate system, but no amount of theoretical scheming to take down the patriarchy would change the fact that Iseult missed college.

She missed waking up every day and knowing where she was going and what she was doing. She missed her textbooks. She missed late night cram sessions at the university library with Safi and getting nothing done, aside from gaining 15 pounds from vending machine snacks. She missed misty morning walks to her 8 A.M. seminar. She missed the notes Leopold would pass her during Professor Rosa's soul-killing lectures. Heck, she missed her lectures.

And of course, she missed the dining hall hash browns.

So naturally - naturally - the only thing she didn’t miss about college was the one thing she couldn’t escape.

The college bar scene.

Iseult hadn’t taken Safi seriously when she announced one day just before summer break that she would be getting her bartender license. It seemed to be the thing every college student said the second after they turned 21. For Safi to voluntarily subject herself to 40 hours worth of training courses was enough to give Iseult doubt. However, unlike the rest of those drunk idiots, Safi was true to her word, and in no time, she started bartending at Venaza City’s most popular college bar, the Cleaved Man.

Moon Mother, kill me now, Iseult prayed as she pushed her book cart down the aisle. Its rickety wheels squeaked horridly in the cavernous hall. She cringed inwardly knowing that the second she turned the corner, all eyes would be narrowed on her, silently shaming her for disturbing the peace. Halfway down, though, she hesitated. The wheels grinded to a halt.

Ignoring the sick embarrassment bubbling in her stomach at what she was about to do, Iseult cast a look over her shoulder to make sure Safi was truly gone. Then, she leaned forward and peered between the stacks of books.

The mystery man and his little companion were gone.

[crippledboyfriend]

It’s more clear to me than ever that all I care about coming on tumblr to see is squidbiscuit’s art. I love her interpretation of Jesse and Hanzo and felt inspired to write a little sickfic <3

Aches, 1500 words

Hanzo’s not getting any younger. Fighting illness is miserably difficult for his sore body, but now he finally has a partner he’s comfortable sharing his vulnerability with.

Hanzo woke up in a sweat, his stomach cramping. Part of him knew he needed to get up and be ill, but the half-awake, exhausted side of him tried to convince himself that everything was okay.

He wasn’t sick before he went to sleep. It was probably nothing.

Hanzo was used to getting sensations that started out feeling like completely unavoidable nausea, but with enough willpower, he could hold it all in. This wasn’t something to worry Jesse with.

Hanzo felt a pain in his belly and couldn’t hold back a bit of a grunt. He forced himself to sit up. As he burped, he moved his hand up to his mouth, although he could tell his body was reacting slower than his mind.

Hanzo began to wish that he would throw up. It would probably make him feel better than this.

Hanzo’s back locked up as he doubled over and heaved off the side of the bed. A gurgling noise rose in his throat as a few small chunks left splatters on the hardwood floor. Hanzo allowed himself a bit of vocality as he stomach twitched, slowly trying to let everything up.

“Hanny?” Jesse woke up. “Darlin’, are you alright?”

Hanzo burped, welcoming more puke up. As it rushed past his lips, he burped again. While his body forced itself forward, Hanzo felt a greater, even sharper pain his back.

Jesse heard the sick splash and shot to Hanzo’s side. He rubbed Hanzo’s sweaty back in the dark, wondering what the extent of the mess would be. However, Jesse didn’t say a word. He simply massaged his boyfriends’ shaking body and hoped that he would be done soon.

“I didn’t…” Hanzo’s voice shook. “Know I wasn’t well.”

“Well, as it turns out, I had no idea, either,” said Jesse. “You mind if I turn the light on?”

“A little,” said Hanzo. His ears were ringing, and while his stomach had settled a bit, he was convinced that he threw his back out. While Hanzo wanted nothing more but to be unconscious (and thought he easily could be if he stood up) sleep didn’t seem like it would be able to come easy. He knew he was in for a rough rest of the night.

“Oh, Hanzo, you know I’ve seen worse,” Jesse chuckled and ran his fingers through Hanzo’s hair, hoping to soothe him with the action. “Somebody’s got to clean this up, and ya don’t want it to be you, do ya?”

“Thank you, Jesse.”

The gratefulness in Hanzo’s voice made Jesse a bit upset.

“Poor dear,” Jesse got out of bed and turned on the light.

They both needed a minute to take in what a mess Hanzo had made.

