#red cypress vine care

[foundtherightwords]

The Hollow Heart - Chapter 8

Pairing: Hellcheer, Gothic AU

Summary: To escape her mother's control and the stifling society of Gilded Age New York, heiress Christabel Cunningham impulsively marries Henry Creel, a charming and seductive stranger, and accompanies him to his remote mansion on the West Coast. There, as Henry grows cold and cruel, Christabel must uncover her husband's sinister secret before it's too late. But can she trust Kas, her husband's enigmatic assistant, who seems to be her only ally in this strange place, or is Kas's loyalty to his master stronger than his attraction to Christabel?

Chapter warnings: none

Chapter word count: 4.2k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7

Chapter 8 - Sweet Music and Loud

Christmas drew near. There was no snow, but Christabel was thankful that the cold was keeping the fog at bay. When it got too cold for her daily walk, she busied herself with Christmas decorations, determined to give Creel House a festive air, despite Henry's utter lack of interest.

She was learning to pick her battle with him. Like the matter of finding her a lady's maid—Henry kept putting it off, so she'd stopped mentioning it. After all, she reasoned with herself, they never went anywhere, so there was no need to dress up, and thus no need for a maid. As for Christmas, Henry had flatly refused to go to church for Christmas service or to any of the Christmas concerts in town, but he'd agreed, albeit in an absentminded kind of way, to let her decorate the house. So she'd asked Kas to cut down one of the cypress shrubs of the right size and shape of a Christmas tree and put it up in the drawing room. At least they've come in useful, she thought with grim satisfaction while draping garlands of popcorn and cranberries over the tree.

Kas seemed fascinated with the decorating. He helped her make the garlands, wove some loose cypress branches into wreaths and hung them on doors with red ribbons, and even found some ivy vines to put around window frames. It appeared Henry had never bothered much with celebrating Christmas before. She felt rather sorry for Kas and made a mental note to get a present for him.

For all their efforts, Creel House remained dark and sullen, a Scrooge that refused to be swayed by the holiday cheers no matter how many spirits of Christmas paid it a visit. But Christabel wasn't deterred. Some more decorations, something sparkly to catch the light of the candles, and a good crackling fire in the hearth, and Creel House would be ready for Christmas.

She'd stopped fighting with Henry about her money as well. She'd relented and agreed to transfer her inheritance into his account at a local bank. Since most of her father's bequest was in the form of shares and stocks and would require some paperwork to transfer, she'd offered to put her idle money into the account first. That seemed enough to appease Henry, and he even drove her to the bank himself.

"You shouldn't leave all that money lying in the vault, darling," he said, on their way into the city. "Let me invest it, and I'll give you a much better rate of interest."

Sitting next to him on the passenger seat, Christabel only shrugged. She didn't care what he did with the money, as long as it meant he'd stop nagging her about it. Besides, she was still smarting from his refusal to stay longer in the city for her to do her Christmas shopping.

This annoyance only grew when she saw how the city was decked out for the holidays—even the street lamps were wrapped in tinsels and ribbons. It was strange seeing the familiar sights of excited shoppers hurrying down the streets and Christmas decorations under an unaccustomed blue sky, so different from the gray skies and white snow of New York, yet they still made Christabel so homesick that she almost cried.

But there was nothing to do but accompany Henry into the bank, nodded at all suggestions from Henry and the bank manager, and signed all the papers they gave her. Seeing Henry was in an amiable mood, she convinced him to let her pop into the department store across the street while he wrapped up some business of his own with the manager. She'd spied the shop when they drove up and had been hoping to find some decorations for the tree there, perhaps a present or two as well.

There was so much to see in the store—she didn't realize how much she'd missed such a simple, frivolous activity as shopping—that Christabel only became aware she'd been inside for too long when the clock struck twelve. Henry was certainly going to be angry with her; she was surprised he hadn't come in to drag her out himself. She quickly paid up and reluctantly left the store with her purchase.

Crossing the street, Christabel soon found out why Henry hadn't come to find her—he was locked in an argument with an older man.

"I'm telling you, you're mistaking me with someone else," Henry was saying, in the same even tone he'd used with that man, Thompson, on the train.

"I'm not mistaken!" the other man shouted. "I'd recognize you anywhere, you bastard! You have not aged a day!" He must be in his forties at least, disheveled, with unkempt blonde hair hanging limp about his face, a scruffy mustache, and a desperate look in his blue eyes.

Their raising voices had started to draw attention, and the bank manager and a guard were coming out to see what the commotion was.

"Sir, please stop harassing our customer," the manager said to the older man. "This is a place of business. If you don't leave, I shall have to call the police."

"Call them then," the man said. "I'd love to have a word with them as well. Tell them to arrest this—this criminal"—here he poked a dirty-nailed finger in Henry's direction—"on charges of kidnapping and murder!"

"The man is clearly insane," Henry told the manager in a low voice, but the other man still heard.

"Insane, am I? Let's see how insane I can be when I tell the police that you've kidnapped my sister!" His eyes landed on Christabel as she ran to Henry's side. "Or have you found someone to replace her already? It's been what, nearly fifteen years now?"

"Sir, Mr. Creel has been an esteemed client of our bank for nearly a decade," the manager said, stepping between the man and Henry with a placating gesture. "I can assure you, whatever you're accusing him of—"

"His name is not Creel!" the man shrieked, making a lunge for Henry. "His name is Ballard, Peter Ballard! What have you done to my sister, you son-of-a-bitch? What have you done to Maxine?!"

The manager nodded at the guard, who quickly stepped in, seized the older man by the arms, and marched him away.

"No, listen to me!" the man screamed, trying in vain to fight off the burly guard. "His name is not Creel! He's Peter Ballard! I'm not mistaken! He still looks exactly as he did fifteen years ago!"

Those screams reverberated through the street, as clear as day, even as he disappeared around the corner.

"Are you all right, ma'am?" the bank manager asked, holding Christabel's elbow.

"Yes, thank you," she answered shakily. Somehow she'd managed to keep hold of her shopping.

Henry did not spare her a glance. He nodded brusquely at the manager's apology and reassurance that it would not happen again, got into the car, and started the engine, forcing Christabel to scramble to follow him or be left behind. It was like the train trip all over again. She was frightened out of her wits, and he saw nothing but his own anger.

It wasn't until they were halfway back to Creel House that Henry exploded. "That is why I don't like going into the city," he said through gritted teeth, gripping the steering wheel so hard that Christabel was afraid he was going to pull it clear off. "It's full of lunatics!"

Christabel wanted to point out that Henry seemed to have a talent for attracting lunatics whenever he went, but she knew it would be a good way to direct his anger toward herself. So she stayed quiet, while the island with its perpetual shroud of fog loomed in the distance.

***

On Christmas Eve, Christabel tried her best to be cheerful, but she could feel her spirit wilting just like the pitiful tree standing in the corner of the drawing room. Despite her efforts, it still looked bare and even more scraggly than it had outside. The strings of popcorn were ragged like the teeth of some long-dead animals, the cranberries shone dully like dark drops of blood, and the glass baubles, imported from Germany as the proprietor had assured her, which had shone with such brilliance in the store, now seemed gaudy, out of place. No present adorned its base save for the one she'd bought Henry. She'd sent her mother a Christmas card and a letter but received no reply. When she asked Henry if they should give Kas a present as well, he'd waved his hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it," he'd said. "I've given him a Christmas bonus."

She hadn't asked whether he had a present for her.

After dinner, she could no longer stand the thought of the single, lonely box under the tree, so she retrieved it and placed it in front of Henry, who was finishing up his port in the dining room. "Here you go, darling," she said. "It seems rather silly to wait until tomorrow."

Henry barely glanced at it. "What's this?"

"Your present, of course!"

He tore off the wrapping paper, revealing a silk cravat and a cravat pin set with a ruby. "It matches mine, see?" she said, holding up her stained glass rose pendant.

"Yes, very nice, darling," Henry said absently, draining his glass of port and getting up.

"Aren't you going to try it on?" She tried to smile, but tears were stinging the corner of her eyes.

"What for? We're not going anywhere. Now, are you finished with this Christmas nonsense? I have work to do."

He went upstairs, and a moment later, she heard the attic door slam shut.

Alone in the dining room, surrounded by the torn paper, with the cravat and the pin tossed carelessly on the table, Christabel took a deep breath, waiting for the tears to flow, but they didn't come. They were caught in her chest by wounded pride and by anger, anger at Henry for his utter indifference, and at herself. Had she really thought that he would've behaved differently, just because it was Christmas? How naïve could she be? 

Not wanting to go upstairs to her dark room and its ghosts, and unwilling to let Kas see her crying over silly little presents, she gathered up the cravat and the pin and went into the drawing room. The tree with its incongruous ornaments stood like a silent reminder that no matter what she did, it would never be good enough. Everything and everyone in this house was rejecting her.

She had to do something, she had to scream or break something to get rid of the iron fingers squeezing her throat, of the unshed tears burning her eyes. Storming over to the tree, she grabbed one of the glass ornaments that she had chosen with so much care and excitement, and hurled it to the hardwood floor. It exploded into thousands of tiny pieces, glittering like shards of starlight in the flickering flame of the candles.

The sharp pop of the ornament shattering made Christabel realize how childish she had been. Suddenly exhausted, she knelt down and reached for the little broom and shovel by the fireplace to clean up the pieces. That was when her eyes alighted on a large parcel under the tree, which she hadn't seen when she'd come into the room. She was quite certain it hadn't been there when she'd gone in to get Henry's present.

Christabel pulled the parcel out and placed it on the hearthrug. It was rectangular, quite heavy, and wrapped in ordinary brown paper, with a label that said "Mrs. Henry Creel, Creel House, Outside Lands, San Francisco" in an unfamiliar hand. There was no return address. Somebody must have sent it to her, and Kas had put it under the tree for her during dinner. But who? Not her mother or any of her old friends from New York, surely. They had all cut her off.

She unwrapped the parcel impatiently. The wooden lid of a box or a small trunk showed underneath. As soon as enough of the paper was peeled off, she unclasped the lid and lifted it up. Inside the box was a phonograph, along with about a dozen wax cylinder records.

Heart beating faster with excitement, Christabel assembled the phonograph and slipped a wax cylinder into place. As the first soft notes of "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing" flowed from the horn, the lump in her throat immediately vanished and she almost burst into tears, though they were tears of joy this time. It seemed too long since she had heard anything other than the murmurs of the sea, the moans of the wind and the foghorns, and the echoes of her own thoughts. She'd almost forgotten how soothing music could be. Under its magic, even Creel House seemed to change. The tree looked charming and festive, and the dark was no longer sinister and oppressive but cozy and comforting.

She sat on the hearthrug with her arms around her knees and listened to all the records. When the clock struck twelve, she went up to her room, got ready for bed, and listened to them again. There were popular songs, carols, and little pieces of orchestral music. Each was only about two or three minutes long, but it was more than enough to ease her mind and fill her heart.

Most of the records were labeled with the names of the songs on them. The last four, however, were unlabeled. They contained guitar music, gentle melodies like the pattering of summer rain on a window. But now, in the quietness of her bedroom, as she listened to them again, Christabel noticed another sound in the background, a strangely familiar one. She played the records once more, putting her ear close to the horn in case she'd misheard. No, it was faint but unmistakable—the sound of foghorns. Two sharp, quick ones, followed by two more, slower and lower. The same foghorns that had been bellowing outside her windows, haunting her dreams.

Those records had been made here, at Creel House, or at least somewhere very near here.

By who? There was only one person who could have made them, and it wasn't her husband.

Christabel went to her window and looked out. The lighthouse was dark. She thought about going down into the hothouse, or perhaps the kitchen, but decided against it. Questions and answers would have to wait until the next day. For now, she let herself get lost in those sweet melodies once more and drifted off to sleep with more ease than she had in over a month.

***

Christabel woke with a strange but pleasant lightness. It took her a while to figure out why she felt that way—she'd slept through the night without being woken by nightmares. She wondered if the music had anything to do with it.

As soon as she finished breakfast, she took the present she'd bought for Kas and went down to the lighthouse. She knocked quietly on the peeling door, her stomach turning with something quite different from its usual cramps. It was apprehension, she knew. After the gruesome story she'd heard about Patrick McKinney's death, the lighthouse had taken on a sinister air for her, as sinister as Creel House itself. She didn't know what she was going to find inside. And how Kas would react.

"Yes?" came Kas's voice from behind the door.

"It's Mrs. Creel. May I come in?"

There was a pause, then she heard the sound of a chair being pushed back, and the door opened a crack. "I'm sorry," Kas said. "I can't open it any further. It's quite sunny out today. Please, come in."

"It's all right," replied Christabel, slipping through the door. "Thank you."

For a moment she stood silently, taking in the inside of the lighthouse. She wasn't sure what she had been expecting. An extension of Creel House, perhaps, only even more dilapidated. But this funny little circular room had nothing in common with Creel House, except for the thick curtains at the window.

For one thing, it was light and airy, despite the curtains. The whitewashed walls, the candles blazing on every available surface, and a glowing stove gave it a homey, cozy air. An old armchair with stuffing coming out of the back, a small table by the stove, and a little bed behind it made up all the furniture in the room. The rest was taken up by books, books on shelves nailed to the wall, books on the floor by the chair and next to the bed, and on the chair and the bed themselves as well. Scattered here and there on the shelves were little curios, shells and fossils and even little animal skulls, peeping out from between the spines of the books. Somehow they managed to look friendly and inquisitive, despite having no eyes and no flesh. A spiral cast-iron staircase took up most of the back wall. It, too, had been commandeered as an impromptu bookcase.

"What's upstairs?" Christabel asked, pointing at it.

"The lamp room. But it's not used anymore. Nothing up there but bats now."

There was even a little Christmas tree on the table, a miniature cypress draped with popcorn and cranberries, quaint and charming, a far cry from its bedraggled cousin in the big house. "That's nice," said Christabel.

Kas shrugged. "I thought I'd get into the holiday spirit as well. Is there something you need?" he asked, watching her with a half-curious, half-wary look. "Do you wish to change something about Christmas dinner? I have everything ready as you've ordered."

"No, I don't need anything." Christabel hesitated, wondering how to bring up the phonograph in a polite way. She looked around at all the books. "Have you read all of these?"

He nodded, his eyes still fixed on her questioningly. She picked up a book on the table—Coleridge. Kas must have been reading it when she knocked. There was a seagull feather between the pages, and when she opened to the bookmarked spot, the familiar lines of "Christabel" met her eyes. She raised her eyebrows at Kas, and he responded with an embarrassed little smile.

"I've always wanted to know what happens to her, to Christabel," she said, putting the book down. "I wonder why my father named me after an unfinished poem."

"Perhaps he wished for you to finish your own story."

She hadn't considered it that way. The distant memory of her father suddenly became much nearer and dearer to her.

"I came to say thank you for the phonograph and the records," she said. "They're from you, aren't they?"

A faint touch of pink flushed Kas's pale cheeks. "Well, you mentioned that you miss music, so when I saw it for sale... Was that too forward of me?"

"No, not at all," she quickly said. "I'm touched that you remember. Still, it must have cost a lot."

The moment she mentioned it, Christabel realized how tactless it was of her, but Kas didn't seem to notice. "I have nothing else to spend money on," he said with a shrug.

"And some of those records are you playing, right?"

He nodded again, looking embarrassed. "If you don't like them, I can shave them clean and record something else—"

"No," she interrupted, "I love them."

Kas smiled again, just a flash, but it lit up his whole face.

"Where did you learn how to play?"

"From a Spanish missionary, when we first came to San Francisco."

"And is that your guitar?" Spotting the instrument leaning against the bed, Christabel picked it up without waiting for Kas's answer. It was clear that he took great care with the guitar, for the wood glowed like honey, and every tuning key gleamed. The words "Dragon Slayer" were carved into the body. She looked at Kas, amused. "You name it?"

Another quick grin flashed across his face, and for a moment, he looked almost boyish with enthusiasm. "You know how the knights in the old legends often name their swords, like Excalibur and Night's Edge and Protector of the Realm and things like that?" he said. "This is the same."

"The guitar is your weapon?"

His eyes darkened with a strange shadow. "Some monsters can be vanquished by music," he said enigmatically.

Christabel thought of how light and refreshed she'd felt that morning, how the ghosts seemed to have kept their distance all night. Is that why you gave them to me? Or is it a mere coincidence? She looked into Kas's eyes. The candles were brightening them into a soft brown, making them shine as brightly as the guitar. Something in his gaze sent a strange warmth coursing through her, burning her cheeks and making her chest flutter. She turned away, searching for a source of diversion.

"Where did you find these?" she said, pointing to the skulls.

"In the woods, on the beach. Anywhere during my travels with Mr. Creel, really."

"Why do you collect them? Most people would find them macabre."

"Would they?"

"Of course. Death is frightening." She thought of Henry in his Red Death costume.

"Is it? I don't think so. I think it's beautiful. If nothing dies, nothing grows. Death means a new beginning."

She stared at him in wonder. Henry had also said things like that when they'd first met, but always with such pomposity, as though he was proclaiming some grand wisdom. Kas sounded like he was stating a simple fact. Who was this man, who was a servant and yet didn't act like a servant, who could say such beautiful things in such an understated way, who confounded her and comforted her at the same time?

She was so flustered that she'd almost forgotten her true reason for coming to the lighthouse, and only when she put her hands in her pockets for want of something to do that she remembered it. She took out the little paper package.

"I wanted to give you this as well," she said. "Your Christmas present."

Kas's face lit up with disbelief. "You didn't have to—"

"No, please." She gestured for him to open the package. "It's my pleasure."

Kas undid the paper. Inside was a pair of leather gloves, lined with fur. Christabel had agonized over what to give him, something that was personal enough without being too personal. When she saw the gloves advertised in a catalogue, they had felt just right.

"I hope they fit," she said. "I notice that your hands are always cold, so..." She trailed off, for Kas was still bent over the gloves, running his fingers over the soft leather, and she couldn't see his face. Was he angry? Had she offended him again? "I'm sorry," she said uncertainly. "I must have overstepped. I didn't mean—"

"No." He finally looked up, and she was taken aback by what she saw on his face. He seemed on the verge of tears. "No, you didn't do anything wrong. It's just—I've never gotten any presents before. Thank you." He tucked the gloves into the inner pocket of his jacket. "Thank you," he repeated, hand tentatively reaching out for her.

Thinking he wanted to shake her hand, Christabel gave it to him. But he didn't merely shake her hand. Taking her hand in both of his, he held it for a long time, caressing her fingers just as he'd caressed the gloves. His hands were warm now, and their gentle touch sent her nerves all fluttering, from the tips of her fingers to her chest, from her chest to her stomach, and from her stomach to her knees, making her tremble and breathless. Then, to her astonishment, he turned her hand over and pressed his lips to her palm briefly, before squeezing her fingers closed and laying them against his cheek for a moment, as if to trap the kiss in her hand.

A bell above the door rang loudly, shrilly, and Kas dropped her hand like a hot coal.

"Mr. Creel is ringing for me," he said. "I must go." He took down a cloak from its hook behind the door, which covered him from head to foot. But even this wasn't enough—he also picked up a large parasol. Thus equipped, he opened the door wide to let in the brilliant sun and stood by, waiting for her.

"Well, Merry Christmas," Christabel said unimaginatively and went out. Even then, she didn't return to the house right away but remained in the garden, watching Kas hurry across the sunlit space under his dark cloak and parasol, while her palm still tingled with the memory of his kiss, as though she'd been touched by the gentlest brand of all.

Chapter 9

A/N: Kas's guitar is based on Eddie's acoustic guitar, which has "This machine slays dragons" painted on it (which, in turn, is based on Woody Guthrie's "This machine kills fascists" guitar.)

[wallpapernifty]

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[wiley-treehouse-gardens]

One of my cypress vines is finally blooming!!!!

Just one so far but now I can officially say it flowered!

7/22/21

[shiningdesignersreflections]

Chapter 3: Dawn of Faith

Narrated by Loen.

Narrator: After I walk Uncle White home, I return to the station.

Narrator: Having asked the soldier on duty, I find the conductor of an army train in the tavern next to the station.

Loen: Conductor, a word?

Narrator: The conductor glances at me and continues to drink.

Conductor: Kid, why do you bother to find me instead of going to school?

Loen: I know the train on the opposite platform is heading north. So can you let people on the train?

Loen: Losol City is where they get off.

Conductor: Huh? Come again?

Conductor: Hahahaha, just what was this pipsqueak saying?

Narrator: There’s a burst of laughter in the tavern and everyone looks over.

Conductor: Are you a dull Jack? Civilians are not allowed on an army train. Beat it.

Narrator: He waves the bottle and tries to push me away.

Narrator: I manage to dodge his bottle.

Loen: The army regulations say to facilitate the evacuation of civilians. Have you forgotten that?

Conductor: You twerp!

Narrator: He gets a little irritated and glares at me fiercely.

Narrator: Having grown up with my father in the Revolutionary Army, I know too well that I must not back down at the moment.

Loen: This is the order that has reached each station three months ago. You must know that.

Conductor: ...

Conductor: It’s a special time, and no one’s there to do the check-up for safety’s sake, got it?

Conductor: Then get off my face. Or I’m gonna put you in the nick!

Loen: Sir, I volunteer to do the check-up and headcount.

Narrator: I stand at attention and look into his eyes seriously.

Narrator: The conductor measures me carefully and remains silent for a moment.

Loen: I can do it well. Please leave it to me.

Conductor: Tsk, alright... You do that. If there’s a problem with the final list, everyone gets off, are we clear?

Loen: Yes, sir.

Narrator: I thank him, then quickly take off to inform the townspeople and prepare the list.

Narrator: At noon the next day, the townspeople’s evacuation goes as planned.

Loen: Hold up, you’re not on the list.

Passerby: ...Yes, I am. Take a closer look... I... I’ll excuse myself.

Narrator: I stop him.

Loen: I remembered. Your name’s Josen? You should be on the train in the opposite direction.

Conductor: Loen, what’s wrong?

Narrator: The conductor shouts from afar to check the situation.

Narrator: Josen gives me a fierce look and quickly runs off the platform.

Choose either “You seem to have his grudge” or “Where will he go?”

If “grudge,” ...

You: You seem to have his grudge.

Narrator: Well, I guess. Isn’t it a little too bad?

You: Your face doesn’t look like that...

If “go,” ...

You: What does he want? Where will he go?

Narrator: Maybe he doesn’t know it himself either.

--

Narrator: The train is about to depart, and I’m checking everyone’s name and luggage for the last time.

Loen: After you get off at Losol City, you buy a train ticket to Cloud Empire.

Herder: So we’re gonna abandon Westburg like that? What does the future hold?

Loen: The war will end. When that day comes, we return. Westburg will always be our home.

Reddish: When will big sister come back? Dad, now we’re gone, what if big sister can’t find us when she returns?

Narrator: Uncle White’s eyes somewhat reddened, not knowing what to say.

Loen: Reddish, look what this is.

Narrator: I reach out and hand over a red cypress vine flower.

Reddish: Brother Loen...

Loen: The train is leaving for a beautiful place, where there are a lot of pretty flowers, just like your name.

Loen: Your sister Snownight will like it, too. Don’t you want to see it?

Reddish: I do...

Loen: It’s a long, long journey. You have to take care of mom and dad, okay?

Narrator: She nods, ignorant. I tuck the flower onto the ear of Reddish and smile at her.

Narrator: I finally glance at the carriage and remember in my heart every face that trusts me.

Loen: The past six months, thank you for everything you’ve done for me.

Loen: About the questions yesterday, I cannot answer them right now.

Loen: But one day, I will.

Narrator: Heels together, chest out, I give a salute to everyone, turn around, and get off.

Uncle White: Loen! Where are you going?

Narrator: I look at Uncle White.

Loen: Where the answers are.

Uncle White: ...You, you’ve grown up.

Narrator: Uncle White pulls out something from his chest, reaches out, and hands it to me.

Narrator: I spread out my palm and take the parting gift.

Narrator: Hard and sharp, it’s now resting in my palm with smoke of gunpowder and faith tens of thousands of miles away.

Narrator: I clench the bullet firmly.

Uncle White: Be sure to come back!

Narrator: I put my hand on my chest and smile at Uncle White.

Narrator: Then I turn around, get through the platform, and walk towards the conscription train bound for the battlefield.

Narrator: The conductor leans against the door with a cigarette, apparently having been waiting here long ago.

Conductor: Shrimp, you don’t look like you can go to war.

Loen: I can! I can use a gun!

Choose either “How old are you?” or “You, joining the army?”

If “old,” ...

You: How old are you? That’s the battlefront!

Narrator: But I’m ready. Don’t you believe it?

You: I can feel the faith and determination you’ve put into it.

If “army,” ...

You: You’re going to join the army? Is that really good?

Narrator: This is something I have to do.

--

Conductor: Tss, small fries.

Loen: I am willing to fight for independence.

Narrator: In the winter of war, I want to go to the front with the faith of independence.

Narrator: The conductor glances at me and throws a gun.

Narrator: I reach for it, unload the magazine, and load the bullet of Snownight in the innermost chamber.

Conductor: ...Good. Let’s go.

Narrator: Cigarette butt pinched off, the conductor pats me on the head and moves to the carriage.

Loen: Yes, sir.

Narrator: I hop on the train and the whistle sounds.

Narrator: The sun falls on the wind and passes through the carriages.

Narrator: I know that what’s on my mind is not a moment of impulse.

Narrator: The call of the country does not come from anywhere. It comes from within.

Narrator: I set off with questions and faith, and I’m sure I will come back with answers and dawn.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

[mystacoceti]

AN OCTOPUS

of ice. Deceptively reserved and flat, it lies “in grandeur and in mass” beneath a sea of shifting snow dunes; dots of cyclamen-red and maroon on its clearly defined pseudopodia made of glass that will bend—a much needed invention— comprising twenty-eight ice fields from fifty to five hundred feet thick, of unimagined delicacy.

“Picking periwinkles from the cracks” or killing prey with the concentric crushing rigor of the python, it hovers forward “spider fashion on its arms” misleadingly like lace; its “ghostly pallor changing to the green metallic tinge of an anemone-starred pool.” The fir trees, in “the magnitude of their root systems,” rise aloof from these maneuvers “creepy to behold,” austere specimens of our American royal families, “each like the shadow of the one beside it. The rock seems frail compared with their dark energy of life,” it’s vermilion and onyx and manganese-blue interior expensiveness left at the mercy of the weather; “stained transversely by iron where the water drips down,” recognized by its plants and its animals. Completing a circle, you have been deceived into thinking that you have progressed, under the polite needles of the larches “hung to filter, not to intercept the sunlight”— met by tightly wattled spruce twigs ”conformed to an edge like clipped cypress as if no branch could penetrate the cold beyond its company”’ and dumps of gold and silver ore enclosing The Goat’s Mirror— that ladyfinger-like depression in the shape of the left human foot, which prejudices you in favor of itself before you have had time to see the others; its indigo, pea-green, blue-green, and turquoise, from a hundred to two hundred feet deep, “merging in irregular patches in the middle lake where, like gusts of a storm obliterating the shadows of the fir trees, the wind makes lanes of ripples.” What spot could have merits of equal importance for bears, elk, deer, wolves, goats, and ducks? Pre-empted by their ancestors, this is the property of the exacting porcupine, and of the rat “slipping along to its burrow in the swamp or pausing on high ground to smell the heather”; of “thoughtful beavers making drains which seem the work of careful men with shovels,” and of the bears inspecting unexpectedly ant-hills and berry bushes. Composed of calcium gems and alabaster pillars, topaz, tourmaline crystals and amethyst quartz, their den is somewhere else, concealed in the confusion of “blue forests thrown together with marble and jasper and agate as if whole quarries had been dynamited.” And farther up, in stag-at-bay position as a scintillating fragment of these terrible stalagmites, stands the goat, its eye fixed on the waterfall which never seems to fall— an endless skein swayed by the wind, immune to force of gravity in the perspective of the peaks. A special antelope acclimated to “grottoes from which issue penetrating draughts which make you wonder why you came,” it stands its ground on cliffs the color of the clouds, of petrified white vapor— black feet, eyes, nose, and horns, engraved on dazzling ice fields, the ermine body on the crystal peak; the sun kindling its shoulders to maximum heat like acetylene, dyeing them white— upon this antique pedestal, “a mountain with those graceful lines which prove it a volcano,” its top a complete cone like Fujiyama’s till an explosion blew it off. Distinguished by a beauty of which “the visitor dare never fully speak at home for fear of being stoned as an impostor,” Big snow Mountain is the home of a diversity of creatures: Those who “have lived in hotels but who now live in camps—who prefer to”; the mountain guide evolving from the trapper, “in two pairs of trousers, the outer on older, wearing slowly away from the feet to the knees”; “the nine-striped chipmunk running with unmammal-like agility along a log”; the water ouzel with “it’s passions for rapids and high-pressures falls,” building under the arch of some tiny Niagara; the white-tailed ptarmigan “in winter solid white, feeding on heather-bells and alpine buckwheat”; and the elven eagles of the west, “fond of the spring fragrance and the winter colors,” used to the unegoistic action of the glaciers and “several hours of frost every midsummer night.” “They make a nice appearance, don’t they,” happy seeing nothing? Perched on treacherous lava and pumice— those unadjusted chimney pots and cleavers which stipulate “names and addresses of persons to notify in case of disaster”— they hear the roar of ice and supervise the water winding slowly through the cliffs, the road “climbing like the thread which forms the groove around a snail shell, doubling back and forth until where snow begins, it ends.” No “deliberate wide-eyed wistfulness” is here among the boulders sunk in ripples and white water where “when you hear the best wild music of the forest is is sure to be a marmot,” the victim on some slight observatory, of “a struggle between curiosity and caution,” inquiring what has scared it: a stone from the moraine descending in leaps, another marmot, or the spotted ponies with glass eyes, brought up on frosty grass and flowers and rapid draughts of ice water. Instructed none knows how, to climb the mountain, by businessman who require for recreation three hundred and sixty-five holidays in the year, these conspicuously spotted little horses are peculiar; hard to discern among the birch trees, ferns, and lily pads, avalanche lilies, Indian paintbrushes, bear’s ears and kittentails, and miniature cavalcades of clorophylless fungi magnified in profile on the moss-beds like moonstones in the water; the cavalcade of calico competing with the original American menagerie of styles among the white flowers of the rhododendron surmounting rigid leaves upon which moisture works its alchemy, transmuting verdure into onyx.

“Like happy souls in hell,” enjoying mental difficulties, the Greeks amused themselves with delicate behavior because it was “so noble and so fair”; not practised in adapting their intelligence to eagle traps and snowshoes, to alpenstocks and other toys contrived by those “alive to the advantage of invigorating pleasures.” Bows, arrows, oars, and paddles, for which trees provide the wood, in new countries more eloquent than elsewhere— augmenting the assertion that, essentially humane, “the forest affords wood for dwellings and by its beauty stimulates the moral vigor of its citizens.” The Greek like the smoothness, distrusting what was back of what could not be clearly seen, resolving with benevolent conclusiveness, “complexities which still will be complexities as long as the world lasts”; ascribing what we clumsily call happiness, to “an accident or a quality, a spiritual substance or the soul itself, an act, a disposition, or a habit, or a habit infused, to which the soul has been persuaded, or something distinct from a habit, a power”— such power as Adam had and we are still devoid of. “Emotionally sensitive, their hearts were hard”; their wisdom was remote from that of those odd oracles of cool official sarcasm, upon this game preserve where “guns, nets, seines, traps and explosives, hired vehicles, gambling and intoxicants are prohibited; disobedient persons being summarily removed and not allowed to return without permissions in writing.” It is not self-evident that it is frightful to have everything afraid of one; that one must do as one is told and eat rice, prunes, dates, raisins, hardtack, and tomatoes if one would “conquer the main peak of Mount Tacoma, this fossil flower concise without a shiver, intact when it is cut, damned for sacrosanct remoteness— like Henry James “damned by the public for decorum”; not decorum, but restraint; it is the love of doing hard things that rebuffed and wore them out—a public out of sympathy with neatness. Neatness of finish! Neatness of finish! Relentless accuracy is the nature of this octopus with its capacity for fact. “Creeping slowly as with mediated stealth, its arms seeming to approach from all directions,” it received one under winds that “tear the snow to bits and hurl it like a sandblast shearing off twigs and loose bark from the trees.” Is “tree” the word for these tings “flat on the ground like vines”? some “bent in a half-circle with branches on one side suggesting dust-brushes, not trees; some finding strength in union, forming little stunted groves their flattened mats of branches shrunk in trying to escape” from the hard mountain “planed by ice and polished by the wind”— the white volcano with no weather side; the lightning flashing at its base, rain falling in the valleys, and snow falling on the peak— the glassy octopus symmetrically pointed, its claw cut by the avalanche “with a sound like the crack of a rifle, in a curtain of powdered snow launched like a waterfall.”

Marianne Moore

[lonelypond]

Calypso

NicoMaki, Love Live, 5.3K, 1/1

Exiled by angry parents, Nishikino Maki washes up on an isolated island.

Calypso

“I refuse.”

Nishikino Maki still heard her own words, her own shout, echoing here, where the angry winds, laden with a storm of punishment had pushed her. By the docks, up to her knees in surging, stinging sea water, hungry, angry birds rushing from the open sea for safe havens, their wings sharp against her soaked skin, their fearful velocity another wind pummeling her. She would fall. Her fingers would ache for that which had been torn from them. And perhaps a crueler wind would take her, push her out, away from this cramped place where her defiance echoed. She fell back, for just a minute, letting a surge push her, hoping for a breath to rest before fighting again, but then another surge, and a crosscurrent that ripped her coat away, a strike of lightning that bit into her and a spar that slashed her torso, and a wind that drove her against a door, a vine coiled around the frame, bright green, heavy with grapes ripe for plucking, lit with a banked glow as if sunlight still lingered to bless it. Maki fell, but the landing was softer than she expected and new winds, soft with scents of cypress, citrus, and pine welcomed her to a kinder darkness.

###

Maki, surprised to be lying on a bed of soft cloths, sat up, her ears sharp for any sound. Only a song, in the distant, a beautiful, lilting melody full of longing that should have pleased Maki but only reminded her of what she was now missing, a worse loss than if her parents had ripped her arms from her side. The top linen fell away and Maki shivered, suddenly cold. Her shirt had been removed and her torso was wrapped in a bandage, ichor starting to leak through the layers. Had the singer done this?

“Hello!?!??!?!” Maki called, confused. From the sounds around her, she could still hear the sea, but as if she were near a calm shore, with birds flying and insects buzzing through meadows and trees, not the bustling port she had last been standing in. Where had the floodwaters washed her?

The song stopped. Maki waited, alert for the sounds heralding the singer’s approach. The steps were light, swishing through grass and flowers, petals and pollen perfuming air and ankles. No sound of a door, but then, at the archway, a small beauty, long sable hair loose, flowing silver robe, a golden belt around the waist, deep carved rubies for eyes.

“Welcome. Nico is glad to see you awake.”

Maki pulled up the sheet, “How long have I been here.”

Nico...that was the name, right? Maki thought, moved to the bed, reaching under the sheet to check Maki’s wound, “Not long enough to heal.”

Maki fought a sudden urge to apologize. “I didn’t ask for help.”

A raised eyebrow. An expression full of textures, laid over weariness like concealing makeup on an actor’s skin. A lilt in the voice. Flirty. Maki recognized all the signals, they’d washed over her so many times, calm tides, flowing, then ebbing from so many beauties. Was she really the icy stone this exquisitely, aesthetically pleasing stranger might be carved out of.

“Here, you must be hungry.” Nico left, returning with a tray heaped with ambrosia, a goblet in her other hand. “Drink this.”

Maki took the goblet in both hands, cautious, but the scent of the finest wines and fruits wafted up. Nectar. Deep red, a match for the rubies watching her. Bowing a thanks, Maki drank, feeling the immediate effect of the immortal delicacy.

“You’ll be fine now.” A quick hand tousled Maki’s hair and then she was alone.

###

Maki sat on the shore, amidst the cries of hawks and gulls, hunting, splashing in the sea, and then returning to this grove, sacred alders, poplar, and pine, returning to home, to cede the sea to owls hungry after rest. Her fingers ached. A natural music surrounded her, buffeting her, taunting her with notes she could not pluck from air to join the melody.

“Maki!”

Nico’s voice disturbed nothing, drove none of the singers away, it was as natural a feature of this grove as all the winged songbirds and hunters. Hunter. Maki felt hunted, here always, found always, and never understood. A hand grasped hers. Maki had stopped pulling away, but her fingers laid limp in Nico’s grasp.

“Longing for wings?”

“A voice.”

Nico tilted her head, still puzzled, after this year’s pass of the seasons, by her latest visitor. “You have a lovely one.”

Maki almost raised her hands, to show the empty space between them, but still reluctant to share. Her own parents raising all of their might to assail her, who could she trust? Had she washed up here as a trap, the storm ready to rip her away if she ever relaxed her vigilance?

Nico shrugged, eyes now on the sea, Maki uncertain what thoughts raced underneath the pleasant mask that only showed hints of fiery passion, like the pulsing sun pushing through the dark night’s horizon.

“Nico has made you a home here, a place to heal, but you still grieve.”

“Why are you alone?” Aside from animated wood carvings that seemed to serve as servants, Maki had seen no gods or humans since that stormy night. Was Nico a jailer or an exile?

“Nico loves the peace, the chance to weave and sing, the beauty and the bounty.” Nico inhaled, Maki found herself doing the same, a bright, sharp mix of pine and sea invigorating, “No place compares to here.” Maki, sensitive to every note, could hear the lie.

“No truths live on this island.” Maki’s fingers turned fist in Nico’s grasp.

Nico spun, her fingers now capturing Maki’s face, a gentle touch, but demanding, as ruby fires sought to spark a response, “κρυβόμαστε. We all hide.”

The ancient tongue jarred, Maki’s mind made a picture of it rather than an understanding, their cave, hidden, grown over with vines, surging waves and solitude another fortification.

Then Nico kissed her, lips ripe with honeyed fruits. Maki closed her eyes and heart to awareness, the sweetness merely a plucked grape on her tongue.

###

Maki woke, restless, muscles sore, sunlight bright through the crown of trees that surrounded this platform. She rose, Nico still oblivious next to her, smiling softly, sleeping, wrapped in some secret satisfaction left by their joining last night. Curious, dared by a dangerous boredom to unite, Maki had sweated and sobbed and finally, exhausted by exertion, relaxed into a slumber that skimmed above the depths of dreams, but she woke clear eyed, untouched by any comfort, still the ache, a longing for her hands to reach for what had been stripped from her.

The drop to the ground was easy, her landing cushioned. She had yet to explore this part of the island. Rocks that reached out from the shore until the sea swallowed them, diving pale birds eager for their morning meal. Beyond the rocks, down the beach, Maki saw a shadow. Was this another cave, exposed by the low tide? Was this an exit? Maki hurried, eyes only on what she might find, the freedom that might be open to her, not a glance backward for the woman she’d dropped away from.

A cave, shallow, the air thick with sea and saltwater and perhaps, a thin, sour strain of smog and sweat and scores of hasty mortals. Maki, splashing in her own haste to rejoin the throng, reached the back wall, its stone cold, with the irregularity of uncarved nature. She could barely see, morning sunlight had not joined her as the tide rose, but her fingers quested. To her left, she felt wood. A door. But locked. Marshalling what magic of will she had, she forced her intent into the grain, perhaps this wood, though not supple, could be charmed to strum an exit open between notes. But it remained dull, unmoving, beneath her fingers, deaf to her demands, while she could feel the world she’d been pushed out of throbbing on the other side, with rhythms fast and fond to her, a familiar call chased away by Nico’s voice, grating as it interrupted her effort.

“Maki? The tide’s coming in.”

Nico was not surprised by the door.

Maki whirled, “Open this. Let me go.”

Nico glowed faintly, as if she had carried sunlight there. “Go where? To the people who called the storm on you, who stabbed you with lightning?”

Maki held her hands out to strum, then letting them fall helplessly to her side. “To where I have power, where I can sing. They took it from me.”

Nico had both Maki’s hands in a gentle grasp. “Took what?”

“Music. My lyre.” Maki wrenched away. The strings the opposite of this dissonance, always perfectly tuned, the exuberance of their enharmonic engagement, the life brought to poetry.

“We can make a new one, one you craft yourself…”

“To sing songs in this private prison? To be blind to anything but prettiness?”

The waves were up to Nico’s waist, Maki’s anguished angry gestures splashing both of them until their hair was dripping, plastered against their faces. Nico, suddenly, grabbed Maki’s hand, to pull her out, into the sun, running for the uncovered beach, Maki stumbling to catch up. Maki was always stumbling to catch up. But now she had had pressed her palms against the truth and she felt the full falsity in the weight of the hand misleading her.

### The cave had never felt so empty as when their angry voices echoed.

“Nico cared for you when no one else did. I found you, I brought you to my bed, I...I sang for you...Nico…”

“Nico always knew where the exit was, Nico watched me cry out for wholeness, Nico…” Maki didn’t want to bend, didn’t want to cry, but there was no understanding in the eyes glaring at her, only accusation, betrayal, a deep rage Maki couldn’t stand against.

“Which god will come for you, plead your case, demand your freedom, tear you away?” Nico hissed.

Maki raised her head, confused. “I am. Isn’t that enough?”

Nico took the linens and furs on the bed and threw them across the room, “And this? What was all this?”

“You took consolation I had no understanding of.”

Nico looked furious, “Consolation? You think this was comfort...pity?” Nico stormed up to Maki, shoving her back onto the bed, suddenly pouncing, on top, staring down, her eyes a muddled mix of anger, lust and pain, “We were, you were....you were mine.”

Maki, after a slow blink, turned her head, as Nico’s dark tresses teased her cheek, but her breathing remained even, her hand twisting the sheet beneath her, “I’m no one’s in this prison.”

“I rescued you, I cared for you, I love you, beyond kindness, even in sorrow. Don’t you care for Nico?”

“Do you have to kiss to care?”

Nico froze, eyes wide, then narrowed as they pored over Maki’s expression, as if seeing her clearly for the first time.

No words, Nico panting out heavy breaths as she sat up, her weight an anchor. Finally, she threw herself back. “Nico would love to hear you sing.”

And then Maki was alone,

###

Nico kept busy, gathering wood, weaving, twisting fine twines. Maki would visit the hidden cave at every low tide, to try the door, but its solidity taunted her. Above the hidden cave, a rock jutted. Maki often climbed there, away from Nico, away from the sharp, clear scent of pine and poplar, and longed for a storm. The days drifted on, like the leaves that fell to be carried on a scented breeze. Late one afternoon, skies gray as harsh winter winds blew across the open sea, Nico found her there. Nico carried something more than half her size, wrapped in silk. She bowed to Maki, offering the object, but no words of explanation.

Maki unwrapped it, carefully, her hands finding smooth, polished wood, bounteous, inviting vines carved up the arms of a beautiful lyre, tortoise shell markings carved in its body, strings perfumed with flowers.