When Jesse tried to make eye contact with his boyfriend, he refused. Hanzo’s face was red, but Jesse doubted it was just from embarrassment.

“Well, ya didn’t get any on yourself.” Jesse commented. Hanzo was silent.

“Need a tissue at least?” Jesse offered, and Hanzo graciously took it.

“You just lean back now, ya hear?” Jesse ordered. “I’ll get to work.”

When Jesse got back from the kitchen with paper towels, he found that Hanzo hadn’t moved. Getting sick was no easier with age.

“Lay back and rest,” Jesse insisted. “What do you think you’re gonna do, hon?”

“Nothing…” Hanzo began to admit. “I just can’t bring myself to lie back down.”

“Whaddaya mean?” Jesse asked as he pressed down on the warm chunks, picking them up with nothing but a few paper towels protecting his hands. He didn’t bring a bin to help dispose of the mess, so he started a small pile of crumpled up, wet paper towels by the mess.

“I think I threw out my back,”

Hanzo worried that maybe he shouldn’t have said anything when he saw the concern in Jesse’s eyes.

“Um, hold on,” said Jesse, unsure of what to do. “I’ll try to help ya when I’m…not touchin’ your sick.”

“I apologise,”

“Don’t be apologisin’, I’m almost done,” Jesse said as he wiped up the last of it. “The floor’s gonna be just fine. I’m only worried about you, Hanzo.”

Jesse picked up all of the dirty paper towels.

“I’ll go get rid of these and wash up,” Jesse said with a promise of, “Be right back.”

Hanzo decided to just stay still and wait. If he didn’t move, his back wouldn’t tense up in pain. It was humiliating, but he’d already admitted what happened to Jesse, and he was being more than nice about it. Hanzo just hoped he’d be better soon so he wouldn’t have to rely on the cowboy so much.

“It’s just a 24-hour virus…” Hanzo told himself, believing that he could will his stomach bug to be short-lived.

Jesse came back and sat on the bed.

“Maybe I could rub this out a bit,” Jesse suggested, putting his strong, calloused hands on Hanzo’s skin. “How does this feel?”

“Good,” Hanzo sighed, and Jesse applied a bit more pressure as he squeezed at his lover’s skin. He continued a slow massage for a few minutes, but then he started to worry that he would hurt Hanzo more if he overdid it.

“Well, pumpkin, howdya think we should go about this?” Jesse crossed his arms. “You need to lay down. What if I try to support ya and tilt you back real slow? Don’t worry, I won’t let ya give up halfway.” Jesse gave Hanzo a wink.

“…alright,” Hanzo winced as Jesse reached around him. His right arm went around his back to his shoulder, and his left slowly pushed him down at his hip bone. Hanzo made a slight noise of pain as Jesse forced him on to his back, but he didn’t express much.

Jesse wiped a bead of sweat off of Hanzo’s forehead before cupping it.

Hanzo felt a bit better on his back, but it was hell getting there. He wasn’t sure how he was ever going to get up again. He pushed that negative thought out of his head and told himself,

“You’re body will ache less when you’re no longer ill.”

Hanzo was shocked at how much pain this bug had put him in, but at least he had Jesse here. Jesse understood him and was always sympathetic. He was the only person Hanzo felt comfortable enough with to show vulnerability.

Jesse clucked his tongue and said,

“I think I should stick the thermometer in you,”

“I feel feverish,” Hanzo admitted, allowing the fussing in his pained state.

Jesse dug around in the bathroom until he found the thermometer. As he reentered the bedroom, he shook down the mercury inside with a few quick, sharp snaps of his wrist.

Hanzo opened his mouth for Jesse, letting him place it under his tongue. Jesse frowned and sympathetically rubbed the top of Hanzo’s hand. He wondered what made his lover sick so suddenly as he watched over him and waited. Whatever it was, it seemed terrible. Jesse didn’t want to end up with this himself.

Jesse slipped the thermometer out from Hanzo’s lips and bent down to kiss them before reading the number.

“101 and a half,” Jesse read. “Once we reach a decent hour, I’ll ask Angie to make a house-call.”

“Is that bad?” asked Hanzo, his entire body starting to feel heavier. He knew the illness was still sinking in.

“Yeah, you’re sick for sure,” Jesse chuckled. “How does your belly feel now?”

“That has shown improvements, but I feel worse overall,” Hanzo admitted, placing a hand on his lower stomach. “I could easily get sick again.”