“Nico knows how cruel”...her gesture gathered in the air, “they are. No one should be kept from what they love.”

Hope surged in Maki. Her fingers shook as she freed the lyre, finding strings to free her voice, seeking out the tension, plucking the notes that had always grounded her, had always woven her thoughts into truths...but the melody lay flat, like a red tide on a stagnant sea, not leaping free with the joy of dolphins. Notes once sweet and soothing now bit into her fingers and poisoned her ears.

Maki dropped the lyre, barely hearing it crack, as she sprinted away.

###

As Spring brought new life to the island, flowers pushing green buds pregnant with vibrant color, They ate together, sharing ambrosia and red nectar, on the beach, wide apart on an gossamer light blanket of moon silver threads, as the sun sank into waves, staining them as darkly bright as the nectar. There had been a few nights, as snow fell and squirrels skittered to find their store of sustenance, when Nico had been as busy, slowly, longingly storing scraps of skinship, but now Maki knew how uncomfortable pity felt as Nico kept deliberately apart, watching her sadly, often spending nights on parts of the island Maki never ventured to, as she kept her daily watch on the sea hidden cave, gulls screaming impossible tasks.

“Nico can’t open the door for you.” Nico whispered.

“Can’t….won’t...doesn’t matter…” Maki muttered as she lay on her stomach, tracing lines in the sand.

Inhale. A hum that caught Maki’s attention, a thrill coursing up the back of her neck. “Nico can sing you a storm.”

Maki turned, gazing up into the ruby eyes that had as many currents and tides as the sea, with no guide to steer by. How had she ever thought Nico a work of art carved out of stone when so many expressions could cross the smooth skin in a breath, so many emotions stir in the galaxy depths of her eyes.

“You can’t leave by the door, no one can, but you came by storm and Nico is betting a storm will return you.” Nico reached into a bag, offering Maki the repaired lute. “Tomorrow, there’s a raft prepared, a sail newly woven, and a world you know waiting.”

Maki held her hands back from the lute, “This is a trick, another cruelty.”

Nico shook her head, “No, Maki, this is no cruelty. This is your key. Your power. Nico can’t watch you weep anymore…” a sigh, a gentle hand through Maki’s hair, “I give you the freedom I would give myself.”

At that hope surged like a dolphin in Maki’s heart. Seeing no guile, only sorrow in the soft gaze above her, Maki, suddenly restless with a fervor for all things, pulled Nico into a kiss, swallowing Nico’s gasp of surprise, pushing into an embrace no longer strange. The waves claimed the sun as Nico melted into Maki, and in the darkness, only murmurs of pleasure were heard.

###

Maki had not looked back. Lingering briefly with an embrace, Nico had gently wrapped her in a fresh woven cloak, purified by incense. There was water, nectar, ambrosia, sustenance for several voyages. A gentle wind filled the sail, until the raft had left the island behind, and then, as Nico had directed, Maki took the lyre in her hands, ignoring the alieness of the strange wood, focusing on the smoothness that Nico’s hand had crafted, the reminders of the island, the grapes, the vines, the feathers of hunting owls, offering wisdom and sharp eyesight for the journey. The strings had softened or Maki’s will had steeled, and notes of longing for home carried over the waves as Maki caught the scent of storm in the air, dark clouds speeding to add the percussion of thunder to her harmony. Rain drops fell with speed sharp enough to edge, cutting across her skin, the sea raising a fog to meet the striking clouds. Maki could see nothing, her lips cold and thin, her fingers cramped but still supple enough to play a plea to the gods to open a route home. Could she hear another voice added to hers, a familiar one, full of a gentle plea for safe harbor? Even as the storm lashed and punished. A wave swept over the raft, tossing Maki against the mast. Wind pummelled from all directions, another wave crashing, Maki’s voice swallowed in the gray, the lyre knocked from her hands, but Maki had tied a rope around her waist. She would not be lost again. A crescent moon winked down at her, the clouds suddenly splitting and then a dark, wave three times the height of full grown pine crashed down and Maki knew no more.

###

Maki sat up, a rough blanket against her skin, a guttering candle illuminating a small bedroom. A purple haired woman sat behind a table, placing a card in a pattern.

“My wife has rarely pulled such a rare fish from the sea.” The card player didn’t look up, but her voice carried her amusement.

“Your wife?”

“Eli-chi. She is teaching our children the ways of her people.” Purple hair looked up, her eyes turquoise, “It’s adorable. Enough to not regret the loss of Olympus.”

Maki recognized power. Was this another prison?

A laugh, a shake of the head, “Don’t worry about that. Eli-chi will take you wherever you want to go.”

“Home.”

A look that twisted Maki like the pain of a piercing arrow. “Where you will be welcome?”

“Where I belong.” Maki said evenly, refusing to allow this stranger to confuse her.

The woman shuffled the cards into a pile, disappointed, “You are fortunate then, to be certain in your choice, Maki.”

“How do you know my name?”

“She just does. Don’t question her or you will find out too much of your future,” A strong voice, holding back laughter announced a new presence, a tall blonde woman, mortal, strong, stepped in to throw her arms around the card player. “I’m Eli, this is Nozomi, welcome to our home, for however long your stay is.”

“I wish to return to Otonokizaka.”

“She is very stubborn.” Nozomi leaned back against her wife.

“Well, I have had a long journey to bring you here and if you will not begrudge me a few nights in my own bed, we will start off soon enough.”

Maki nodded, feeling drowsy again. She needed to rest, for soon there was another storm to swim through

###

Maki sat on the end of the pier, her feet dangling in the water, Nico’s lyre in her hands, still an awkward weight. Nozomi and Eli’s three children played on the shore, giggling. This was a solitary inlet, Eli usually sailing out to work, Nozomi patience at home, waiting for nights by the fire when all her family surrounded her, and gentle songs kept them all company through the night. Currently Eli and Nozomi were...Maki shuddered, not wanting to add imagined pictures to what Nozomi’s too descriptive enthusiasm had painted of words.

She wondered what Nico was doing? Planting a new garden, plucking blooms to paint, pruning the best vines so their grapes could be pressed into wine. Nico had rarely stopped moving, never claiming a moment’s rest, Maki wondered how the days didn’t seem endless. Perhaps she should have played a song for Nico, but Nico’s song had such a natural charm, even the songbirds listened attentively. Maki could feel the notes of it fading, her fingers on the lyre attempting to recapture the sweetness. Sweetness? On the island, Nico’s voice had been like the sea breeze and the scent of cypress, often in the air, an easy comfort. Maki’s hands fell away from the lyre, her head suddenly full of images of Nico leaning forward, priceless eyes bright, always listening, always kind. Who was Nico listening to now? The sea? Maki felt a new restlessness, a new dissatisfaction. It was time to reclaim her place, her gleaming throne in the high roofed hall of her ancestors, and her voice, brought to full force by the bronze lyre with golden throated strings that had been bound to her at birth.

###

The journey had been easy, Eli, a strong and sure captain easily handling the helm in seas mostly glass. Maki could hear the bustle, the cloying, the hurry before they sighted the harbor. Excited, returned to her home, about to claim her rights, she could barely restrain herself long enough to let Eli tie up the boat.

“You’re as eager as the twins.” Eli chuckled. “I’ll be in port for a few nights if you need a ride anywhere else.”

“Thank you for the kindness.” Maki stepped on shore, feeling power surge as she reconnected to her native ground, “Are you sure you won’t join me for dinner.”

Eli glanced at the tall hall, resting above all else, a golden shimmer against the pure white of the snowcap. “My dinner waits elsewhere. I have humbler tastes.”

Maki shook her head in disagreement. “I have met your wife.”

Eli grinned, “Clever. Then my reply is that as I have a banquet, I have no need for scraps.” Eli pushed Maki forward, “Good luck, my friend.”

Maki nodded, pulling her cloak, incense faded, over her head, long legs striding with confidence, ready to reach out and reclaim her seat.

###

Crowded, noisy, trays of ambrosia, pitchers of sweet red nectar poured into golden cups raised in cheer and challenge. All those her parents ruled, sauntering, shoving to grab the chair closest to the want...dancer, food, conversation, sweet. A few glances of recognition, but Maki began to feel invisible as she moved through hall after hall. Finally, the grand hall, with its three thrones on the glittering dias, her parents’ seats as empty as hers. Maki, ready to wrestle with accusations against her rightful return, felt an emptiness here in this hall, wrong footed, as the cacophony of other’s joys jarred in the distance. Eli and Nozomi’s cozy cottage had not prepared her for immersion in this city after so many seasons on the blissful, serene sonic soundscape of Nico’s isle. Her outer ears had almost turned up against her head, bruised by the physical presence of such raucous roaring. Eager to return, Maki had left Nico’s lyre on Eli’s ship, her mind on what she had to gain, not what she might have lost. But there it was, her lyre, a bronze gleam, familiar, welcoming, waiting, undisturbed. Maki raced up the stairs, falling into her seat, pulling her oldest companion into her lap, fingers reaching to strum...and the first notes of the lilting lullaby Nico had often song to ease the sun into its everchanging bed entered the air of the hall, and twisted, tainted by unclean smoke and so many warring words and wants pummelling Maki from the crowd now crowding the entranceway, her father at its head, not as tall as she remembered, his goblet in the air.

“Ah, she’s here, we need a song, Maki, play something finer, something to rouse us all, the better to enjoy this night.”

Maki stared, her fingers stilled. Her father offered no greeting, no apology, no challenge, no change. He smiled, always a genial host, chattering to those surrounding him, carrying him forward to his central throne. Too jaded by easy luxuries, indulged by all, in his wanton world , it was if his daughter had never gone, had never been thrown away. As if there had never been the hard words, the exile, the attack that Maki still bore the scar of, that Nico’s hands had traced so tenderly, listening as Maki told of how the betrayal had torn through more than her skin. But here...home…time had stopped...no one had changed...and all eyes were on Maki as if she’d just stepped away for a breath of air, not years of weeping exile.

Her mother swept to the center of the room, partners too eager, “Give us a fast tempo, a galliard. We dance.”

Once the lyre had seemed full of potential, alive with Maki’s moods, but now the strings thudded on clanging metal, notes sheared off, tempos too heavy. Still the dancers swirled and danced and promised and embraced, the room dark but for torches, other musicians more tuned to the mood carrying the melody as Maki fell out of harmony, watching the vulgar display as if for the first time, outside of this moment, longing for someone to listen to her, suddenly wanting nothing more than Nico’s smile as bodies fell into each other, and Maki remained alone, turned away from the spectacle, arms around her knees, studying her own heart, listening to its pulse, which had always wanted something other than this, something stronger, something woven with time, threads chosen with care, not born of a moment’s collision.

###

Without Nozomi’s hinting, Eli would have been surprised by the redhead, too quiet, wrapped in her cloak, sleeping against the mast, clutching the battered lyre she’d forgotten last night. Shaking her head, Eli dropped her purchases, awakening her stowaway.

“Good morning.”

Maki stood, “Teach me.”

“Teach you?”

Maki hesitated, “To sail.” Maki turned to the ocean, her arm sweeping out, “I need to return.”

“Nozomi’ll be glad to see you again, but I thought you had business here.” Eli began to replace worn ropes.

“To where you found me.”

Eli stopped. “I’m not sure…”

Maki closed her eyes, guilt bowing her head. “I left someone…”

Eli sighed, “Those were tricky seas. So many islands, rocks everywhere.”

Maki ran her fingers over the wood Nico had smoothed. If Nico had summoned a storm, could Maki summon a path? So much of power was will and Maki wanted this, a spark of a wildfire racing, the first taste of desire on her tongue, the first thrill of the hunt in her veins, a craving to connect to match the lure she’d felt from Nico.

“If you get us close, Eli, I can find her.”

Eli smiled at the confidence, remembering her own chase after Nozomi, not stopping to listen to naysayers or even resting for more than a breath, pushing her boat until it shattered, relying only on her own strength to swim to shore through surging tides, to fall half dead at the feet of the goddess who’s lonely beauty had haunted her.

“All right. But you’re going to work.”

Maki nodded, eyes bright with hope, ready to put her hands to new tasks, she had made a harness so the lyre could rest on her back and not interfere with her actions, “Where do I start?”

Eli threw Maki a heavy coil of rope. “We’re replacing the anchor rope.”

###

There had been no answering call. Not even when Eli’s ship came in sight of the island.

“I’m sure she’s fine.”

“She’s been alone since I left.”

“She was alone before you came.”

“Sometimes.” Nico had never said much, but Maki had realized that there had been others, thrown on the shores of Nico’s island to punish them, only to find kindness and caring, and then returning that with turning away. As Maki had done.

“Nico!” She was wading to the shore, waves washing over her knees, water warm, sun beating down, no echo, the birds strangely still and silent. Eli had stayed off shore, Maki wanted a private moment, planning to signal Eli. Had Nico finally opened the door? Was she elsewhere? There, at the edge of the grove, someone slumped. Maki ran.

“Nico!”

Tiny, frail, almost breathless. The birds remained in their nests, not hunting, silent and strange, the air empty of melody. Maki picked Nico up, so light, dark hair lank, sand a gritty blasphemy against the smoothest of skin, eyes closed, mouth slack. Their cave, with the vines around the entrance, by the melodious springs, Maki ran there, careful of her stride. There, in the bed Maki had woken in her first morning here, Maki laid Nico, a gentle, loving touch, covering her with the lightest of linen. Maki knew where the storerooms were, she ran for wine, nectar, and ambrosia, surprised at the layer of dust. Nothing moved, nothing sung.

Kneeling, Maki raised Nico to pour nectar between her lips, rewarded by the movement of Nico’s tongue clearing the last drops from her lips. Maki had wrapped her lyre in oilskin, protecting it from the seawater, and now, she opened the package, settling next to Nico, her fingers searching the notes, to play a tune as lively as Nico running along the shore, daring Maki to chase her. Now Maki was daring Nico, birds playing over the water, clouds teasing the moon, wind moving shady trees to tease sunbeams all of this woven in her song, all of the days they’d had that now gleamed, Maki’s heart suddenly opening to new feeling, daunting, dangerous impulses, Maki a fledgling hawk poised on the nest's edge to test flight feathers newly grown.

“Maki?” A weak question but at the sound of Nico’s voice, Maki’s certainty surged.

“I’m home.” Maki had said this in her head, over and over again, until repetition had smoothed out the stutter. “I can take you anywhere.”

Ruby eyes watched her, cautious, suspicious, Nico’s emotions hidden.

Less confident about this part, Maki’s voice neared a whisper, “I never meant to leave you alone...I didn’t realize…”

“Humpphh…” With an energy that cured much of Maki’s panic, Nico flipped to her side, facing away from Maki.

“Nico…” reaching a hand out, Maki stroked Nico’s hair, humming.

“Don’t talk to Nico. Nico wasted away on the beach…”

“So you missed me that much.”

Another flip, angry red eyes, looking for a target, a hand reaching for a pillow, “You used to be quieter.”

“I was naive. Arrogant. Ignorant. Thoughtless.”

“So who taught you?” Anger was mixed with accusation.

Maki chuckled, “You. Not being there.”

“You take Nico for granted, leave Nico to die, and then just…”

“Save Nico from an angry sea…”

“Wasn’t angry….”

“It was too quiet. Everything is too quiet without you.”

Nico pulled the pillow in, half her face hidden, eyes wary, “What do you want?”

This was the moment. Maki had no idea what happened next. Everything they had done before, Maki had never made herself this vulnerable, had never hovered on fragile winds over an unknown depth, fly or fall, “I want you to kiss me, Nico. And then I’ll take you anywhere.”

Nico, eyes glittering, surprise shocking her expression into hope and hunger, surged forward, holding Maki’s glance, as her fingers tangled in Maki’s hair. Coral tongue licked crimson lips, Maki’s mouth watering, Nico’s eyes searching Maki’s. Maki glanced away, feeling herself flush, but Nico pulled her back. Maki, her heart racing, her ears full of a thrumming that must be hummingbird’s wings beating, had Maki known she was such a rare, colorful beauty before the mirror of Nico’s eyes told her?

“Yes?” Nico asked, her finger across Maki’s lips leaving Maki shivering.

“Yes.”

And then lips on lips, hands finding hands with a painful grip that anchored this soaring flight, falling back into clouds of new born love, no awareness but skin to skin, lip to lip, hand to thigh, fingers digging into backs, sable and crimson hair mingling as sweat dropped freely, suddenly more sweet than salty to Maki. All new, all blinding, and Maki shut her eyes, finally finding a harbor for her heart home.

###

Much later, a murmur, a quick kiss, a caress promising so many more, “Let’s stay here for now.”

Nico felt Maki nod into her shoulder, and sleep wrapped them up in buoyant arms, as they sailed together through shared, joyful visions of future travels winging through the horned gate as a blessing.

A/N: This was an AU Yeah August request for a modern fantasy riff on the story of Calypso from The Odyssey. I recommend Emily Wilson's translation, which I used as a poetic inspiration.

[everrgrreeen]

i’m so stoked to do these because embry and seth are two of my favess so without further ado

Embry What they smell like: cedarwood. mmmm How they sleep (sleeping position, schedule, etc): boy loooooves his sleep. he’s the kind of guy who just keeps hitting the snooze button in the morning which sometimes makes him late for school. stomach or side sleeper What music they enjoy: any rock/alternative music. he plays guitar in his spare time sooo... besides that, sam has put him on to older, classic rock songs. his favorite band is the red hot chili peppers and that is not my opinion that is a FACT  How much time they spend getting ready every morning: depends on how long he slept in LOL. but fr he cares about what he looks like because his mom taught him that first impressions matter so he usually takes time to look at least decent unless he’s going to patrol then he doesn’t really care Their favorite thing to collect: photographs. he’s secretly a soft and sentimental person and likes to have something to remember moments by whether they were big or small it’s all important to him. he loves the concept of being able to save a snapshot of a certain point in time forever Left or right-handed: right handed Religion (if any): tribal beliefs Favorite sport: he’s not huge into sports but he can enjoy football and soccer Favorite touristy thing to do when traveling (museums, local food, sightseeing, etc): he likes to go around taking pictures of all of the famous landmarks and other interesting things he sees. eating at popular local restaurants is another one of his faves. Favorite kind of weather: fall, when it’s just starting to get chilly  A weird/obscure fear they have: clowns. he thinks they’re super creepy. will watch any scary movie except for ones with clowns The carnival/arcade game they always win without fail: anything that has to do with aim/accuracy, like balloon darts or the one where you have to throw baseballs at empty bottles.

Seth What they smell like: something citrusy like bergamot How they sleep (sleeping position, schedule, etc): curled up on his side. he has to tuck his lil feet under the blankets every time tho otherwise he can’t fall asleep. definitely related to that vine where the kid goes “hahaha, i do that” in reference to tucking his feet under the covers hfjbvkjdsncjhebf What music they enjoy: mostly top 40s kind of stuff - pop, pop rock, a little bit of hip hop and rap on occasion. i just see him loving marroon 5?? idk How much time they spend getting ready every morning: seth definitely spends more time than the other guys in the pack. mostly because he keeps trying to make his hair do the same thing paul’s does but it never works out as well as it does for paul Their favorite thing to collect: sea glass. he just thinks it’s neat. he used to make stuff out of it for leah when they were younger. Left or right-handed: right handed Religion (if any): tribal beliefs Favorite sport: baseball, soccer, football, basically every sport honestly Favorite touristy thing to do when traveling (museums, local food, sightseeing, etc): eat all of the trendy/crazy/over the top food he can find. giant milkshakes? yes. world’s largest bowl of ramen? sign him up. Favorite kind of weather: the time of year where it goes from spring to summer and everything feels fresh and new A weird/obscure fear they have: being trapped in small/confined spaces. this may or may not have to do with the fact that leah bet him that he wouldn’t fit into the washing machine as a child and he got stuck inside for a few hours. sue was not happy.  The carnival/arcade game they always win without fail: the fish game. he always went home with a new fish friend that wouldn’t live more than a few weeks and he was always devastated when he had to watch it get flushed down the toilet

Quil What they smell like: woodsy like cypress  How they sleep (sleeping position, schedule, etc): he tends to stay up super late but doesn’t get tired? like ever??? he can fall asleep in basically any position but on his back is easiest What music they enjoy: alternative and rock. him and embry share pretty much the same taste in music, although his favorite band is overwhelmingly green day.  How much time they spend getting ready every morning: like no time at all. wears whatever the f he wants as long as it doesn’t seem dirty. obviously cares about basic hygiene but doesn’t try hard to impress people. thinks paul spends too much time on his hair and rags on him. Their favorite thing to collect: t-shirts... he will never run out of clean t-shirts. he has one for every concert he’s been too, every band he likes, every place he’s visited.  Left or right-handed: right handed Religion (if any): tribal beliefs Favorite sport: honestly doesn’t give a shit about sports but he’ll kick around a soccer ball with the pack for fun Favorite touristy thing to do when traveling (museums, local food, sightseeing, etc): buy t-shirts lol. no but really he’ll go to every restaurant with embry and seth and stuff his face with yummy food Favorite kind of weather: summer A weird/obscure fear they have: i can see him being super afraid of heights and hating it when his friends want to go cliff diving The carnival/arcade game they always win without fail: he is TERRIBLE. at carnival games. he won’t play them. they frustrate him to no end

thank ya’ll come again :)

[withyouandthemoon]

Decree

Author’s Note: It’s Qixi Festival here in China today and since it’s a festival partly celebrating the reunion of lovers, I couldn’t help but put Klaus and Caroline together yet again (as they should be). Here I present you a Hades/Persephone modern reincarnation AU. (I’ve only borrowed a small element from the original Qixi stories and tweaked it a bit, but anyone familiar with that mythology should be able to detect it.) Enjoy!