“In that case,” Jesse brought the trash can to Hanzo’s side of the bed. “I sure hope ya can at least sit up to make it in here, sugar.”

“We’ll see,” said Hanzo as Jesse crawled back in bed and stroked his face.

“Aww, well, please let me help in any way I can,” Jesse took Hanzo’s hand and they both gently squeezed. “I’ll bring that bin right to your face and hold back your hair for ya.”

Hanzo relaxed, but his stomach continued to gurgle.

“Do you think you could get any more sleep?” asked Jesse.

“Yes,” Hanzo felt weak. “If you stay at my side.”

“I’m right here,” Jesse showed concern and touched Hanzo’s stomach. “I’ll be here to help if you spew again. I promise ya that, Hanzo.”

All that could be heard was Hanzo’s tummy, and the ache in his bones kept him from moving to show his other affection. Finally, with heavy exhaustion in his voice, Hanzo said,

“I love you, Jesse.”

“I love you, too.” Jesse’s voice came out as a gentle whisper and he ran his fingers over Hanzo’s beard so gently that it helped ease Hanzo into rest. Jesse worried that Hanzo was holding in a lot of pain, but he took comfort knowing that he was allowed to watch, observe, help. This was the only way Hanzo could even admit that he felt so terrible he was in no shape to be alone, but Jesse still got to be here to assist him the best he could. If Hanzo had to empty his belly any more, Jesse could knew he could help his lover up close and personal without having to jerk around his sore back. Even though Jesse wished he could do more for Hanzo, there wasn’t anybody on the planet that could help Hanzo rest any better than his trusted partner.

[cenniedolls]

“Cedar Gate” Part Four

Part Three

Lilon jumped as they came in, lace and ruffles fluttering as his eyes tracked between them.  The house was almost a disappointment after the way Nerai styled the bog; nearly a fairy-tale after the tentacle-filled horror.  All warm wood and soft fabrics, pretty curtains drifting in the breeze from the open windows, with Lilon in the center of it, wide eyes and pastel layers over his pristine white fur.  Shifter-Kin like Sage, Lilon was as different as could be, especially now, with Sage still grumbling under his breath and dripping mud on the floor.

“Have a seat, dear,” Nerai said, cheerfully shoving Finael into a chair.  The kitchen dining set was tidy, whitewashed wood, set in the patch of clear sunlight coming in through the windows.  “Lilon, would you make us some tea?”

Lilon nodded, gaze still darting between the witch and her guest.

“I’ll help,” Kyprian said, following the bunny as he scurried into the kitchen.  He’d help with just about anything, to put some distance between himself and Finael.

“Me too-” Sage tried, but Nerai cut him off.

“You’ll go wash up,” she instructed.  

“Whose fault is that?” Sage rolled his eyes at her, but slunk back out the door regardless.

It wasn’t particularly soothing, puttering around the kitchen with Lilon, not with the sullen silence emanating from Finael just behind them.  Kyprian snuck a glance over his shoulder at her, but their guest was just sitting stiff and tall in the chair, long dark hair - or was it - tossed over the back.  Nerai was humming, off key and too energetic, arranging plates on the table.

“I made some scones earlier,” Lilon whispered.  His shoulders were nearly up to his ears, and those were twitching uncontrollably, long and soft and a perfect weathervane to his emotions.

Normally Kyprian would be excited to hear that, but all he could manage was a sickly smile as he watched Lilon pour far too much sugar directly into the teapot.

“First things first,” Nerai said with a brisk clap of her hands, as Lilon slid the tea tray onto the table.  Her eyes, steel belying the sunny smile on her face, held him in place when he started to back away.  “Do sit down, Lilon, Kyprian dear.  Anyway, as I was saying, we want everyone to be comfortable!  Leave your coat and shoes at the door, as it were; relax and stay a while!”  She snapped her fingers, fixing Finael in that unavoidable stare, and the shimmery edge to the mercenary’s appearance faded away.  

Finael gasped, the smallest break of composure, and suddenly Kyprian could really see her, like it was the first time.  Nothing changed, exactly, but it was an amazing relief to be able to say for certain that the woman’s hair was just past shoulder-length and golden blonde, that her eyes were bright, sharp green, that her skin was as pale as Kyprian’s own.  