Caroline went to him as soon as she knew. First driving to the airport, then getting on a plane, then back to driving again on her rented car. Without a second thought, like it was a knee-jerk reflex, her body acting mechanically through the trivialities whilst her mind was stuck in that connection bigger even than herself. Yet here she was, across the ocean, rushing through the vast moors of the British Isles. Human life had become such a commonplace to her in the past twenty-or-so years.

Heather and daffodils were blooming outside her windows as she drove by, embellishing the monopoly of green on the lands regardless of the season being too early or too late. The bright colors rose at her approach and dwindled at her departure, forming a wave along the quiet roads of the countryside.

Caroline was never too good at controlling her powers provoked by her moods, nor did she cared to-in fact, she doubted any of the older gods did. They were all in their bones impetuous beings, driven more by the powers surging through their veins than a sane mind-which was probably why when the powers of nature ran thin and the piety of the few humans left believing in them wouldn’t suffice anymore a dozen centuries ago, they just ceased to be.

Vanishing was not too painful for her physically, just numb and cold, like the water of the Styx River guarding the Underworld. Her thoughts were frozen in place, her memories frosting and her emotions swallowed by a thick mist. And then when they thawed, drop by drop, the first thing breaking free from the nothingness was her last thought before there was no longer a her-the thought of his tousled blonde hair and widened blue eyes, fleeing into her mind like a lark that had been trapped in the glacier for centuries and miraculously maintained a heartbeat.

It sang to her, the melody always playing in the background when she pieced together her past as an immortal deity.

She didn’t know if it was a joke on nature’s part, to have gods like her reincarnated into a paltry human life, only to reconnect with their memories and powers when they’d barely grown into the weaker, more ignorant version of themselves. She wondered what it would achieve. Was it meant to be a lesson for them to rein in their hubris? To feel how fleeting life could be for these tiny creatures and show a smidgen of sympathy?

Yet how could she sympathize with them, if she’d never looked down upon them in the first place? She never took pity on the withering flowers, just as he never did with the dead in his realm. The only thing demeaning them was nature herself, creating cruelties like spring and death, constant reminders of their mortality sneering mockingly to their faces, and waiting for them to weakly sneer back.

Just as what she was doing to Caroline right now. Reminding her of how much time she’d lost-time with him-and mocking her for just realizing it after spending twenty-one meaningless years in oblivion.

But no matter. Now that she had eternity on her hand she just had to find him, like he found her the first time.

Although it might be more accurate to say that she had unconsciously drawn him to her, with her dainty fingers plucking a rosebud, its stem snapping with the fresh scent of sap as a last cry, mixed with her blood adorning the stubborn thorn.

She’d always secretly wanted to crush the flowers she created, to feel their velvety petals break into tatters in her palm, the sweet juices seeping from between her fingers so desperate and mournful. She wanted to crush them one by one, until the whole season was nothing but a muddled mess of tangled colors and pungent smells. After all, what was one spring if there were an infinite set of springs to come?

She was sucking her finger prickled by the thorn into her mouth when she heard his voice, soft and low, and her own blood instantly tasted sweeter, “I see you have a touch of death on your own fingertip.”

She knew who he was even before she stared into his beautiful face. Millions of times she’d granted plants the wills to feed from the rotten flesh six feet under-the silent darkness felt so very familiar she had to suppress a tiny smile as she discarded the rosebud in a cavalier flick of her wrist.

“I am merely doing it justice.”

She bit her tongue when those words escaped from her reckless lips, knowing full well his reputation of being sturdily just and impartial in his ruling of the Underworld.

“Then it seems we have more than one thing in common.”

The rosebud deserted on the ground slowly spread its petals into full blossom, but its color paled in comparison to her blushing cheeks. She watched as the almighty King of the Underworld bent his knees before her to pick up the rose, kissing it before placing it on the collar of his toga, just above his heart, all the while piercing her with his iron-hot eyes.

In that moment she knew she’d always make herself a place in his world, like a resilient plant sticking its roots into the hardest rocks, be it the impenetrable realm of the dead, or the English countryside in the disguise of a human life.

She knew his memories hadn’t come back yet, nor did his powers. The grapevines among the reincarnated deities brought to her the knowledge that the older and more powerful the gods, the slower their awakening. By now the lands were teeming with gods of nameless ponds and streams but those who were present during the battles of Titans were nowhere to be found.

Though his location was no secret to her-she felt the unbearable pulling even in her fitful sleep on the airplane, her heart thrashing in her chest ready to burst out. The name “Klaus” came to her in a murmur through the winds, and the rest of discovering his identity in the human world was just logistics.

She stopped the car at the back of the ancient mansion where a large garden resided. It’d been no surprise to her that Klaus would make his living by grooming people’s backyards. He’d always been fond of the manual work-he excelled in it, which was never made common knowledge. They had their own gardens just outside their palace in the Underworld, and he was the one who always tended to them, cropping and brushing just like he did with an artwork, even if he knew she could make the plants flourish without a batting of her long lashes.

Caroline wandered along the windy paths lined with cypress, her heart already settling down feeling his proximity. Rounding a corner she came into sight of a giant pomegranate tree, the orange-red flowers blooming like little flames among the branches, burning her eyes with a sudden rush of hot tears.

It was only fitting that the plant the fruit of which kept her with him before had brought her back to him.

She’d asked him once why he’d offered her pomegranate on her first visit to the Underworld. It was the third winter they’d spent together as King and Queen, the hearth in their room crackling with drowsy warmth as the scent of the fruit etched into their sheets and covers. The fruit was ever present on the nightstand beside their bed, a gesture he’d silently assumed since their union. She hadn’t once brought it up. She just used her powers to ensure the prolific supply, and then turned it into their own aphrodisiac by licking the juices from his tout muscles.

That morning she was feeling all too comfortable, wrapped up in the cool silk, his tight embrace, and the residue daze from her previous orgasm, that the tiny branches of curiosity were sprouting in her heart. So she picked up a few seeds from the glass plate, rolling them on her tongue while whispering the question in the crook of his neck.

She heard him sighing into the crown of her head in response, the tips of her hair spread out along her back humming with the inviting sound, “they remind me of immortality, these bizarre little fruits.” He traced the lines of her lips idly with a finger, “the endless time we have in our hands is no more than wasting in the void, with tiny pieces of sweetness stuck in your teeth. It’s a torture in disguise really.”

“But you enjoy torture.” She nibbled on his finger challengingly.

He huffed a laugh, “That may be so. However,” he put a little force on his finger and she sucked it in willingly, her tongue circling it like boneless vine, “this is a different kind of torture. You’d always get a taste of your heart’s desire,” suddenly he drew his finger out, leaving her with an emptiness in her mouth and a pout on her lips, “but never quite enough.”

“Not if you share it with another.”

She dove into his mouth, pushing the pomegranate seeds in along with her nimble tongue. Soon they were rolling around both their tongues, the friction setting off little sparks on her nerve endings, making her shiver with need and her powers oozing out of her like the juices between her legs. The seeds began sprouting in their mouths, the soft shoots tickling her palate till they reached down her throat. She moaned aloud in pleasure, her eyes snapping open for a moment, only to curl at the corners as a laugh involuntarily rolled out of her.

As aroused as she was, the image of the King of the Underworld with his mouth stuffed like a herbivore was too hilarious to let pass.

But then he was pinning her down and swallowing all her laughter, turning them into one moan after another, till the new branches growing out of the pomegranates on the nightstand broke their window, and the whole realm heard her screams of ecstasy.

That memory was one of the first to come back to Caroline, and for a long period of time the only one that she had. She’d savored it over and over just like a pomegranate seed, sucking up every last drop of juice and taste, drowning in the sweetness, but never getting enough. The empty yearning nearly drove her crazy.

And now, looking at the pomegranate tree before her eyes, she wondered if he’d suffered, even unconsciously, as she did. If he had ruby-colored dreams and felt lost when he woke, if the sight of the fruit made his cock and heart throb at the same time, if that was the reason why he was planting pomegranate trees in a British garden.

Entranced, Caroline reached out to pick a pomegranate flower from the tree, her eyes squinting a little at the fresh smell of the stem breaking. When she opened them again Klaus was there, the shades of the branches casting on his face covering his expression, only the up-turned corner of his lips lit up by the mid-summer sun.

“It’s a pity.” There was a hint of amusement in his voice, “it won’t grow into fruit now that you’ve led it to an early death.”

Caroline snorted, “die a flower or die a fruit, what does it matter?”

“You put Prince Hamlet to shame, love.” He stepped out of the shadows, and Caroline’s breath hitched as she stared at his face, the face she’d dreamed of every night after she remembered him and the face she’d longed for in the hollow darkness of her sleep before that.

It’d been so long since she last saw him in broad daylight. There was no sunlight in the Underworld, the sky always steely-grey and the air stuffy with despair. She’d always pictured him with her in the half year she was among the living, but she didn’t remember the color of the sky bringing out the blue in his eyes like this, nor did she recall the lines on his smirking face filled with shining gold.

She wanted to run into his arms right then and there, to mash their flesh and bones together with the sun like honey and the scent of the herbs they crushed under their feet the spice. They’d make the perfect dish with everything blended and nothing out of place, and she’d devour them, as a whole. She’d drink and gorge and breathe and fill her aching palms with it, letting it rain on her from head to toe, drown herself in it, in them.

But she was frozen in place as the idea hit her like Zeus’ lightning bolt-he didn’t know her yet. He didn’t remember the time they spent together and the time they suffered apart, half-years of light and darkness passing before their eyes in turn like the streetlight cut into pieces by the sprinting midnight train, long before they were tossed into a human world where trains had been invented and that metaphor made any sense.

He didn’t understand any of that. He was only an un-awakened deity with the erroneous notion that he was human and an inexplicable fixation on pomegranates and maybe cypresses.

But then he was but a step from her, his fingers scorching her wrist and his head bending down. He was kissing the pomegranate flower ever so gently yet Caroline saw the poor flower catching on fire in her mind’s eye, as did her heart.

“I don’t…I don’t know why I did that.” Hesitation seeped into his eyes as he straightened up, and Caroline had to wonder how those blue orbs could appear so clear even when she could see the storm brewing in the midst, “except that it could make you stay.”

She cupped his cheek with a trembling hand, smoothing over his furrowed brows with her thumb and he effortlessly leant into her touch, closing the distance of several long meaningless centuries. “Apparently your instincts are failing you.” She smiled to reassure him as the dark shadow of dejection flashed through his face, “even the powers of the gods wouldn’t be able to drive me away.”

Klaus should probably be surprised, or even alarmed at that, but he just seemed pleased, his eyes fixated on her face drinking her in, murmuring things of which Caroline was sure he himself wasn’t aware. He had always been drawn to danger, trudging into the darkest gorges, fighting in the deadliest battles, falling for the woman who was suited to rule the living and the dead, as if he’d known all along it would change his life forever and he welcomed it.

It was with that certitude that he invited Caroline into the mansion where the owners had left him in charge while they went on vacations to the Caribbean. Somehow they shared the same feeling of waiting for something to happen, like holding one’s breath for the impending boom of thunder. But neither of them spoke of it. The lingering stares and brushes of skin left them simmering in a gentle fire all day long, their body tender and minds half-melted till they barely registered the goings-on around them.

That afternoon Klaus showed her around the garden, his masterpiece of trees, bushes and vines. He told her their names and characteristics, the shape of their flowers and the smell of their fruits fallen on the ground crushed by human foot. Caroline listened to him, rapt, not for the knowledge stored in her brain since birth, but for the passion in his tone, the rise and fall of cadence, the imperceptible pride coating his voice.

She remembered him introducing her to his kingdom the first time she followed him into the Underworld. He’d used the same voice, briefing her of the dead souls trapped there, every single one of them, going into details about their deeds as they lived and their sentence after death. She’d listened with cold interest, surrounded by broken limbs, out-stretched viscera and ear-piercing shrieks without a lift of her brows. When he’d finally finished she’d merely hummed.

“This place stinks.”

“Then we’ll grow flowers, everywhere you’d like.” He held her hand, as if trying to distract her with the heat of his palm from the use of the word “we”.

“I suppose it will do.” She pictured the white petals of lilies splattered with blood, and it was not at all an unpleasant sight.

It all seemed so distant looking back. The time when he endeavored to win her either with a kingdom or with chains or even both, the time when she was still trying not to show all her cards. They’d danced around each other, probing with a word here and a touch there, both thinking they were reeling the other in while in reality they were bound to meet in the middle.

But not this time. They’d waited so long for this without knowing they were waiting, without the existence of themselves, and that ended the second she booked the flight like a good little human.

That night Caroline pranced into Klaus’ room in her tank top and a pair of boxer shorts. She didn’t hold his gaze, but she didn’t evade it either. She walked right to the bed like she owned the room and she’d done it a million times before, every thud of her bare feet touching the hardwood floor her claim over him, his space, his life.

She climbed into the bed where he was leaning shirtless against the headboard. She curled into his side, wrapping his sheet around herself and placed her head on his stomach, using it as a pillow. The feeling of his warm skin against her cheek made her sigh out, and she felt his fingers tangling into her hair like a sigh of his own.

“Tell me a story about yourself.”

He chuckled and his fingers in her hair shook with it, “demanding, I see.”

He complied while she ran a finger along the lines between his abs-he’d always complied back in the days, telling her all about the ten years of the Battle of Titans, how he and his siblings overthrew the elder generation. But this time he told her about football matches and bar fights, how he’d gotten his tattoos on a drunken night, (those were new to her, and she scratched their edges slightly in envy that they’d accompanied him in his human years rather than her; but also desperately in desire because she was dying to lick them till those little birds on his bicep were too wet to fly)-things she filed into her keen mind to tease him about when he’d regained his memories.

“I was a dork in school, as people would say.” Klaus curled a strand of her hair around his finger and tickled her neck with the tip, making her squirm in protest, “when I was younger I was quite fond of wood-carving. Not to brag about it but I knew my way around knives. I used to carve out a whole palace with gardens attached,” His voice dimmed, “but somehow I couldn’t keep it-I couldn’t bear the sight of it.”

Caroline snuggled closer to him, biting her lips to keep her tears at bay. The exact picture of the carving flashed through her mind, only it was much older than this time. It was placed on the mantelpiece in their room from the Underworld, with mosses and tiny little flowers growing out of the dead wood, coloring the gardens and every window of the mini-sized palace-her finishing touch to his silly pastime.

“A girl in my class-Sally, I believe-begged to take it off my hand. I smashed it right before her. Got detention for a week.”

She’d seen punishments a thousand times harsher than that, 180 days a year in her past life. Blood had splattered on her white dresses, ruining one piece and another, but it was no more than a nuisance. Yet now hearing the ridiculous human approach of discipline placed on him pained her like thistles in her heart, the contradiction between their past and present cutting her raw and broken.

“It’ll all make sense in time, right?” Klaus brushed her cheekbone with his knuckle, “now that you are here…Soon. I can feel it.”

And so could she, clear as his heartbeat under her skull.

They settled into a peaceful routine in the following days, neither bringing up the subject again. He’d take her with him to do his gardening work, tending to the delicate plants with his strong hands and slender fingers. Jealousy looked unbecoming on Caroline (not that Klaus would ever agree-he always loved her eyes ignited with green fire), but she couldn’t help it. These plants dared to vie for his attention in her presence-cheeky little bastards playing damsels in distress when they’d survive a stampede out in the wild.

She was boiling in fury until he gently grabbed her hands and pushed a bunch of seedling in her palms. Guiding them into a pit he’d dug in the ground, he held her hands in place with one hand while the other pushed down the soil around. The earth was warmed by the sun but his hand was warmer, their fingers intertwined around the seedling, the tender flesh at the base of her fingers buzzing from all the sensations that Caroline had to close her eyes for a while to control her breath, otherwise the seedling would turn into a grown tree by now.

“Does it scare you that I wish it weren’t just our hands down there?” Klaus whispered, his eyes fixed on their hands buried in earth.

“It’ll only scare me if you don’t.”

For all its darkness and gloom, she missed the Underworld. It was the only home she chose for herself, and she its rightful Queen. The outsiders only knew of the reputation of death and suffering, of the goddess of spring forever imprisoned in the most harrowing place in all realms. But little did they know that before human technology it was the only haven where flowers bloom in the throes of winter-they thrived on the hopeless tears of the dead.

Little did they know that every day in the land of the living ailed her, tearing her heart apart petal by petal that could only be repaired by his deadly loving hands.

Caroline wondered if they could just dig their joint hands deeper and deeper until the ground cracked opened and revealed the gates of their home. She was never one for patience. In the past when he spent too much time in his meeting hall she’d send tenacious vines growing into the seams between the pillars and roof of the palace until it crashed and crumbled.

He’d break out of the debris to drag her to the side and kiss her senseless, even fuck her right on the ruins with stones and bricks digging into them like blood-thirsty teeth. But never once did he forge the grand building into invincible steel, something well within his aptitude.

He always did know how to soothe her temper-and in the process soothing his own, like right now as he pulled her hands out of the soft soil and pressed a kiss to her muddied knuckles, “you look ravishing with your hands dirty, love.” He smirked with dust in his stubble, “so I think I’ll have you under the sun for a while longer.”

Just like that, suddenly it wasn’t so bad playing the mundane human couple on a land that used to only remind her of his absence.

And they played it to the fullest. Every night was movie night, with a single sofa, her folded into his lap, and every snack shared between bites. Caroline was simply amused when she learned that horror was Klaus’ favorite genre. She sat through the repetitive plots and sound effects with a fine view of his neck and jaw line, more fascinated by the shrieking monsters and humans chasing each other reflected in his eyes.

“Do you not enjoy this?” She felt him caressing her bared shoulder, drawing a pattern she was almost sure resembled the scales of the vicious creature on the screen.

“It’s alright.” She searched her brain for an answer that would fit the speculations of his still-human mentality, “just a little scared.”

Truth was she felt almost at home when one of these movies were playing. They were not nearly as gruesome as what she’d witnessed in the Underworld, but if she turned her eyes away and let the screams and cries wash over her like a faraway thought, she could for a fleeting moment picture herself frowning in half-sleep in their old bedroom and him whispering apologies that he’d shove nettles down their throat the night after.

Memories of those nights made her sleepy so she snuggled further into him. She felt his smiling lips pressing to her forehead but his mumbled word was lost in her ears.

“Liar.”

The next morning that word finally caught up with her as she found Klaus in the little shed outside that he apparently used as a studio. She’d never before that day been aware that he kept his old passion, simply assuming that it transformed onto the canvass of nature and the palate turned from more grey to more green. She stared in silent awe and burgeoning hope as he painted her in one of the scenes from the movie they watched the night before, in the dress that she wore the first time he found her-an image he’d painted countless times in the past.

They dedicated a whole room to storing all his works featuring that one theme, an eternity of springs lining the walls soaked by the thick frosts of winter.

“You were so moved by Orpheus, yet he changed his flimsy tunes every time, not knowing that the greatest stories only ever needed one song; the else were mere pale duplication.” He’d told her when she playfully complained about the staggering amount, “though that’s why he earned but his own path to the living, while I rule in a throne right beside my Queen.”

His painting spree lasted for days to come, always the scenes from those horror movies they watched and always her smiling under the spotlight. The more blood and gore spread out around her, the brighter her smile.

Caroline didn’t ask. She didn’t point out that their past was gradually seeping into the paintings, shadows of the landscape of their realm appearing in the background, the faces of the made-up characters substituted by familiar ones sentenced to the Underworld since the void of Chaos. But she was ever present in the focal point of them all, past her, present her, in dresses, shifts, T-shirts and camisoles, smiling while the two different worlds etched into each other.

It was almost as if he was building and shaping his majestic kingdom all over again around the presence of her.

Caroline didn’t utter a word until one day, the content of the painting finally changed.

Whereas in the previous days the canvass was dominated by red and bluish-grey, this time it was almost swallowed by pitch black. She knew that color, the black with no shades-not a hint of another color added, the darkness impervious to sound or even light. It was the color of the Styx River guarding the border of the Underworld, ruthlessly dividing the two realms with its lethal waters. And there in the far corner, drenched in the darkness of peril, was her.

Caroline’s lips trembled at the sight, that same darkness from the painting aching in her bones, the coldness sawing through her every pore, leaving her hollow and unsteady. The same feeling weighing her down on that day. The day when all the gods faded from existence.

But…how could he know?

“I saw you.” Klaus’ voice startled her, and he reached out to ease the tremors of her body, his hand hovering just over her forearm, as if suddenly afraid of the touch, “I see everything in our realm, remember?” He let out a bitter laugh, his hand finally landing on her skin, instantly fighting away the chills that could never be rid of once you’ve been exposed to the waters of Styx, “I watched as you struggled in that blasted river but I was too weak to get to you…”

“You? Weak?” The forced laugh cut her throat, “beats my imagination.”

And she dared not imagine him frail, helpless, wasting away not in the eternity they were granted, but into the unthinkable nothingness, a void where she was but also wasn’t, where they took no shape or form, bore no minds or thoughts. For all her time of being she’d never been that scared and the only one who could drive that fear away was him. It was still two days from winter and she’d fought so hard to get to him, rules be damned. But in the end, it was all for naught.

“The same way I couldn’t bear the sight of you losing yourself in those dark waters.” His eyes averted to the painting and hers followed.