The door crashed open, heralding Sage’s return; he shook water out of his tail as he came inside, an obvious and childish last complaint.  “Did I miss anything?  Oh, thank the Fates, you got rid of that glamour.  I wanted to itch my own eyeballs straight out, bringing her here.”

“Sit, boy,” Nerai said, pointing him to a chair.  That earned her a rude gesture, but Sage sat, slouching in the chair next to Kyprian and fiddling with his collar.

Lilon poured the tea, trembling and refusing eye contact.  Kyprian passed the scones, glad to have something to do with his hands.  Sage shoved one in his mouth, acting so nonchalant it was painful.  Nerai filled half her cup with cream, smiling all the while.  Finael didn’t touch hers.

“Cheers,” Nerai said.  Kyprian lifted his cup.  “Now that we’re all settled, you.”  She pointed to Finael, pausing to drink.  “Tell me who hired a Shapeshifter to come into my bog.”

Silence.

Nerai propped her chin on one hand, teacup dangling from the other as she braced her elbows on the table.  “Why don’t you start then, Kyp.”

Kyprian took a gulp of his tea.  Raspberry and… lavender?  Excessively sweet, but he liked that about Lilon’s tea.  Hardly the thing to be worrying about right now.

“Sort of the usual,” he began, feeling Finael’s eyes burning from across the table.  “She showed up in the inn, asking about the bog, so they sent her to me.  She introduced herself as Finael, and gave me a story about studying exotic plants.  Not a very good excuse, but you know they rarely are, if people even bother.  I assumed she was like the rest of the bounty hunters and adventurers, so I brought her to the edge of the bog, like we agreed.”

“Then the woman knocked him to the ground, just because I was following them,” Sage said, affronted.  “Rude.  That sort of thing’s not part of the deal.”

“That is rude,” Nerai agreed, with a lazy frown at Finael.  “Kyprian is a good boy, you shouldn’t treat him like that.”  

“How good can he be, if he’s working with a witch like you?”

“I’m hurt,” Nerai said, sounding anything but.  “Besides which, I’m asking the questions here.  If you don’t start answering, I can try a less hospitable approach.  You’re the one coming into my home with hostile intent, after all.  But then you’d miss out on Lilon’s scones, and the little bunny really is a good baker.

“Besides,” she added, “I already know about the Vonshertal prince getting busy on my northern border.  What did you expect?”

Finael looked startled by that, for a moment.  “Why would you think I have anything to do with him?”

“Look lady, just because you came in from the south doesn’t mean that’s where you came from,” Sage said.

“Like he said,” Nerai smirked, ignoring the nonsensical way he’d said it.  “I may live in the wilderness, but I know which way the winds are blowing.  The Terasin Empire doesn’t care about me; they’re worried about Vonshertal.  And Vonshertal doesn’t care about me either, but those princes of theirs care about magic, and that’s what I’ve got.  Nobody else is going to hire a Shapeshifter.  I assume you don’t come cheap.”

“It helps that your Prince Miloth hired some regular guys first,” Sage added, ruining Nerai’s air of omnipotence.  “They spilled everything they knew as soon as Nerai got her tentacles onto them.”

“Honestly, it was pathetic.  We tossed them out into the forest after and they just bolted, didn’t even look back.”  Nerai’s tone was gleeful.

“Some people like a little suspension play, but these guys-” Sage cut off under Lilon’s disapproving pout.  “Oh, come on, bunny, that’s hardly-”

“Hardly the point,” Nerai said, and Sage flinched in a way that suggested she had stomped on his paw under the table.

“You’re not exactly one to talk, anyway,” Kyprian whispered, earning himself a wounded glare.  Inappropriate jokes about Nerai’s swamp monsters, that was familiar territory.  Finael looked like she wanted to laugh, at least a little.

“Anyway!  Welcome, welcome, I know you’ve been sent in by foreign powers to learn all my secrets, do have some tea!”  Nerai settled back, and Finael sighed.

“I suppose it was hardly a secret.”

“Hardly,” Narai agreed.

“His Highness hired me to find out more about the source of the magic here,” Final said.  “Prince Miloth wants to know if you can be removed and that power channeled for their war effort, ultimately, but Prince Cayne is also involved, and his goal is more abstract.  They hired me for reconnaissance, essentially, to find out the nature of this magic, although I am under instructions to kill you, if the opportunity arises.”

Kyprian wasn’t exactly surprised that she could say that with a straight face, but it was still shocking to hear said so plainly.