She saw herself in that moment, her face blank and disoriented, the dark mist of the river eating away at the blue in her eyes. She remembered how the river of hatred poisoned her heart, consuming her with such resentment and bitterness she could no longer see clear. Images of his face, every time she was leaving their realm behind stabbed at her from all angles, making her want to bellow out like a savage animal.

“All I ever wanted,” She tore those words out from the deepest layers of her, those hidden petals in the core of the bud that had never seen sunlight; she drained them from her marrow, scratched them from the walls of her vessels and pulled out her nerves to spell every letter, “is you.”

“Then you shall have me.” He answered, marrow, vessels and nerves, “and I, you.”

Their lips crushed together as their bodies mashed and this time it was not they that were fading, but the whole world around them. Yet it was not fading away, but rather fading into the two of them. Her hands roamed over his body and the sun was flowing underneath her fingers, she breathed him in and his smell was decorated by that of the cypresses, she swallowed his tongue and the summer breeze with the taste of pomegranate slipped down her throat.

And she knew they were now in the garden, in broad daylight, for all creatures and gods to see.

He flicked his wrist and there were wild flowers and briar between his fingers, weaved into a crown just like the old times. He placed it gently on her head with such an intense gaze, the thorns needling her making her moan softly and the smell of the few drops of blood from his fingertips making her knees weak from need.

He tended to her like a flower, caressing and brushing with the most delicate touch; he forged her like steel, kneading and stretching with unparalleled force and finesse. When his stubble prickled the lips of her core she cried out with her back arching, her nipples sticking out into his unrelenting waiting fingers and another scream was pried out of her. She felt his chuckling hot breath in between her legs and she had to clench them on his shoulders to anchor herself.

“Will you grant me permission to your Underworld, sweetheart?” He ran his fingers at the base of her thigh, just short of reach to her sex, and a fire spread from there to all the surfaces of her body but she wanted so much more-she wanted it burning inside her. She choked out a “yes” between her panting, and felt a scorching kiss on her inner thigh.

“As you wish, my Caroline.”

Reincarnation had never felt so real until he called her by the name of a new life, until his tongue dove into her to claim his presence. He licked and sucked and nibbled, the flesh, the warmth, the spasms between pleasure and pain that was the signature of existence. She felt death blooming all over her as she reached her high, and nothing had made her feel more alive.

She lost track of time the moment he thrust into her, their deviated paths now joined again for another eternity. Hours past or maybe years and centuries, with the world violently shifting its positions around them, the sky either above or under, her fingers twisting this minute into midair and the other into the soft earth, their juices and sweat dripping onto every leaf and every pebble.

In the throes of passion they clang to each other in exaltation and in despair, their newly-restored powers pouring out of them in sheer abandon. Skeletons burst through earth in a maze of deadly white, the fountains in the middle of the garden sprung hot-steaming melted steel while the hydrangeas growing rampant on the ground ever since they laid hands on each other turned blood red. Blowing in the wind was the sweet singing of larks, symphonied with the drawled-out howls of lost souls.

“How was that for reunion sex?” He whispered in her ear, his finger brushing her over-sensitive nipple, sending another shiver rippling through her.

“It’ll do,” she nibbled at his shoulder, already feeling his cock swelling once more inside her, “for now.”

He chuckled, “you always have a penchant for understatements, Kore.”

Her heart skipped a beat at the use of her old nickname. “Well I have high standards.”

“Then what about me?” He smirked cheekily, pinching her nipple while slightly moving his hip, his cock stirring a gasp out of her, “where do I fit into your high standards?”

“Beyond.”

He was perfect in all his imperfect ways. So were their following days loitering in the land of the living, just exploring the world born out of sunlight and enjoying each other’s company, like a normal human couple going on their second honeymoon.

It’d been centuries since he’d stepped foot out of the Underworld. He was strict to himself exactly as he was to the dead souls trapped in the lifeless realm-in they went and out they never shall be. Yet he had shown mercy, under her persuasion, once or twice in the string of centuries. He’d always made exceptions for her-she was that exception. But Caroline feared that this exception would not be extended to himself.

For spring could fit herself among the living, but never could death.

The ominous news arrived in the form of whispered words rousing her out of her sleep. The sheet on his side of the bed was cold as the feeling of dread settling in her heart, and she snuck down the stairs barefoot to the entrance of the drawing room.

It was odd, seeing the King of all gods donned in an immaculate suit, not a hair out of place. But his sharp eyes were what betrayed his true identity, the thunders booming underneath the calm façade of dark brown.

“And here I thought the first to call upon my door would be your designated messenger.” She heard Klaus’ voice, “how is good old Hermes fairing these days, brother?”

“Unfortunately, it is considerably hard to locate him given his well-known prowess. The same, however, could not be said about you.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Klaus feigned innocence.

Zeus merely chuckled, “you stirred quite the chaos the other day. I believe the human term of speech was…PDA?”

“And since when have you concerned yourself with humans?” She could detect the menace hidden in Klaus’ words, and apparently so could his brother, as his tone turned serious.

“I don’t. But that is no excuse to leave the Underworld untended.”

Her heart was pounding so hard she was sure both of them would have heard her by now. But for her sake neither addressed her as the conversation pushed forward.

“I would be more than glad to return to my kingdom,” Klaus paused, something soft creeping into his voice, “as long as Caroline comes with me.”

“We’ve been through this. Demeter…”

“I don’t bloody care what Demeter thinks! We’ve all been reincarnated and I say the rules change from here.”

Zeus sighed, “I understand that you two must be inseparable right now. But we have eternity on our hands, and you and I both know how time erodes all things. Could you swear to me that Persephone and you wouldn’t have been reduced to what Hera and I used to be, had we not made that deal?”

Her heart dropped when she didn’t hear him respond, but after a short while his sneer reached her ears, the cold sound warming her all over, “Hera had always been a cunning floozy and you, brother, were nothing but a hypocritical coward. Sorry but the comparison fell flat on me.”

“That may be so.” Zeus’ face revealed no emotion, “but I would do anything to resume the balance, and Hera hated you enough to lend me her powers so she wouldn’t ever see your face even on Gaia’s land. I guess there was something salvageable between us after all.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Klaus hissed through clenched teeth.

Zeus raised his hands and bolts of lightning whirled around Klaus like mesh, blocking him from her blurry sight, “you know I would.”

Clashes of thunder shook the room and then, as abrupt as they came, the lightning bolts disappeared into thin air, leaving in their wake the dizzying smell of burned debris and an absence that was Klaus mere seconds ago. She was frozen in place, feeling disoriented and lost like she was once again drowned in River Styx, not even a strangled scream could break through her clogged throat.

She watched in horror as Zeus fixed his cuff links with his eyes downcast, his voice vague and indecipherable in her ringing ears, “it’s only two months till winter, Persephone. I suggest you sit by and let the leaves fall on their own accords.”

And then he was gone.

Caroline slipped down the wall, curling into herself on the cold hardwood floor and sat there for days. What was time to her anyway? She had loads and loads to squander, time that she should be spending with him but wasn’t.

Once again she pictured him in the Underworld, painting her, thinking about her, but never uttering her name even in his sleep where he didn’t dare dream about her. He’d look after their flowers and water them with blood tortured out of the dead, he’d listen to the pleas of the poor souls sent to his realm each day, building a case for pardon like she might do in his mind, and then vindictively sentence them to even harsher punishments because she wasn’t there.

There would be no day or night for him, for the days didn’t see her return and the nights didn’t have her warm in his bed.

She imagined all his eternity in those fleeting days because there was not much to imagine. They had all the time in the world and yet the world was cruel enough to make them forsake half of it.

She wouldn’t have it. Not this time. Not ever again.

Just like driving the car and boarding the plane after she’d found Klaus’ whereabouts, she traveled to the borders of the Underworld straight from the floor of the British mansion without a single stop, in her sheer silk night gown with her feet bare and her hair a tousled mess, with the residue warmth and liveliness of the end of summer clinging to her skirt.

Let the leaves fall in her wake. Let the flowers wither and the fruits stricken by frost. Humans could call it El Nino or whatever fresh term of the day they invented to appease their narrow minds-it was but a blink of an eye in the eternity that she was claiming for her own.

The Styx River was as it always had been, darker than all the nights combined and colder than a heart maliciously scorned-but never colder than the prospect of his absence. The black mist whirling above the water hindered her sight but she could hear the whimpers of Cerberus from the other side. The loyal beast was trying to warn her-he had seen this once. He knew she wouldn’t make it across the river however hard she tried.

A condescending smile adorned Caroline’s tight lips. She never repeated her mistakes.

With her arms opened wide, a forest grew from scratch behind her, the trunks stretching high and the leaves casting shadows covering half the surface of the water. Flowers budded, bloomed and fell faster than a breath, and then the branches of the trees were teeming with ripe fruits, cherries and apples and apricots, their fragrance flowing over the stillness of the river like waves.

Soon there was a loud noise fast approaching from the other side, high-pitched cacklings like that of when a soul was flogged by brambles rolling together like thunder. Then came the shadows that shrouded the other half of the water. Crows, thousands of them, marching their way through the heavy mist of Styx River towards the fresh fruits that were never found in the realm of the dead, their beaks tainted with rotten flesh and stale blood glistening at the enticing aroma.

There were so many of them you could not tell one from another, their bodies forming a black bridge over the river with no seams nor holes in between.

Caroline closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, the sweet scent of fruits and death filling her lungs. Zeus’ words about eternity flashed through her mind, and she drowned them away with the deafening screams of crows.

She wanted eternity, but she also wanted every day and every night. She was greedy for not only the whispered endearments and the loving gaze, but the tiring, the cold shoulder, the dry spell, the tempers, the catastrophe of fights where every new leaf turned brown in the middle of April and every ghost screamed from the primroses growing out of their dead hearts, and the equal catastrophe of make-up sex where the roots of the trees from the upper world grew into new trees hanging upside down in their iron-grey sky.

She wanted it all, and no gods in all the realms could tell her otherwise.

She stepped onto the bridge of crows with the grace of a Queen that she had always been, their feathers tickling her feet and the flapping wings ruffling the fringe of her gown. But all that caught her attention was his imposing form on the other side of the bridge, approaching her with the pace and determination matching her own.

They met in the middle of the bridge and she crushed herself into his eager embrace. Their lips were fused together as soon as they touched, his fingers tangling into her hair and her hands reaching down his shirt to feel the heat of his skin. As their kiss deepened further she could feel an air-stream lifting them up a few inches till they were floating-the fruits were growing in a frenzy and the crows were flapping their wings so hard, hundreds dropped from sheer exhaustion and were instantly swallowed by the steely-cold water of River Styx.

But she paid no heed to any of that, her whole being satiated by his lips on hers, centuries of emptiness stuffed like frozen soil in her heart melting away from the warmth that he exuded. When they finally pulled back a little, landing back on the bridge and still basking in each other’s presence, they were both smiling like fools, their eyes drunken and skin flushed.

“Rumor has it that you never took even half a step out of the Underworld.” She teased him.

He tucked a stray curl behind her ear, his face weary yet tender, “my body may be bound to this land through my oath, but my heart used to flee to the land of the living every time spring made its entrance. While winter came to an end for the livings, it was only just the beginning of suffering for me.”

Her smile became watery as she cupped his cheek in her palm, “you may keep your heart this time around, almighty King of the Underworld.” She braced herself for the weights of her next words, “I will make sure of it.”

He instantly tightened his arms around her, his body speaking all the seriousness of vows and promises that were hidden from his teasing tone, “then who am I to question your decree, my Queen?” He slightly bowed his head, his voice now a dangerous burning whisper, “and I pity those who ever dares to.”

With a certainty as palpable as the endless time shared between the two of them, she believed her words to be the ultimate truth, now that he was by her side for however long eternity was.

[roman-catholic-mass-readings]

8th July >> Mass Readings (Except USA)

Friday, Fourteenth Week in Ordinary Time

    or 

Saint Kilian, Bishop and Martyr.

Friday, Fourteenth Week in Ordinary Time

(Liturgical Colour: Green)

First Reading

Hosea 14:2-10

A call to conversion and promise of safety.

The Lord says this:

Israel, come back to the Lord your God; your iniquity was the cause of your downfall. Provide yourself with words and come back to the Lord. Say to him, ‘Take all iniquity away so that we may have happiness again and offer you our words of praise. Assyria cannot save us, we will not ride horses any more, or say, “Our God!” to what our own hands have made, for you are the one in whom orphans find compassion.’ – I will heal their disloyalty, I will love them with all my heart, for my anger has turned from them. I will fall like dew on Israel. He shall bloom like the lily, and thrust out roots like the poplar, his shoots will spread far; he will have the beauty of the olive and the fragrance of Lebanon. They will come back to live in my shade; they will grow corn that flourishes, they will cultivate vines as renowned as the wine of Helbon. What has Ephraim to do with idols any more when it is I who hear his prayer and care for him? I am like a cypress ever green, all your fruitfulness comes from me.

Let the wise man understand these words. Let the intelligent man grasp their meaning. For the ways of the Lord are straight, and virtuous men walk in them, but sinners stumble.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm

Psalm 50(51):3-4,8-9,12-14,17

R/ My mouth shall declare your praise.

Have mercy on me, God, in your kindness.    In your compassion blot out my offence. O wash me more and more from my guilt    and cleanse me from my sin.

R/ My mouth shall declare your praise.

Indeed you love truth in the heart;    then in the secret of my heart teach me wisdom. O purify me, then I shall be clean;    O wash me, I shall be whiter than snow.

R/ My mouth shall declare your praise.

A pure heart create for me, O God,    put a steadfast spirit within me. Do not cast me away from your presence,    nor deprive me of your holy spirit.

R/ My mouth shall declare your praise.

Give me again the joy of your help;    with a spirit of fervour sustain me, O Lord, open my lips    and my mouth shall declare your praise.

R/ My mouth shall declare your praise.

Gospel Acclamation

1 Peter 1:25

Alleluia, alleluia! The word of the Lord remains for ever: What is this word? It is the Good News that has been brought to you. Alleluia!

Or:

John 16:13,14:26

Alleluia, alleluia! When the Spirit of truth comes he will lead you to the complete truth, and he will remind you of all I have said to you. Alleluia!

Gospel

Matthew 10:16-23

The Spirit of your Father will be speaking in you.

Jesus instructed the Twelve as follows: ‘Remember, I am sending you out like sheep among wolves; so be cunning as serpents and yet as harmless as doves.

   ‘Beware of men: they will hand you over to sanhedrins and scourge you in their synagogues. You will be dragged before governors and kings for my sake, to bear witness before them and the pagans. But when they hand you over, do not worry about how to speak or what to say; what you are to say will be given to you when the time comes; because it is not you who will be speaking; the Spirit of your Father will be speaking in you. ‘Brother will betray brother to death, and the father his child; children will rise against their parents and have them put to death. You will be hated by all men on account of my name; but the man who stands firm to the end will be saved. If they persecute you in one town, take refuge in the next; and if they persecute you in that, take refuge in another. I tell you solemnly, you will not have gone the round of the towns of Israel before the Son of Man comes.’

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

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

Saint Kilian, Bishop and Martyr

(Liturgical Colour: Red)

(Readings for the memorial)

(There is a choice today between the readings for the ferial day (Friday) and those for the memorial. The ferial readings are recommended unless pastoral reasons suggest otherwise)

________

EITHER: --------

First reading 2 Chronicles 24:18-22 'You have deserted the Lord: now he deserts you'

The Judaeans abandoned the Temple of the Lord, the God of their ancestors, for the worship of sacred poles and idols. Because of their guilt, God’s anger fell on Judah and Jerusalem. He sent them prophets to bring them back to the Lord, but when these gave their message, they would not listen. The spirit of God took possession of Zechariah son of Jehoiada the priest. He stood up before the people and said, ‘God says this, “Why do you transgress the commandments of the Lord to no good purpose? You have deserted the Lord, now he deserts you.”’ They then plotted against him and by order of the king stoned him in the court of the Temple of the Lord. King Joash, forgetful of the kindness that Jehoiada, the father of Zechariah, had shown him, killed Jehoiada’s son who cried out as he died, ‘The Lord sees and he will avenge!’

OR: --------

First reading 2 Maccabees 6:18,21,24-31 I am glad to suffer because of the awe which he inspires in me

Eleazar, one of the foremost teachers of the Law, a man already advanced in years and of most noble appearance, was being forced to open his mouth wide to swallow pig’s flesh. Those in charge of the impious banquet, because of their long-standing friendship with him, took him aside and privately urged him to have meat brought of a kind he could properly use, prepared by himself, and only pretend to eat the portions of sacrificial meat as prescribed by the king.    ‘Such pretence’ he said ‘does not square with our time of life; many young people would suppose that Eleazar at the age of ninety had conformed to the foreigners’ way of life, and because I had played this part for the sake of a paltry brief spell of life might themselves be led astray on my account; I should only bring defilement and disgrace on my old age. Even though for the moment I avoid execution by man, I can never, living or dead, elude the grasp of the Almighty. Therefore if I am man enough to quit this life here and now I shall prove myself worthy of my old age, and I shall have left the young a noble example of how to make a good death, eagerly and generously, for the venerable and holy laws.’    With these words he went straight to the block. His escorts, so recently well disposed towards him, turned against him after this declaration, which they regarded as sheer madness. Just before he died under the blows, he groaned aloud and said, ‘The Lord whose knowledge is holy sees clearly that, though I might have escaped death, whatever agonies of body I now endure under this bludgeoning, in my soul I am glad to suffer, because of the awe which he inspires in me.’    This was how he died, leaving his death as an example of nobility and a record of virtue not only for the young but for the great majority of the nation.

OR: --------

First reading 2 Maccabees 7:1-2,9-14 'The King of the world will raise us up to live for ever'

There were seven brothers who were arrested with their mother. The king tried to force them to taste pig’s flesh, which the Law forbids, by torturing them with whips and scourges. One of them, acting as spokesman for the others, said, ‘What are you trying to find out from us? We are prepared to die rather than break the laws of our ancestors.’    With his last breath the second brother exclaimed, ‘Inhuman fiend, you may discharge us from this present life, but the King of the world will raise us up, since it is for his laws that we die, to live again for ever.’    After him, they amused themselves with the third, who on being asked for his tongue promptly thrust it out and boldly held out his hands, with these honourable words, ‘It was heaven that gave me these limbs; for the sake of his laws I disdain them; from him I hope to receive them again.’ The king and his attendants were astounded at the young man’s courage and his utter indifference to suffering.    When this one was dead they subjected the fourth to the same savage torture. When he neared his end he cried, ‘Ours is the better choice, to meet death at men’s hands, yet relying on God’s promise that we shall be raised up by him; whereas for you there can be no resurrection, no new life.’

OR: --------

First reading 2 Maccabees 7:1,20-23,27-29 Make death welcome, so that in the day of mercy I may receive you back

There were seven brothers who were arrested with their mother. The king tried to force them to taste pig’s flesh, which the Law forbids, by torturing them with whips and scourges. But the mother was especially admirable and worthy of honourable remembrance, for she watched the death of seven sons in the course of a single day, and endured it resolutely because of her hopes in the Lord. Indeed she encouraged each of them in the language of their ancestors; filled with noble conviction, she reinforced her womanly argument with manly courage, saying to them, ‘I do not know how you appeared in my womb; it was not I who endowed you with breath and life, I had not the shaping of your every part. It is the creator of the world, ordaining the process of man’s birth and presiding over the origin of all things, who in his mercy will most surely give you back both breath and life, seeing that you now despise your own existence for the sake of his laws.’    She said to her youngest son, ‘My son, have pity on me; I carried you nine months in my womb and suckled you three years, fed you and reared you to the age you are now (and cherished you). I implore you, my child, observe heaven and earth, consider all that is in them, and acknowledge that God made them out of what did not exist, and that mankind comes into being in the same way. Do not fear this executioner, but prove yourself worthy of your brothers, and make death welcome, so that in the day of mercy I may receive you back in your brothers’ company.’

OR: --------

First reading Wisdom 3:1-9 The souls of the virtuous are in the hands of God

The souls of the virtuous are in the hands of God, no torment shall ever touch them. In the eyes of the unwise, they did appear to die, their going looked like a disaster, their leaving us, like annihilation; but they are in peace. If they experienced punishment as men see it, their hope was rich with immortality; slight was their affliction, great will their blessings be. God has put them to the test and proved them worthy to be with him; he has tested them like gold in a furnace, and accepted them as a holocaust. When the time comes for his visitation they will shine out; as sparks run through the stubble, so will they. They shall judge nations, rule over peoples, and the Lord will be their king for ever. They who trust in him will understand the truth, those who are faithful will live with him in love; for grace and mercy await those he has chosen.

OR: --------

First reading Ecclesiasticus 51:1-8 Thanks to God the saviour

I will give thanks to you, Lord and King,    and praise you, God my saviour,    I give thanks to your name; for you have been protector and support to me,    and redeemed my body from destruction, from the snare of the lying tongue,    from lips that fabricate falsehood; and in the presence of those around me    you have been my support, you have redeemed me, true to the greatness of your mercy and of your name,    from the fangs of those who would devour me, from the hands of those seeking my life,    from the many ordeals which I have endured, from the stifling heat which hemmed me in,    from the heart of a fire which I had not kindled, from deep in the belly of Sheol,    from the unclean tongue and the lying word –    the perjured tongue slandering me to the king. My soul has been close to death,    my life had gone down to the brink of Sheol. They were surrounding me on every side, there was no-one to support me;    I looked for someone to help – in vain. Then I remembered your mercy, Lord,    and your deeds from earliest times, how you deliver those who wait for you patiently,    and save them from the clutches of their enemies.

-------- ________

EITHER: --------

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 30(31):3-4,6,8,16-17

Into your hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.

Be a rock of refuge for me,    a mighty stronghold to save me, for you are my rock, my stronghold.    For your name’s sake, lead me and guide me.

Into your hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.

Into your hands I commend my spirit.    It is you who will redeem me, Lord. As for me, I trust in the Lord:    let me be glad and rejoice in your love.

Into your hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.

My life is in your hands, deliver me    from the hands of those who hate me. Let your face shine on your servant.    Save me in your love.

Into your hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.

OR: --------

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 33(34):2-9

From all my terrors the Lord set me free.

I will bless the Lord at all times,    his praise always on my lips; in the Lord my soul shall make its boast.    The humble shall hear and be glad.

From all my terrors the Lord set me free.

Glorify the Lord with me.    Together let us praise his name. I sought the Lord and he answered me;    from all my terrors he set me free.

From all my terrors the Lord set me free.

Look towards him and be radiant;    let your faces not be abashed. This poor man called, the Lord heard him    and rescued him from all his distress.

From all my terrors the Lord set me free.

The angel of the Lord is encamped    around those who revere him, to rescue them. Taste and see that the Lord is good.    He is happy who seeks refuge in him.

From all my terrors the Lord set me free.

OR: --------

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 123(124):2-5,7-8

Our life, like a bird, has escaped from the snare of the fowler.

If the Lord had not been on our side    when men rose up against us, then would they have swallowed us alive    when their anger was kindled.

Our life, like a bird, has escaped from the snare of the fowler.

Then would the waters have engulfed us,    the torrent gone over us; over our head would have swept    the raging waters.

Our life, like a bird, has escaped from the snare of the fowler.

Indeed the snare has been broken    and we have escaped. Our help is in the name of the Lord,    who made heaven and earth.

Our life, like a bird, has escaped from the snare of the fowler.

OR: --------

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 125(126):1-6

Those who are sowing in tears will sing when they reap.

When the Lord delivered Zion from bondage,    it seemed like a dream. Then was our mouth filled with laughter,    on our lips there were songs.

Those who are sowing in tears will sing when they reap.

The heathens themselves said: ‘What marvels    the Lord worked for them!’ What marvels the Lord worked for us!    Indeed we were glad.

Those who are sowing in tears will sing when they reap.

Deliver us, O Lord, from our bondage    as streams in dry land. Those who are sowing in tears    will sing when they reap.

Those who are sowing in tears will sing when they reap.

They go out, they go out, full of tears,    carrying seed for the sowing: they come back, they come back, full of song,    carrying their sheaves.

Those who are sowing in tears will sing when they reap.

OR: --------

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 15(16):1-2,5,7-8,11

You are my inheritance, O Lord.

Preserve me, God, I take refuge in you.    I say to the Lord: ‘You are my God.’ O Lord, it is you who are my portion and cup;    it is you yourself who are my prize.

You are my inheritance, O Lord.

I will bless the Lord who gives me counsel,    who even at night directs my heart. I keep the Lord ever in my sight:    since he is at my right hand, I shall stand firm.

You are my inheritance, O Lord.

You will show me the path of life,    the fullness of joy in your presence,    at your right hand happiness for ever.

You are my inheritance, O Lord.

OR: --------

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 22(23):1-3a,5-6

The Lord is my shepherd; there is nothing I shall want.

The Lord is my shepherd;    there is nothing I shall want. Fresh and green are the pastures    where he gives me repose.

The Lord is my shepherd; there is nothing I shall want.

Near restful waters he leads me,    to revive my drooping spirit. He guides me along the right path;    he is true to his name.

The Lord is my shepherd; there is nothing I shall want.

You have prepared a banquet for me    in the sight of my foes. My head you have anointed with oil;    my cup is overflowing.

The Lord is my shepherd; there is nothing I shall want.

Surely goodness and kindness shall follow me    all the days of my life. In the Lord’s own house shall I dwell    for ever and ever.

The Lord is my shepherd; there is nothing I shall want.

OR: --------

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 39(40):2,4,7-10

Here I am, Lord! I come to do your will.

I waited, I waited for the Lord    and he stooped down to me;    he heard my cry. He put a new song into my mouth,    praise of our God.

Here I am, Lord! I come to do your will.

You do not ask for sacrifice and offerings,    but an open ear. You do not ask for holocaust and victim.    Instead, here am I.

Here I am, Lord! I come to do your will.

In the scroll of the book it stands written    that I should do your will. My God, I delight in your law    in the depth of my heart.

Here I am, Lord! I come to do your will.

Your justice I have proclaimed    in the great assembly. My lips I have not sealed;    you know it, O Lord.

Here I am, Lord! I come to do your will.

OR: --------

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 88(89):2-5,21-22,25,27

I will sing for ever of your love, O Lord.

I will sing for ever of your love, O Lord;    through all ages my mouth will proclaim your truth. Of this I am sure, that your love lasts for ever,    that your truth is firmly established as the heavens.

I will sing for ever of your love, O Lord.

‘I have made a covenant with my chosen one;    I have sworn to David my servant: I will establish your dynasty for ever    and set up your throne through all ages.

I will sing for ever of your love, O Lord.

‘I have found David my servant    and with my holy oil anointed him. My hand shall always be with him    and my arm shall make him strong.

I will sing for ever of your love, O Lord.

‘My truth and my love shall be with him;    by my name his might shall be exalted. He will say to me: “You are my father,    my God, the rock who saves me.”’

I will sing for ever of your love, O Lord.

OR: --------

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 95(96):1-3,7-8,10

Proclaim the wonders of the Lord among all the peoples.

O sing a new song to the Lord,    sing to the Lord all the earth.    O sing to the Lord, bless his name.

Proclaim the wonders of the Lord among all the peoples.

Proclaim his help day by day,    tell among the nations his glory    and his wonders among all the peoples.

Proclaim the wonders of the Lord among all the peoples.

Give the Lord, you families of peoples,    give the Lord glory and power;    give the Lord the glory of his name.

Proclaim the wonders of the Lord among all the peoples.

Proclaim to the nations: ‘God is king.’    The world he made firm in its place;    he will judge the peoples in fairness.

Proclaim the wonders of the Lord among all the peoples.

OR: --------

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 105(106):19-23

O Lord, remember me out of the love you have for your people.

They fashioned a calf at Horeb    and worshipped an image of metal, exchanging the God who was their glory    for the image of a bull that eats grass.

O Lord, remember me out of the love you have for your people.

They forgot the God who was their saviour,    who had done such great things in Egypt, such portents in the land of Ham,    such marvels at the Red Sea.

O Lord, remember me out of the love you have for your people.

For this he said he would destroy them,    but Moses, the man he had chosen, stood in the breach before him,    to turn back his anger from destruction.

O Lord, remember me out of the love you have for your people.

OR: --------

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 109(110):1-4

You are a priest for ever, a priest like Melchizedek of old.

The Lord’s revelation to my Master:    ‘Sit on my right:    your foes I will put beneath your feet.’

You are a priest for ever, a priest like Melchizedek of old.

The Lord will wield from Zion    your sceptre of power:    rule in the midst of all your foes.

You are a priest for ever, a priest like Melchizedek of old.

A prince from the day of your birth    on the holy mountains;    from the womb before the dawn I begot you.

You are a priest for ever, a priest like Melchizedek of old.

The Lord has sworn an oath he will not change.    ‘You are a priest for ever,    a priest like Melchizedek of old.’

You are a priest for ever, a priest like Melchizedek of old.

OR: --------

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 116(117):1-2

Go out to the whole world; proclaim the Good News. or Alleluia!

O praise the Lord, all you nations,    acclaim him all you peoples!

Go out to the whole world; proclaim the Good News. or Alleluia!

Strong is his love for us;    he is faithful for ever.

Go out to the whole world; proclaim the Good News. or Alleluia!

-------- ________

Gospel Acclamation Mt5:10

Alleluia, alleluia! Happy those who are persecuted in the cause of right, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Alleluia!

Or: Jn17:19

Alleluia, alleluia! For their sake I consecrate myself, so that they too may be consecrated in the truth. Alleluia!

Or: 2Co1:3-4

Alleluia, alleluia! Blessed be God, a gentle Father and the God of all consolation, who comforts us in all our sorrows. Alleluia!

Or: Jm1:12

Alleluia, alleluia! Happy the man who stands firm, for he has proved himself, and will win the crown of life. Alleluia!

Or: 1P4:14

Alleluia, alleluia! It is a blessing for you when they insult you for bearing the name of Christ, for the Spirit of God rests on you. Alleluia!

Or: cf.Te Deum

Alleluia, alleluia! We praise you, O God, we acknowledge you to be the Lord; the noble army of martyrs praise you, O Lord. Alleluia!

________

EITHER: --------

Gospel Matthew 10:17-22 The Spirit of your Father will be speaking in you

Jesus said to his disciples: ‘Beware of men: they will hand you over to sanhedrins and scourge you in their synagogues. You will be dragged before governors and kings for my sake, to bear witness before them and the pagans. But when they hand you over, do not worry about how to speak or what to say; what you are to say will be given to you when the time comes; because it is not you who will be speaking; the Spirit of your Father will be speaking in you.    ‘Brother will betray brother to death, and the father his child; children will rise against their parents and have them put to death. You will be hated by all men on account of my name; but the man who stands firm to the end will be saved.’

OR: --------

Gospel Matthew 10:28-33 Do not be afraid of those who kill the body

Jesus said to his apostles: ‘Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul; fear him rather who can destroy both body and soul in hell. Can you not buy two sparrows for a penny? And yet not one falls to the ground without your Father knowing. Why, every hair on your head has been counted. So there is no need to be afraid; you are worth more than hundreds of sparrows.    ‘So if anyone declares himself for me in the presence of men, I will declare myself for him in the presence of my Father in heaven. But the one who disowns me in the presence of men, I will disown in the presence of my Father in heaven.’

OR: --------

Gospel Matthew 10:34-39 It is not peace I have come to bring, but a sword

Jesus instructed the Twelve as follows: ‘Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the earth: it is not peace I have come to bring, but a sword. For I have come to set a man against his father, a daughter against her mother, a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law. A man’s enemies will be those of his own household.    ‘Anyone who prefers father or mother to me is not worthy of me. Anyone who prefers son or daughter to me is not worthy of me. Anyone who does not take his cross and follow in my footsteps is not worthy of me. Anyone who finds his life will lose it; anyone who loses his life for my sake will find it.’

OR: --------

Gospel Luke 9:23-26 The Son of Man is destined to suffer grievously

Jesus said:    ‘If anyone wants to be a follower of mine, let him renounce himself and take up his cross every day and follow me. For anyone who wants to save his life will lose it; but anyone who loses his life for my sake, that man will save it. What gain, then, is it for a man to have won the whole world and to have lost or ruined his very self? For if anyone is ashamed of me and of my words, of him the Son of Man will be ashamed when he comes in his own glory and in the glory of the Father and the holy angels.’

OR: --------

Gospel John 12:24-26 If a grain of wheat falls on the ground and dies, it yields a rich harvest

Jesus said to his disciples:

‘I tell you, most solemnly, unless a wheat grain falls on the ground and dies, it remains only a single grain; but if it dies, it yields a rich harvest. Anyone who loves his life loses it; anyone who hates his life in this world will keep it for the eternal life. If a man serves me, he must follow me, wherever I am, my servant will be there too. If anyone serves me, my Father will honour him.’

OR: --------

Gospel John 15:18-21 The world hated me before it hated you

Jesus said to his disciples:

‘If the world hates you, remember that it hated me before you. If you belonged to the world, the world would love you as its own; but because you do not belong to the world, because my choice withdrew you from the world, therefore the world hates you. Remember the words I said to you: A servant is not greater than his master. If they persecuted me, they will persecute you too; if they kept my word, they will keep yours as well. But it will be on my account that they will do all this, because they do not know the one who sent me.’

OR: --------

Gospel John 17:11-19 Father, keep those you have given me true to your name

Jesus raised his eyes to heaven and said:

‘Holy Father, keep those you have given me true to your name, so that they may be one like us. While I was with them, I kept those you had given me true to your name. I have watched over them and not one is lost except the one who chose to be lost, and this was to fulfil the scriptures. But now I am coming to you and while still in the world I say these things to share my joy with them to the full. I passed your word on to them, and the world hated them, because they belong to the world no more than I belong to the world. I am not asking you to remove them from the world, but to protect them from the evil one. They do not belong to the world any more than I belong to the world. Consecrate them in the truth; your word is truth. As you sent me into the world, I have sent them into the world, and for their sake I consecrate myself so that they too may be consecrated in truth.’

[miissbiianca]

BDRPTASK: CREATE YOUR OWN MAGICAL PLANT AESTHETIC/DESCRIPTION ∟An excerpt from “Magical Flora in Western Europe” by Dr. Atticus Flynn, commissioned and published by Attley & Co. Publishing House, 1962

Nacrissus veneremus “Aphrodite’s Daffodil” 

I first stumbled across stories of this particular flower in Southern France, though throughout my travels I noticed that the plant itself was prevalent in Great Britain, France, Belgium and Germany. The flower appears as any other daffodil, and often grows amongst them, but tends to appear in pink, purple or red hues. The flower is harmless, unless picked, trodden on, or otherwise disturbed; in this instance it will release a puff of pink pollen which, when inhaled, sends the victim into a trance, until they happen upon another person. They will then fall madly in love with that person, to the point of obsession, for a minimum of 24 hours, and generally a maximum of 48 hours, though one reported case lasted almost two weeks! If no other person is found or their sentiments are not returned, the victim may experience classic symptoms of “lovesickness”, such as depression, nausea, tearfulness, anxiety and insomnia. The victim may do things they would not normally do under the influence of the pollen, making the flower potentially dangerous.

Rosa tenebrae “Vampire rose”

Though it may appear as any other rose would, the so called Vampire Rose is not to be underestimated. It dwells in dark regions of the forest floor where little light penetrates, and often uses its flowers to draw in its victims, though it is not so easy to spot in the darkness; the plant has extensive stems, roots and vines which criss-cross the forest floor, and are studded with long, hollow thorns, which keenly resemble fangs. If a victim steps too close, the vines and stems may sway towards and even wrap around the limb to enable the thorns to penetrate the skin, where-after they can begin to “drink” the blood of the victim. Whilst this may not be too harmful in itself, the wound often becomes red, itchy and swollen, and very painful and hot to the touch. There are some stories in Scotland of a person being completely consumed and drained by the thorns.

Campsis cantus “Warblers”

These brightly coloured, trumpet-like flowers are often found in woodland areas, and on still, bright days their singing can be heard softly from a few feet away. Warblers tend to grow in patches, and harmonise their singing. Whether or not this is a form of communication between the plants remains unknown, but so long as the sunshine catches their petals or leaves, they will sing in a way similar to the ringing of bells. However, do not get too close - when these flowers feel threatened, their gentle singing becomes a shrill scream, which will continue until the threat is removed.  

Cypressus cognitionisis “The tree of knowledge”

There are many species of Cypress trees in and around Europe, and until it bears fruit, the colloquially named “Tree of Knowledge” could be any one of them, based solely on appearance. However, once the summer comes around they can be distinguished by these navy coloured, pale blue-spotted berries. These berries can be eaten, and are known to grant heightened concentrations and cognitive abilities. These effects usually last for the time it takes the berries to be digested and the blood to be filtered of the chemicals absorbed by the body (on average, around 7 hours), but anyone looking to harvest their abilities should beware. Unless cooked for a number of hours over an open flame (other methods may also suffice, but none have been noted), the berries are highly toxic, and can cause mental slowness, dizziness, nausea, and in a few cases, more severe symptoms have been recorded. Even once cooked the berries can be dangerous, often making the consumer more neurotic and paranoid. Whilst eating these berries may be beneficial, it should not be done often, and the consumer should take care.

[summaryi]

The Language of Flowers - Vanessa Diffenbaugh

I cried my way through every chapter.

Thank you, Vanessa Diffenbaugh, for this book.

www.camellianetwork.org

Victoria’s Dictionary of Flowers

A

abutilon: meditation

acacia: secret love

acanthus: artifice

agapanthus: love letter

allium: prosperity

almond blossom: indiscretion

aloe: grief

alstroemeria: devotion

alyssum: worth beyond beauty

amaranth: immortality

amaryllis: pride

anemone: forsaken

angelica: inspiration

apple: temptation

apple blossom: preference

aster: patience

azalea: fragile and ephemeral passion

B

baby’s breath: everlasting love

bachelor’s button: single blessedness

basil: hate

bay leaf: i change but in death

begonia: caution

bellflower: gratitude

bells of ireland: good luck

birds of paradise: magnificence

blackberry: envy

black-eyed susan: justice

bluebell: constancy

bougainvillea: passion

bouvardia: enthusiasm

broom: humility

buttercup: ingratitude

C

cabbage: profit

cactus: ardent love

calla lily: modesty

camellia: my destiny is in your hands

candytuft: indifference

canterbury bells: constancy

carnation, pink: i will never forget you

carnation, red: my heart breaks

carnation, striped: i cannot be with you

carnation, white: sweet and lovely

carnation, yellow: disdain

celandine: joys to come

chamomile: energy in adversity

cherry blossom: impermanence

chervil: sincerity

chestnut: do me justice

chicory: frugality

chrysanthemum: truth

cinquefoil: beloved daughter

clematis: poverty

clove: i have loved you and you have not known it

clover, white: think of me

cockscomb: affectation

columbine: desertion

coreopsis: always cheerful

coriander: hidden worth

corn: riches

cosmos: joy in love and life

cowslip: pensiveness

crab-apple blossom: ill-tempered

cranberry: cure for heartache

crocus: youthful gladness

currant: thy frown will kill me

cyclamen: timid hope

cypress: mourning

D

daffodil: new beginnings

dahlia: dignity

daisy: innocence

daisy, gerber: cheerfulness

dandelion: rustic oracle

daphne: i would not have you otherwise

dayliy: coquetry

delphinium: levity

dianthus: make haste

dittany: childbirth

dogwood: love undiminished by adversity

dragon plant: you are near a snare

E

edelweiss: noble courage

elder: compassion

eucalyptus: protection

euphorbia: persistence

evening primrose: inconstancy

everlasting pea: lasting pleasure

F

Fennel: strength

fern: sincerity

fern, maidenhair: secrecy

feverfew: warmth

fig: argument

flax: i feel your kindness

forget-me-not: forget me not

forsythia: anticipation

foxglove: insincerity

freesia: lasting friendship

fuchsia: humble love

G

gardenia: refinement

gentian: intrinsic worth

geranium, oak-leaf: true friendship

geranium, pencil-leaf: ingenuity

geranium, scarlet: stupidity

geranium, wild: steadfast piety

ginger: strength

gladiolus: you pierce my heart

goldenrod: careful encouragement

grapevine: abundance

grass: submission

H

hawthorne: hope

hazel: reconciliation

heath: solitude

heather: protection

helenium: tears

heliotrope: devoted affection

hibiscus: delicate beauty

holly: foresight

hollyhock: ambition

honesty: honesty

honeysuckle: devotion

hyacinth, blue: constancy

hyacinth, purple: please forgive me

hyacinth, white: beauty

hydrangea: dispassion

I

ice plant: your looks freeze me

impatiens: impatience

iris: message

ivy: fidelity

J

jacob’s ladder: come down

jasmine, carolina: separation

jasmine, indian: attachment

jasmine, white: amiability

jonquil: desire

L

laburnum: pensive beauty

lady’s slipper: capricious beauty

lantana: rigor

larch: audacity

larkspur: lightness

laurel: glory and success

lavender: mistrust

lemon: zest

lemon blossom: discretion

lettuce: coldheartedness

liatris: i will try again

lichen: dejection

lilac: first emotions of love

lily: majesty

lily of the valley: return of happiness

linden tree: conjugal love

lisianthus: appreciation

lobelia: malevolence

lotus: purity

love-in-a-mist: perplexity

love-lies-bleeding: hopeless but not helpless

lungwort: you are my life

lupine: imagination

M

magnolia: dignity

marigold: grief

marjoram: blushes

marsh marigold: desire for riches

meadow saffron: my best days are past

meadowsweet: uselessness

michealmas daisy: farewell

mignonette: your qualities surpass your charms

mimosa: sensitivity

mistletoe: i surmount all obstacles

mock orange: counterfeit

monkshood: chivalry

morning glory: coquetry

moss: maternal love

mullein: take courage

mustard: i am hurt

myrtle: love

N

narcissus: self-love

nasturtium: impetuous love

nettle: cruelty

O

oats: the witching soul of music

oleander: beware

olive: peace

orange: generosity

orange blossom: your purity equals your loveliness

orchid: refined beauty

oregano: joy

P

pansy: think of me

parsley: festivity

passionflower: faith

peach: your charms are unequaled

peach blossom: i am your captive

pear: affection

pear blossom: comfort

peony: anger

peppermint: warmth of feeling

periwinkle: tender recollections

persimmon: bury me amid nature’s beauty

petunia: your presence soothes me

phlox: our souls are united

pineapple: you are perfect

pinnk: pure love

plum: keep your promises

poinsettia: be of good cheer

polyanthus: confidence

pomegranate: foolishness

pomegranate blossom: mature elegance

poplar, black: courage

poplar, white: time

poppy: fantastic extravagance

potato: benevolence

potato vine: you are delicious

primrose: childhood

protea: courage

purple coneflower: strength and health

Q

queen anne’s lace: fantasy

quince: temptation

R

ranunculus: you are radiant with charms

raspberry: remorse

redbud: betrayal

rhododendron: beware

rhubarb: advice

rose, burgundy: unconscious beauty

rose, moss: confession of love

rose, orange: fascination

rose, pale peach: modesty

rose, pink: grace

rose, purple: enchantment

rose, red: love

rose, white: a heart unacquainted with love

rose, yellow: infidelity

rosemary: remembrance

S

saffron: beware of excess

sage: good health and long life

saint-john’s-wort: superstition

saxifraga: affection

scabiosa: unfortunate love

scarlet pimpernel: change

snapdragon: presumption

snowdrop: consolation and hope

sorrel: parental affection

speedwell: fidelity

spirea: victory

star-of-bethlehem: purity

starwort: welcome

stephanotis: happiness in marriage

stock: you will always be beautiful to me

stonecrop: tranquility

strawberry: perfection

sunflower: false riches

sweet briar: simplicity

sweet pea: delicate pleasures

sweet william: gallantry

T

tansy: i declare war against you

thistle, common: misanthropy

thrift: sympathy

thyme: activity

trachelium: neglected beauty

trillium: modest beauty

trumpet vine: fame

tuberose: dangerous pleasures

tulip: declaration of love

turnip: charity

V

verbena: pray for me

vetch: i cling to thee

violet: modest worth

W

wallflower: fidelity in adversity

water lily: purity of heart

waxflower: susceptibility

wheat: prosperity

white monte casino: patience

willow herb: pretension

winter cherry: deception

wisteria: welcome

witch hazel: a spell

Y

yarrow: cure for a broken heart

Z

zinnia: i mourn your absence

[lostonehero]

You can never erase the past no matter how much you try

Botan threw down the book with a frustrated hiss. It just ended the next one was ashes, well just a burnt cover. The books well log journals from the guards lasted 5 years. Now Botan was back to square one, albeit with more knowledge on how Taylor acted as a teenager. He was walking back outside by weedfort trying to figure out how he will continue. What other things can he find? What of the trees the guards spoke of? 