“Lovely,” Nerai said, sweeping a curl off her forehead.  “It’s been ages since anyone worth my time has ventured into my swamp.  Practically boring.  You’re welcome to stay a while; it’s time to visit the Pool anyway.  Learn what you can to tell your Prince Cayne, and if you really think you have a chance of taking me out in my own territory, be my guest.”  Nerai grinned, all teeth.  “One rule.  Lay a finger on anyone else, and you’ll lose it.”

Kyprian had to say he was relieved to hear that, and by the way Lilon’s ears wilted, he was too.  Finael may be far below Nerai’s level in her own swamp, but she was still more than dangerous enough for the two of them.

Finael nodded, and took a bite of her scone.  “These are good,” she said politely, turning to Lilon.  He stammered and flushed, excusing himself to make another pot of tea.

“I’m more worried about this one’s evil big brother, in the grand scheme of things,” Nerai said.  “Compared to your princes.”

“Zetherain is not evil,” Kyprian protested, halfhearted at best.

“Yeah, yeah.  Who knows, if he ever comes back from Merstithe he might be,” Sage quipped.  “At least as evil as Vonshertal’s princes, and way more motivated.”

“Prince Miloth and Prince Cayne are not evil,” Finael retorted.  A chagrined look passed over her face as Sage laughed at her.

“Evil’s a strong word, but I don’t think we’d get along,” he said, with a wolfish grin.  The specific one he used when he wanted people to notice his teeth.  “Point being, we’re not afraid of them; a village boy in the next country over is higher on the list.  Whatever else you learn while you’re here, you can tell them that, when you go back.”

“I’ve never even met a full-blooded Shapeshifter,” Sage complained, “and now when I do, she’s like that?  I’m feeling so disillusioned.”

They’d gotten out of the house at the first opportunity; even with Nerai’s loose truce in place, Kyprian wasn’t comfortable near Finael.  His throat was still sore, and there were bruises forming where she’d thrown him down, he was sure.

“What did you expect?”

“Oh, I don’t know.  A grand entrance.  Somebody swooping down as a dragon and transforming mid-air, something like that.  I’m surprised she’s here at all, though.  From what I know, the only meaningful Shapeshifter populations are super remote - deep in the Crowshed mountains, the Testhartan desert, places like that.”

Kyprian laid back in the pile of rushes they were hiding in, beyond a low hill within earshot of the house.  The crushed plants smelled sweet at he moved, perfuming the air around them.  As he stared into the clear sky, Kyprian couldn’t help thinking that this was about as remote a place as he could imagine.  “How different are they, really?  You can shapeshift yourself, can’t you?”

“Just through the one shape,” Sage quipped, tugging at one of his dark-furred ears.  “That’s confusing enough, around the edges of the change.  I’d rather not try to keep more than that straight.  Anyway, you know how it is - Lilon and I are both Shifter-Kin, but he’s got full fur from the hips down all the time, plus those ridiculous ears, and I can control almost a full change from wolf to human.  He’s more ordinary, that way; more like fauns and centaurs and whatever that reproduce predictable traits.”

Kyprian nodded, not that Sage was looking, and listened to him roll around in the rushes, very much like a large dog.  The sweet smell washed over them, diffused by the soft breeze.  Midafternoon, and the air was nearly still.

“Besides,” Sage said, stopping with his face close to Kyprian’s, “It’s like you and that crazy brother of yours, with your weird pointy ears and predisposition for magic.  A little extra fey, even though your family has lived in that tiny village forever.  You can’t predict that sort of thing, it just happens.”

Kyprian nodded again, some of his hair tugging where Sage had rolled on top of it.  You couldn’t predict magic.  Of course, that’s exactly what Zetherain had left to learn - as much as he could about magic, the patterns and rules of it.

Sage’s tail thumped against the rushes, and he grinned, this one his soft doggy grin that made Kyprian forget the teeth.  “Do you have to go back tonight, Kyp?  Stay a few days; you can come to the Pool with us.”

The heart of the bog - or at least the source of the magic- up in the hills to the east, where the small crescent of mountains curled away from the deep bay dividing the northern coast of the continent from the Vonshertal glacier.  Kyprian had never been there.  He wasn’t sure he wanted to, but right now, in the sunlight rich with that first hint of autumn, hit with the full force of Sage’s most endearing smile, it sounded like a good adventure.  “Sure.”