The pain of a rock hitting his head broke him out of his thoughts, also caused him to drop the stack of books her was carrying. “What was that for” he turned around with a scowl and crossed arms to face a annoyed Ome. “Look I’m just going to say it something is wrong with Taylor and as much as we don’t trust or like you..... we know you haven’t done anything” he grumbles and continues “you might be the worse being i’ve ever met and have absolutely no redeeming qualities ever and” Botan cuts him off “is there a point to the insults or are you just going to continue” he asks picking up the books he dropped “There is Botan it’s just you’re dating Taylor what’s wrong with her” 

Botan obviously taken aback not expecting them to ever ask him for information “I-II don’t know she won’t tell me.......” he shoves the stack of books to Ome “Take this it’s the earliest thing i’ve found so far of Taylor” Ome takes the books and places them down “what do you mean by earliest Botan” Ome asked and Botan finally notices the others watching on. “Oh uh i just thought if i found anything of Taylor’s past i would know how to help her now i only found those books so far, and they aren’t really helpful since they just cut off abruptly” Ome nods connecting the dots “So you found her old diary” Botan quickly shakes his head “No its old guard logs from a town that is now a forest.... apparently Taylor just walked into the town one day and......and uh she uh didn’t look as she does now”

 Cypress now encouraged to speak up “What was the town’s name maybe we could find the remains of it” Botan shakes his head “All that remains of the town is some stones the rest has become a forest... besides the forest is before most of your times i mean it was even before my alternate the one from this world perished” he looks around at confused faces “oh right well that means the journals there and the forest that now occupies that town is about 1500 years old maybe older i have to look the numbers over again” this causes everyone’s face to pale “H-How old would that make Taylor” Dal asks and Botan just shrugs 

‘Did you find anything else out in those books” Cyp asks.Botan nods “ Yes i did Taylor was a good hunter and apparently really didn’t like ianite because she took her for a walk to the bad place” he stops “i don’t really know what that means the guards in the book tried to ask but that’s all Taylor would say that and she wanted to see her parents again” Sky spoke up “What could ianite even done to make Taylor say that” Plyades speaks up “what can we do to help Botan”

Botan taken aback “uh actually could you uh ask your gods if they know anything about twisted trees” Dal with a flash of recognition “like the ones now in the guest house” Cyp nods “Yeah after Taylor had her nightmare at weedfort there were trees and vines in the bedroom” 

“They did look unnatural “ sky speaks quietly “Show me i need to see them” Botan asks and they head as a group to the weedfort guest house to the bedroom and Botan looks at the destroyed room in awe “H-how could she have done this” he picks a flower off of a vine it smells of rotten flesh “these match the drawings in the log book only by the twisted nature” he quietly takes samples of the branches and vines. “well i guess it’s time for research then” sky asks Botan “yes it is if you’re willing to help me as for the rest of you do you mind trying to ask your gods if they know anything about twisted trees” the rest of the group nods and disperse leaving Sky and Botan alone.

“You really do care about her don’t you” he asks Botan with a bitter taste in his mouth. “I do sky I l-love her more then a-anything” after this exchange the room falls into a heavy silence as both men study the plants.

~

~

The young adult could not hear the screams of panic and fear as a fire ripped through the streets of the town she cared so much for burned. knights baring the ianite insignia made quick work of the survivors fleeing the town. The blue haired woman looks up seeing the destruction, and as one of the ianite soldiers come charging at Taylor. She lets out a loud screech and twisted trees erupt from the ground spreading throughout the town destroying the buildings and people alike as they rip through the ground. several vines shoot up from the ground impaling the horse and the ianite soldier charging Taylor, and they fell to the ground with a silent thud. 

The blue haired adult wandered through the destroyed town tears running down her cheeks, and a growing fury in her heart. Her flowers turned a bright red, and the spirits agreed Ianite deserves a punishment. Her followers young or old have caused this. 

The blue haired girl had a new mission, it was time to fine the goddess to make her pay.     

[miistical]

00:00

This is a commission for @colonel-curry. I hope you like your gay witches!

Very long ago, witches were thought to be a plague upon the earth. Humans of every creed and race had called them devil worshipers, Bringers of Evil, and all who were thought to harbor black magic had been executed. Any who wrote with their left hand was said to have had practiced black magic—many children disappeared that way. But they, those cursed witches, had not suffered from their fate. No, they had reveled in it. Witches had grown in the night, their powers beheld only among twilight, and they hid. No witch had left the coven without a matron and so it was only the foolhardy wishers who burned - those who had craved powers they did not understand. And now, after centuries filled with myth and interest, witches were no longer hunted. Instead, they were searched. Their abilities were legendary, the results the envy of anyone who knew the signs, and this had not changed even as the years gently rolled by. Soon, witches faded into tall tales and folklore as they blended easily among these who did not want to see them, but wanting practitioners were never turned away. All one needed was open eyes and a soulful yearn and the craft would come easily.

The Flower Petal Apothecary laid within the heart of New York City, its doors opened to anyone who may stumble upon it. It wasn't the only apothecary in business—it wasn't even the only one in the neighborhood, let alone the city itself. Other and more specialized apothecaries dotted the landscape from Boston to Queens to the New Jersey shore. Medicines whispered to heal any ailment, protection stones able to will away any negative influence, personalized tokens meant for any sort of want or wish. But none of them held the properties the Flower Petal Apothecary modestly boasted - that is to say, no witches worked at the others.

The stores did not, and would never, lie about their wares, but they did not have a hand in creating them. No, they had left the true craft to the pythoness and kitsune-tsukai witches - a formidable soothsayer and fox spirit pair - who hid among the blooming flower blossoms of Prospect park.

The path that lead the true believers and the desperate wanters to the shop was lined with fruit trees of all kind. Easily blended into the background of the more impressive-looking London plantrees, the eyes of those without yearning in their soul skipped over the more exotic flora. Those who wandered found themselves underneath the weeping branches of oranges, apples, and lemons. Though they were free to pluck the fruit for themselves, most did not in fear of retribution—weary of all that ensnared them.

Most were right to be cautious.

The further along one walked, the more eye-catching the plants became. White lilies turned to red dragon lilies to poppies to roses. Apple trees turned to peach trees to pomegranate trees to cherry blossom trees. The end of the dirt path was covered by Spanish moss that hung from southern live oak and bald-cypress trees; all one needed to do was brush it back, though some cannot bring themselves to touch anything teeming with the magic they wished to use.

A secret kept from the main road, the Flower Petal Apothecary was antique in its design. Wooden beams carried multiple terracotta pots, their emptiness filled with lavender, with basil, with aloe vera. Tinkling chimes and handwoven dream catchers gently spun and swung with every brush of the wind. The three steps that lead up to the white door, as well as the rest of the narrow porch, was nearly covered in overgrown vines - though they appeared as a genuine part of the surrounding garden. 

To an untrained eye, they would only see weeds and pesky, reaching fingers that snagged at loose clothing and unbound hair. They would see too bright colors and too big flowers and too many of them both. To the witches that regularly lived among the planted greenery, they meant something: white sweet alyssum for peace, white clover for vitality and good fortune, bright pink azalea and blue forget-me-nots for love, yellow daffodil for prosperity, orange gladiolus for protection. 

It looked like nothing more than a forgotten cottage, a quaint building recaptured by mother nature and lost to humanity's brutal and often cruel touch. And, in most cases, it was just that. The Flower Petal Apothecary had been built by a medicine man, a famous doctor known for his perfect remedies. Many a tale had spoke of him as one would of Jesus: able to heal any disease or bodily flaw. Yet, as the years went by and the people went west, not many remembered the once greatly hailed doctor - nor did they ever remember his young wife.

A witch forced to hide herself behind the man she did not love, she had made sure to never hold a grudge against those who persecuted her people. They were ignorant, she had told herself—they were too unaware, were too traditional, too scared. They did not know any better, but that did not mean she would let her sisters fear as she had. So, when her miracle husband died himself, she had cast a spell over their house. Never should another who wished to hurt any other witch find this home; only the believers, the wishers, those without a home themselves shall find it.

(Should one ask the workers, they'd say the wind that fluttered the leaves was her whispering spirit. They never dared to speak her name though - not because they feared it, but because they revered it. Names had power. Names were power. Names woke the soul, strengthened the body, bent the will.

They were content in her slumber.)

A woman born with bruises was one of the many wishers and she found the apothecary with ease, as if she knew where it was already. In truth, she was on her last desperate attempt at peace and the Flower Petal had heard her cries—and opened for her. Trembling legs brought her to the door, so bright and welcoming she was nearly afraid of what laid behind it. She had trusted bright and welcoming and now... now she was here.

She, nothing but a hollow body and hollow eyes, started when the door opened before she could even gather the courage to knock, let alone do it. A woman, taller and even thinner than herself, had opened the door, her brown eyes dark and piercing. A flash of gold and a deep breath was all the witch needed before she had pulled the wisher in, her wiry arms warm and strong.

"I am so sorry, Katerina. I am so sorry." It was nothing but a whisper, nothing but lips against her curly hair, but Kat immediately broke. Her hairline fractures finally splintered, her aches became stabs of pain, and she could hold on no longer. The brown haired woman collapsed and she let all of her despair go. She could feel herself being moved, laid across someone's legs, head in their lap, but she could not stop her weeping. The next hour was nothing but a blur. There were hands, long fingered and calloused and soft, and they were everywhere. A pair plucked at her hair, as if trying to untangle it from its rigid curls. A different pair rubbed her bare arms and her jean-clad legs; normally Kat would have balked at a stranger touching her anywhere lower than her shoulders, but she felt none of the anxiety, the nervousness. A third pair rubbed her back, gently kneading the knots out of her shoulders. All were gentle and any tug did not hurt just as no touch was intrusive. Kat couldn't remember a time where hands felt good. When Kat's mind finally returned from her haze, she could feel only one pair of hands. She nuzzled her face closer to woman she laid across before she realized just what she was doing. Kat shot up, apologies spewing from her mouth with well-practiced ease, her hands covering her face. Yet, while Kat braced herself, the only thing she heard was muffled laughter. Her eyes snapped open and she openly gaped. The woman she had been laying on was nearly all arm, all leg. A bright blue dress of sorts, though Kat distantly thought it looked more like a robe, was the only thing that covered her modesty - and even then it looked as if she had just thrown it on with no care as to how to laid upon her. She wore nothing below her knee and even then the dress-robe had a slit up to her hip; and while the fabric laid thick down her arms, the neckline was a deep cut that showed off her collarbones with ease. (Strangely enough, Kat thought she looked elegant all the while. As if her body was her clothing too. There was nothing sexual to the hints and flashes of her and Kat ached to feel like that one day.) Pale skin was the only thing Kat could see as she trailed her eyes up to the other woman's hands as they delicately cupped her mouth. She was of Asian descent, though Kat couldn't be for sure nor wanted to assume but she knew that her fine cheekbones and soft jawline did not allow for the harsher European genes. As she finally realized that she was staring, Kat ducked down, a fierce blush running down her neck. She stammered, "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—I mean, I just thought—" her throat closed, her voice choked off. She whispered, "I'm sorry." one last time before a hand covered her own. 'Huh,' Kat thought, her mind dazed and hysterical, 'her nails are really short. And pink. It suits her.' The witch sighed before giving her a small smile. "You have nothing to be sorry for. Not here. Not ever again." Her voice was high and soft and so kind that Kat nearly burst into tears a second time. Her hands moved to clutch at Kat's wrists, her thumbs soothing the finger-shaped bruises there. She said, "My name in this home is Tsuki, Japanese for moon. Welcome, Katerina, to the Flower Petal Apothecary." For the first time since she got there, Kat looked around the building. From her view at the very front, nearly everything was opened to her. Right in front of her was a counter, the grain of it pure white against the deep mahogany of the wood slab. It, just like the stairs outside, was encased by hugging vines, flowers of all kinds blooming randomly. Crystals hung low from the ceiling, some dangling on cotton strings and leather strips while others seemed to have shot down from the apothecary's rafters. Pots and cups and containers of all kinds had been stacked neatly behind the counter - jars upon jars of specialty ingredients, Kat guessed. The closest ones were largely unlabeled, though some were named. Kat couldn't quite wrap her head around what had to have been inside: nevus paste, Dead Sea salt, volcanic glass, meteorite dust. Her eyes wandered over to the other side of the apothecary and Kat's jaw gently fell open. Shelves and shelves of plants and pots and books - oh god, the books - were lined neatly across the second half of the room. Muffled giggling drew her eyes to the back of the store. There were four women, all looking at her in varying degrees of interest, sat behind a long and narrow table. One played with a snake while another had a small kitten resting in her hair; the last two, blonde twins, were holding each other's hands and were just looking at her. A shiver ran down Kat's spine though the air inside the apothecary was warm. She glanced at Tsuki and she nearly gasped at the glare she was giving the other girls. Kat flinched when Tsuki's eyes returned to her, though Tsuki graciously ignored it. "I deeply apologize for my sisters' behavior." Kat swallowed and quickly darted her tongue out to wet her lips. She managed to murmur, "It's no problem." The other woman sighed as if Kat's response pained her. She stood, gently tugging Kat up with her, and returned her glare to the other witches. "Romalda, Orchid, do go help with the inventory - Prophecy shouldn't have to do it by herself. Ava, Eva, clean up that table." Tsuki's voice barely lifted from how she talked to Kat, but there was a certain weight to it that Kat didn't expect. The other witches had immediately gotten to work not a moment after she finished talking, their movements more elegant than Kat thought should have been possible—or fair. However, Kat was pulled along by Tsuki before she could watch the girls actually do anything. Tsuki dragged Kat through the many shelves before heading up a previously unseen winding staircase. As they walked, Kat's mind supplied her with words after words until everything got so tangled up that the first thing she was able to say was, "What's up with your names?" The other woman didn't stop, though she did quirk a bemused smile. "Our names?" Kat could feel her ears warm, but she carried on. "Yeah, I mean, like—they're not your actual names, right? I don’t know much about witches, but names are… important, I guess?" The two sat down at a small, circular table. To Kat's surprise, Tsuki beamed at her. "You would be correct. Not many people catch that - or, well, they don't ask about it." Not knowing what else to say, Kat kept silent. Tsuki said no more either as she began to pour tea for the both of them, the pot suddenly there as if it had been waiting for them. Kat gnawed on her lower lip, the skin of it already ridged from past teeth (sometimes not her own), and eyed her companion. She hadn't known what to expect when she had tried to find the witches, but now all she could feel was a bone-deep sense of resignation. However, before it could seep into her blood, a spark of color caught her eye. A fox, made of stardust and will-o-wisps, had slowly glided over to her and Tsuki. It was a specter of red and white and gold, it's body long and limbs longer, its fur sparking and glittering in the light. Kat gasped as it came closer and whipped her head to Tsuki, but her question died on her lips at the witch's face. Tsuki's eyes were filled with such a deep, aching fondness that Kat could feel her question roll back down her throat. But, when Kat followed Tsuki's eyes, she found that they weren't trained on the fox. No, they were focused on the woman coming toward them. The fox wrapped itself around Tsuki, it's coat gleaming as if it were made of candle flame, but she merely ran a hand down it's spine as if it wasn't the most breathtaking thing Kat had ever seen. Then again, with how Tsuki leaned forward, her eyelashes fluttering, she obviously thought the fox was second place. Kat couldn't blame her. The approaching witch was short but had noticeable muscles that caught on the thin material of her clothing; unlike Tsuki's glowing gown, this one was wearing a simple crop top and jean shorts. A glance toward her feet told Kat that she also wore no shoes. The brunette wondered if that was a witch thing. "Hello." The husky voice snapped both of the other women out of their trances, though Kat was the only one to show any shame at her blatant staring. She smiled, her lips slightly pinched but her shoulders more relaxed than before, and responded, "Hi, it's nice to meet you." The woman beamed, her smile so sharp Kat felt her lip get bloody. "I'm Prophecy , the Flower Petal Apothecary's resident spell caster. You needed some form of protection, right?" Startled, Kat turned to Tsuki, but the witch was fully preoccupied with the fox. Brows furrowed, Kat looked back to Prophecy, hoping for some explanation on how the witches knew her reason for coming. However, it seemed that Prophecy found her confusion amusing for she just raised a single thick eyebrow and leaned against the table, not saying a word. Kat turned back to Tsuki, her hands beginning to tremble as her stomach clenched painfully, fervently hoping that the kind Japanese woman would take pity on her. Instead of facing Tsuki though, Kat came face to face with the fox she had admired earlier. Eyes wide and bright, alive for what could have been the first time in years, Kat reached a hand out. It hovered above the floating animal, her courage hiding in her throat along with all the breath in her body. Fortunately, the fox didn’t leave her like that. Slowly, as if it could feel her bubbling anxiety, the fox nuzzled its face into the palm of her hand. As her fingertips gently stroked back and forth, Tsuki and Prophecy gravitated to each other. While Kat laughed breathlessly, her amazement keeping her eyes on the spirit in front of her, the other two women let themselves drift into each other’s arms. Normally they strayed from each other during work, but the deep pain Tsuki had felt from Kat had latched itself to her lungs. It had made it hard to breathe and harder still to keep her tears from spilling over. As Tsuki watched Kat play with her familiar, she was acutely reminded of herself, so young and naive and lonely that even a sly fox spirit was able to cheer her up. She snuggled into Prophecy's hold, her arms loosely looped around her lover's neck. Tsuki rested a cheek on top of Prophecy's naturally curly hair, her own hair shielding them from the others downstairs. Witches had been known for finding wives in other witches, though some ventured out to snatch a man or woman with enough magic to keep them from leaving. Some took another approach and just hid where their heart laid, exchanging their soul for it. Others went to find the most influential man to lay with, hoping for a new witchling for their coven. Tsuki and Prophecy had loved each other for centuries and had never strayed with each new cycle of their births. They called that affection. What love was, was something even deeper. Love was like names that way—much too powerful to be just be said. Together they rocked, their eyes on Kat and Shipp - Prophecy had named Tsuki's familiar years ago and the Japanese witch still regretted the decision. Black eyes focused on the many bruises Kat wore like jewelry, long and thin contusions that encircled her wrists and covered her throat. Prophecy knew of abuse, had felt its brutal sting, and she knew that Kat had lied with abuse much like newlyweds did: fully, with no room for the both of them apart. Only did they exist together, entwined and mixed until they could not see where one ended and the other began. Slowly, as if waking from a daze, Prophecy untangled herself from Tsuki. The taller woman let the black witch go, the tips of her fingers lightly brushing against Prophecy's skin as she steadily grew further from her touch. The sound of Prophecy's footsteps, soft as they were, had Kat's head snapping up. Her cheeks flushed brightly, her eyes wide and endless. Already she had begun to retreat back into her body, her energy wrapped and shackled under her skin once more. In a flash, Prophecy covered Kat's hands with her own. Kat flinched, but she tracked her hands just as Prophecy knew she would. The woman gasped at what she saw and Kat slowly raised her head to meet Prophecy head-on. Just as Kat's boyfriend's fingers still held on to her wrists, Prophecy's first husband's name was carved into the delicate skin of her hands. She whispered, "You are not the only one who has hurt, Katerina. Come with me and we shall see what we can do for the marks on your body and the ghosts in your eyes." Kat swallowed heavily and exhaled harshly. She closed her eyes before turning her hands over, letting Prophecy clasp their hands together and pull her from her chair. Prophecy cackled, her sharp voice startling Kat. Before she could say a word, Prophecy took off, dragging Kat behind her. Tsuki stayed back with the cold tea and snickering fox spirit, her fingers pressed against her mouth in an attempt to hold in her own giggles. Her brown eyes followed the two women as Prophecy made to her potion bench. In seconds anything that had been left out had clattered to the floor in a broad swipe of Prophecy's arm. Leaning on her forearms, Tsuki smirked as she watched the two, her hand cradling her chin. While Prophecy was exactly what Kat needed, especially considering it was the black witch who knew the best spells and curses, Tsuki refused to just sit back and be an idle observer. 'After all,' Tsuki thought, an eyebrow raised at her familiar, 'I'm the kitsune-tsukai for a reason.' She grinned, her teeth a straight row of headstones, and purred, "Shipp? What do you think of Katerina?" The fox laid himself across her narrow shoulders. "I'd say she could use some fun." Eyes narrowed in on the ingredients Prophecy had pulled from the shelves - rose steams filled with thorns, sea salt, onyx stones, and sage and rosemary - Tsuki nodded to Kat. Shipp bared his teeth in a savage grin and swooped down and circled around until he was behind Kat. The woman, still disorientated from the sudden run, didn't notice the spirit until he was breathing down her neck. Before she could turn, Kat yelped in surprise. She rubbed a hand against her scalp, the sting already fading from where Shipp had plucked a hair out with his teeth. "What was that for?!" Kat exclaimed as she watched the fox glide over to Prophecy. The witch plucked the hair from the fox and scratched him behind his ears in thanks. Prophecy glanced back and raised her eyebrows. "We needed an item to represent you. A charm, a personal knickknack, part of your nails, or," she waved the strand of hair, "some of your hair!" Kat huffed, too irritated to stay cautious. "You could have asked, you know." "Now, where's the fun in that? Anyway, come here so I can show you how to do this." The next hour was filled with spell casting. More customers, lost wanderers and yearning hopefuls, came in and were greeted like Kat had been. The other witches had popped in and out to help everyone out while Tsuki stayed on the second floor and Prophecy attended to Kat. Finally relaxing in the presence of such a fiery witch, Kat had taken to the spell with vigor. The warmth of the building had sneaked its way under Kat's skin, the scent of the many plants ingrained into the fiber of her hair; the magic of the witch's house had seeped into Kat's soul, leaving her with a glow that seemed to follow her, hidden in her shadow. When she finally left the cottage, the wood of the door had already took notice of her presence—should Kat ever find a want to return, the door would always open for her. With the natural witch gone, the witches of the apothecary finally noticed the dimming of the sun. With fast movements and little flourish, the women made quick work of cleaning up. No matter the day or the season, the Flower Petal Apothecary closed at sundown and opened at sunrise. As the sun kissed the edge of the horizon, the witches made it with just enough time to thank each tree as they made their way down the path. The twins broke off at the first right, the moss parting for them as they journeyed back over to New Jersey. Orchid disappeared into her namesake, hoping to make it back to Queens before her roommates tried to find her. Prophecy and Tsuki walked a little bit farther with Romalda, the purple haired snake charmer keeping off the approaching chill with her flute. Right before the trees blended back within those of the park, the branches on both sides of the path cleared for their respective witch. Romalda, quiet as can be, left with only a waving hand to say goodbye as she took the path that lead upstate. Cressida and Hisa, Prophecy and Tsuki no longer, leaned against each other as they walked home. It was in the darkness that their identities were stripped from them. While every witch was each other's sister, very few spoke their name aloud. Only lovers or siblings whispered their names but even then they were only used either among the secret or the ignorant. It was hard to tell them apart most days. When the trees opened for them, they smoothly walked out, as they had not just appeared from the air. The street was still and quiet, a residue of magic blocking the noise from brushing the pavement. The walk up to their apartment was familiar and calming, the day's many excitements leaving them both tired. Cressida's antique record player, a gift from a long dead mother who did not give birth to her, immediately began to play. They undressed as they made their way to their bedroom, each flash a skin an invitation for the fingers and a feast for the eyes. They danced as they made their way across the floor, their feet quick and nimble, their hips swaying to the crooning voice that sang to them. The witches ended up collapsed on their bed, Hisa's thin body curled around Cressida's many curves. They laid together, their breaths mingling, and they wondered if they would have such excitement again tomorrow. They wondered if Katerina would return. They wondered if there would ever be a lifetime where they would not love each other. They wondered if it even mattered. And when they woke up to the sun whispering for them to rise, their thoughts from the night before fleeting things, they would not know that Kat was waiting for them. That the twins, Nina and Amelia, had prayed for their love just like the mornings before. That it had been Lilli who lit a candle to burn all day or that Yeritza had whispered her name into her hands, hoping that one day they would hear her. That one day they would know all of their names.

[vivlives]

Language of Flowers - Victorian

Here is a non-exhaustive list of various flowers and their meanings from the Victorian era. Taken from A Victorian Flower Dictionary. Please use in all your fiction and art for symbolism purposes.

Abutilon - meditation Acacia - secret love Acanthus - artifice Agapanthus - love letter Agrimony - gratitude Allium - prosperity Almond blossom - indiscretion Aloe - grief Astroemeria - devotion Alyseum - worth beyond beauty Amaranth - immortality Amaryllis - pride Anemone - forsaken Angelica - inspiration Apple - temptation Apple blossom - preference Aster - patience Azalea - fragile and ephemeral passion Baby's breath - everlasting love Bachelor's button - single blessedness Basil - hate Bay leaf - I change but in death Begonia - caution Bellflower - gratitude Bells of Ireland - good luck Birds of paradise - magnificence Blackberry - envy Black-eyed Susan - justice Bluebell - constancy Bougainvillea - passion Bouvardia - enthusiasm Broom - humility Buttercup - ingratitude Cabbage - profit Cactus - ardent love Calla lily - modesty Camellia - my destiny is in your hands Candytuft - indifference Canterbury bells - constancy Carnation, pink - I will never forget you Carnation, red - my heart breaks Carnation, white - sweet and lovely Carnation, yellow - disdain Carnation, striped - I cannot be with you Celandine - joys to come Chamomile - energy in adversity Cherry blossom - impermanence Cherry, winter - deception Chervil - sincerity Chestnut - do me justice Chicory - frugality Chrysanthemum - truth Cinquefoil - beloved daughter Clematis - poverty Clove - I have loved you have you have not known it Clover, white - think of me Cockscomb - affectation Columbine - desertion Coneflower, purple - strength and health Coreopsis - always cheerful Coriander - hidden worth Corn - riches Cosmos - joy in love and life Cowslip - pensiveness Crab-apple blossom - ill-tempered Cranberry - cure for heartache Crocus - youthful gladness Currant - thy frown will kill me Cyclamen - timid hope Cypress - mourning Daffodil - new beginnings Dahlia - dignity Daisy - innocence Dandelion - rustic oracle Daphne - I would not have you otherwise Day lily - coquetry Delphinium - levity Dianthus - make haste Dittany - childbirth Dogwood - love undiminished by adversity Dragon plant - you are near a snare Edelweiss - noble courage Eglantine - I wound to heal Elder - compassion Eucalyptus - protection Euphorbia - persistence Evening primrose - inconstancy Everlasting pea - lasting pleasure Fennel - strength Fern - sincerity Fern, maidenhair - secrecy Feverfew - warmth Fig - argument Flax - I feel your kindness Forget-me-not - forget me not Forsythia - anticipation Foxglove - insincerity Freesia - lasting friendship Fuchsia - humble love Gardenia - refinement Gentian - intrinsic worth Geranium, oak-leaf - true friendship Geranium, pencil-leaf - ingenuity Geranium, scarlet - stupidity Geranium, wild - steadfast piety Gerber daisy - cheerfulness Ginger - strength Gladiolus - you pierce my heart Goldenrod - careful encouragement Grapevine - abundance Grass - submission Hawthorn - hope Hazel - reconciliation Heath - solitude Heather - protection Helenium - tears Heliotrope - devoted affection Hibiscus - delicate beauty Holly - foresight Hollyhock - ambition Honesty - honesty Honeysuckle - devotion Hyacinth, blue - constancy Hyacinth, purple - please forgive me Hyacinth, white - beauty Hydrangea - dispassion Ice plant - your looks freeze me Impatiens - impatience Iris - message Ivy - fidelity Jacob's ladder - come down Jasmine, carolina - separation Jasmine, indian - attachment Jasmine, white - amiability Jonquil - desire Laburnum - pensive beauty Lady's slipper - capricious beauty Lantana - rigour Larch - audacity Larkspur - joy to know you, lightness Laurel - glory and success Lavender - mistrust Lemon - zest Lemon blossom - discretion Lettuce - cold-heartedness Liatris - I will try again Lichen - dejection Lilac - first emotions of love Lily - majesty Lily of the valley - return of happiness Linden tree - conjugal love Lisianthus - appreciation Lobelia - malevolence Lotus - purity Love-in-a-mist - perplexity Love-lies-bleeding - hopeless not helpless Lungwort - you are my life Lupin - imagination Magnolia - dignity Marigold - grief Marjoram - blushes Marsh marigold - desire for riches Meadow saffron - my best days are past Meadowsweet - uselessness Mignonette - qualities surpass charms Michaelmas daisy - farewell Mimosa - sensitivity Mistletoe - I surmount all obstacles Mock orange - counterfeit Monkshood - chivalry Morning glory - coquetry Moss - maternal love Moss rose - confessions of love Mullein - take courage Mustard - I am hurt Myrtle - love Narcissus - self-love Nasturtium - impetuous love Nettle - cruelty Oats - witching soul of music Oleander - beware Olive - peace Orange - generosity Orange blossom - your purity equals your loveliness Orchid - refined beauty Oregano - joy Pansy - think of me Parsley - festivity Passionflower - faith Peach - you charms are unequalled Peach blossom - I am your captive Pear - affection Pear blossom - comfort Peony - anger Peppermint - warmth of feeling Periwinkle - tender recollections Persimmon - bury me amid nature's beauty Petunia - your presence soothes me Phlox - our souls are united Pineapple - you are perfect Pink - pure love Plum - keep your promises Poinsettia - be of good cheer Polyanthus - confidence Pomegranate - foolishness Pomegranate blossom - mature elegance Poplar, black - courage Poplar, white - time Poppy - fantastic extravagance Potato - benevolence Potato vine - you are delicious Primrose - childhood Protea - courage Queen Anne's lace - fantast Quince - temptation Ranunculus - you are radiant with charms Raspberry - remorse Redbud - betrayal Rhododendron - beware Rhubarb - advice Rose, burgundy - unconscious beauty Rose, orange - fascination Rose, pale peach - modesty Rose, pink - grace Rose, purple - enchantment Rose, red - love Rose, white - heart unacquainted with love Rose, yellow - infidelity Rosemary - remembrance Saffron - beware of excess Sage - good health and long life Saxifrage - affection Scabious - unfortunate love Scarlet pimpernel - change Snapdragon - presumption Snowdrop - consolation, hope Sorrel - parental affection Spiraea - victory Speedwell - fidelity St. John's wort - superstition Star of Bethleham - purity Starwart - welcome Stephanotis - happiness in marriage Stock - you will always be beautiful to me Stonecrop - tranquility Strawberry - perfection Sunflower - false riches Sweet pea - delicate pleasures Sweet William - gallantry Tansy - I declare war against you Thistle - misanthropy Thrift - sympathy Thyme - activity Trachelium - neglected beauty Trillium - modest beauty Trumpet vine - fame Tuberose - dangerous pleasures Tulip - declaration of love Turnip - charity Verbena - pray for me Vetch - I cling to thee Violet - modest worth Wallflower - fidelity in adversity Water lily - purity of heart Waxflower - susceptibility Weeping willow - melancholy Wheat - prosperity Willowherb - pretension Wisteria - welcome Witch hazel - spell Yarrow - cure for a broken heart Zinnea - I mourn your absence

[illapa-greybane]

The Nightmare Arc: III

Or: Walking Simulator 2017

Nothing.

That was what Illapa found, at first: nothing.

No light, no sound, no matter. Only the void, with its distant, vaporous clouds surrounding only empty space. As if propelled by some force other than his own, Illapa found himself pulled in one particular direction, away from the approaching clouds that had been dimly backlit. Not with the violet light one would expect from the realm of the shadow, but with an eerie, sickly red. And from within those clouds and that red came whispers, distorted beyond even the black tongue with which the Scion's kin might have spoken. Their language was maddened, mocking, relentless.

But so too was the relentless pull of that strange force, which carried him like a current in a stream, toward a pinpoint of light. It was a soft, blue light, but the contrast made it seem as though it might have been the brightest star at the heart of a galaxy.

Thwip.

Solid ground?

One foot stepped onto solid ground, unbidden. The texture was softer than one might expect from compacted dirt, cobblestone, or concrete, and as Illapa looked down, he discovered soft, blue-green grass. This... was Val'sharah, the land where the beauty of the Dream had been bespoiled by the Nightmare's corruption. This was the place between worlds, where the vigor of life still fought back against being twisted into misshapen beasts and unrecognizable piles of muck and slime.

Ahead, not too many steps down a path that glittered in places with what looked like garnets in with the gravel, was a bridge that could not have been possible. Over a stream of flowing emptiness that was of Elven architecture on both sides, but ten thousand years passed from one side of the bridge to the other. The simple Kaldorei woodwork gradually melded into a more elaborate contraption, the hand railings on the side gilded with vines of a familiar red and gold scheme. A single lantern illuminated the path beyond the bridge, beckoning with its eerily-inviting glow.

Illapa tread carefully now that he was moving of his own volition again. He was surprised to find the grass under his feet springy and healthy, and he placed his feet one after the other slowly and with care, almost reluctant to disturb the serenity of the grove by crushing those blades of blue-green grass.

Had the Nightmare not yet touched this part of the Dream? He thought back to the void of mist and light and strange radiations he had moved through just a moment before. He had not been pulled toward the churning cloud of crimson light and distorted voices, but to a single point of gentle blue-white light. He had seen that particular glow before, when Solarine's holy magic burned white-hot and transcendent.

She was close. Had the Scion guided him here, or had Solarine herself somehow drawn him in? Was this her dream? Or her nightmare?

He crouched at the edge of the gravel path, sinking long fingers into the lush grass. It felt vibrant, living, real as a meadow on a summer's day in Quel'thalas. He reached into the gravel and plucked one of the gleaming red gems from among the stones and held it up before his face.

The gleaming, garnet-like "gem" was something closer to a pomegranate seed, upon closer inspection. It held a squishy liquid encased in a thin membrane, but unlike a tasty pomegranate, this membrane did not contain anything edible. The "seed" inside turned, staring out at Illapa with a misshapen pupil as he inspected it.

The first signs of corruption, subtle and hidden in plain sight. The tiny gravel-sized eyeball reminded him uncannily of the Scion's array of crimson eyes as he gently rolled it between his fingertips. The eye within the membrane swiveled to keep its gaze on his face, its misshapen pupil expanding and contracting minutely to adjust to the light.

With a deft flick of his thin wrist, he tossed the tiny eye into the empty stream and rose to his feet, stepping onto the gravel path. The stones crunched quietly under the soles of his tall boots, punctuated occasionally by a tiny wet sound as one of the scattered eyeballs fell victim to his steps.

He crossed the impossible bridge, a small part of him marveling at the way the architecture spanned the ten-thousand year history of the elves, transforming gradually from the subtle, organic architecture of their most distant kaldorei ancestors to the ornate stylings of the magic-blessed high elves. The stream bed below the arch of the bridge was empty, and his steps echoed hollowly as he crossed into the light of the lantern at the bridge's other side.

The stream bed was not only empty, it was less than empty. Wisps of red-violet magics drifted into sight from time to time, out of the utter black void that seemed an endless chasm in what should have been a shallow stream. When the small red eye-seed fell into that stream of nothing, there was no plink of splashing water, but instead... the void whispered. Whatever it said was unintelligible, even to one fluent in the language of the void and the things that dwelt within.

Further down the path, there was a second lantern awaiting Illapa, its soft bluish light brightening the haze of humidity that hung as a pall over the green of the grass and towering forest.

As the impossible bridge gave way once more to the gravel path, the landscape changed. The green forest of Val'sharah evolved before all eyes present, ten thousand years of evolution happening in only a couple of footsteps. The tall oaks and larches and maples and firs twisted and changed, forming themselves first into familiar golden oaks and swirling cypress; and then, the gold began to wither and fade into sickly, dull green. The beautiful, blue-green grass kept its hue, but it began to wilt, and large, glowing mushrooms began to sprout alongside the path.

This was a familiar sight to any Sin'dorei, but instead of the spiderwebs that clung to the warped and twisted trees and plants in the waking world, there were strands of red slime. Hair-thin, almost like spiderwebs, but instead of spiders, there were tiny, digusting eyeballs with eight or nine spindly legs sticking out haphazardly. These eyeball-spiders appeared to be the only thing approximating animal life as the landscape of the Ghostlands made itself known, but from the mists arose something that told Illapa and the Scion that there was something there other than monsters.

Far off, in the distance, was the sound of wailing. A few voices rose above the oppressive silence, echoing through the trees. It was a sound any soldier would know, the sound of mourning after a losing battle.

It was a sound with which Illapa was terribly familiar. He was not a soldier of rank and file, but he was nonetheless a man of war, whether he was the brilliant beacon standing with the armed forces or the dark-robed shadow walking among the fallen at the battle's end -- giving healing to those who could be saved, swift mercy to those who could not, and the Sunwell's final blessing to those who were already beyond.

It had been some time since he had last acted that role -- a few years, at least -- but at the first sound of echoing grief, he felt his stance shift unconsciously, already taking on the solemn mantle of his priesthood. He took the next lantern from its roadside post and carried it with him, a gentle blue light in the dark gloom of the Ghostlands.

The distant, echoing wails continued as Illapa walked along the lamp-lit path. Just when it seemed they might have subsided, another low moan would float through the air, carried upon the strange mist like the feather of a dying bird.

Soon, a signpost emerged from a fork in the path, its base enveloped in red slime mold. They wended their way up, with and through the wood, and the letters reading Tranquillien glowed from within with that same red light. A sane man might have avoided a path so blatantly pointing toward the heart of Solarine's nightmare and that corruption that lay within, but then a sane man wouldn't have stepped through with an eldritch monster in the first place.

Further down the path, another dim blue-white lamp lit the way, its glow somehow warm and inviting even in the creepy gloom of the Ghostlands.

He was sane enough to feel like a man following a will o' wisp into the swamp, chasing that inviting glow straight into a bottomless peat bog that would suck on his bones for centuries until someone dug him up to distill a batch of scotch.

Still, at least he knew exactly how treacherous was the path he walked. The lantern he carried created a circle of gentle light that moved with him as he turned at the tainted sign to follow the lighted path. Even if they led him toward doom, he had no other path to walk -- literally or figuratively.

Illapa was not the only being that might sense the strange "call" that came from the direction of Tranquillien, as soon as he stepped foot beyond the fork in the path. It lasted only moments, that strange and almost hypnotic whisper... like a song, but inside the mind. A siren's call, if they were lucky.

The Nightmare's horrid, bloody-red glow littered the sides of the path leading toward Tranquillien, twisted roots jutting up from puddles of muck, red strands of slime webbed between the rails of the fencing that sporadically appeared alongside the path.

Then, just as it seemed the corruption would overtake everything and consume whatever was left of Solarine's dreamscape, the Nightmare ceased. The red haze vanished from the air, the sticky slime become nothing more than cobwebs, and the mushrooms were just mushrooms. A single, glowing feather laid in the center of the path, right at the line where the Nightmare had been stopped in its tracks. Beyond the feather was the ruined town of Tranquillien, miraculously free of any corruption beyond that of the undeath which had claimed the land a decade before.

The Nightmare deceives. The Nightmare devours. The Scion's warning resonated in his memory as he stood at the line where corruption gave way to familiarity. The glowing feather rested serenely at the toes of his boots, and once again he crouched to consider the strange tableau which presented itself.

The siren song whispered in his thoughts, just a few entreating strains, but it gave him pause. Something wanted him there. Something was luring him there. "Do you hear that?" he said quietly, as if to himself, but something else answered from nearby.

"Yes," the Scion said, stepping out of seemingly nowhere, as it often did. Illapa gave it a faintly reproachful look, and it spread its hands diffidently. "We have been resisting the borders of the greater Nightmare that encroach on this part of the Dream. You asked for time, Our Eyes; We have given you what We can."

Illapa spared it no gratitude. "Do you recognize it?" he asked. The monster tilted its head as though listening to a strain of music from an adjoining room.

"It is a unique voice," it answered. Illapa nodded and plucked the glowing feather from where it rested at his feet. Another sign of Solarine's magic: he had seen her mantled by feathered wings when she pulled a departing soul back from the brink of death.

So it was unique, that siren's call, with its strangely tranquil and calming quality. The promise of peace and relief from the haggard, destroyed landscape and the corruption that boiled within.

Beyond the feather, past the apparent barrier which had halted the spread of the Nightmare, nothing but death greeted them. Corpses littered the path leading into the center of the town, but these were neither fresh nor those of living beings. These, half burnt into ash and charcoal, were corpses that had once been dead and rotting in the ground, and which had now been returned to doing just that. It was a massacre of undead, brutally efficient handiwork of which the Scion itself might be proud.

However, Solarine herself was nowhere to be found.

A new lamp flickered to life, calling them into the town that lay beyond.

Another familiar scene -- it could have been taken from many of his more mundane nightmares. This more than anything assured him that Solarine would be close; these were nightmares he knew that she shared. It cast his surroundings in a new, intensely personal light compared to the crimson-infested landscape behind him. The ground he tread now was her own personal nightmare, as much memory as dream.

He stepped between the piles of Light-blasted bones and carbon remains, leaving footprints in a layer of ash. The song, part hymn and part lament, beckoned him on, and his heart was leaden in his chest as he began to suspect its source.

There was nothing else in this blighted dreamscape that could be so haunting and so beautiful.