#she is the whistle of the wind and sun bleached bones.

[girlfox]

as i was sifting through her voice lines, i couldn't help but fawn over one that has her stating ' i am the wilds ' . because, she really is the forest and it's kin and it's very soul encapsulated. born from within its embrace & keeper of its design, ahri carries out the will of the all - mother with purpose and ferocity. the vulpine beauty is ❛ daughter of the ancients, bride to the wilds, ❜ ━━━ forever intertwined with the roots, the birds, the flowers, the foxes; the magic that runs thick through the land, enveloping her in it's warmth.

she is love in all it's forms: maternally nurturing, and romantically endearing. she is friend to the land and foe to it's trespassers. her reverence for the wilds finds home in the concept of religion, but she would not claim it so. ahri bows to no gods ( the idea of zealous piety intrigues her, however, as one who was hailed with titles of divinity and brought sacrificial lambs to the slaughter all her years prior ), only the feminine concept of the heart of the world: the god - willow, the all - mother, the sanctuary of her kin. where all life began. the deities who keep a watchful eye over Her merely gaze thoughtfully in ahri's presence, acknowledging her innate connection. it is tangible, like a taut thread between two extraordinary souls in the vast ocean of spirits.

[offwilds]

      Close to the Belleteyn, the sun barely rises, skims the heads of skeletal trees, and drops— its faint light a summon to the old blood of the sacred night; a summon to Maiden, Mother and Crone.

Mother gathers the terrors of the night in the curve of her palm, stretches her arms toward the sky, over rivers of blood and the dark woods, singing with all her skin and bone and sacred body, ancient chants and invokations, her body brimming with arcane powers; when the moon is blood and she, no more than a white shadow, bloodless as a moon on lakewater, she brings her to the woods, to the altar they have made— the both of them— to worship and do Frigg and Freya homage— her, Maiden, daughter of Chaos, her, borne of a bloodless womb, brought to the Goddess wreathed in starlight, in whistling winds; fear her, always — Morgante, whispers, lays her down amid the grass, wet with dew and ice-cold, the dark, rushing river that spills like threads of silver moonlight under the grove in which they pray, in which they spill their blood and make themselves an offering to the Goddess — Mother, bright-coiffed and tall and terrible, whispers in ancient, forgotten tongues, brings out her silver knife— the ceremonial blade they have too oft in the past used to make their offerings; Nereinne offers her hand in quiet devotion, bows her head over the shrine; a tomb-shrine she will later call it, that dark, cold place ablaze with a cold, white fire that burned in the middle of the glade,  a cairn of bleached bones, and as Mother chants and whispers ancient spells, as she spills her blood into a phylactery and binds life and death together, she stares blindly ahead, at the stars rising cold above the hills. The world seems narrowed to the tug of the knife in her hand, the faint scraping noise it makes as it slices through the flesh of her palm; she gasps, and pulls her hand away- only, she cannot move now, she realises, some thing cold and dark holding her down, its touch hollow, and she, a nothing, a gatherer of death, only, laying there, unfeeling, numb and cold as Morgante looms tall and  dreadful over her, spills her wisps of magic over her body,  something fragrant with rot coming to rest near her - and Goddess, she thinks, a frantic, wild thing - Goddess, I come to you wreathed in tears, shield me, your daughter, from The Mother, shield me, your daughter from The Crone -  and as Morgante moves and spills more of her blood into that sacred phylactery, Nereinne begins to feel her senses blur and fade; she screams, but neither voice nor sound comes out, her throat a tight, heavy thing, and, my pulse is hers, my water is hers, Morgante chants into her ear, and she feels her blood go rushing deep beneath her, a river of darkness, her heart beat pounding in the ground and it feels as though she is no longer flesh and bone, only a white shadow, brimming with death, that rot, that growth, the decay - death, her death or another’s, she does not know, she only knows, she is dripping in that blue-white fire now, she is howling but her mouth is shut, her bones are dust and light, she is leaving, she is going away, and then- then all is bright and then smolder-green black, a crow’s cries filling her ears- a woman, she thinks - a hag. Her voice is like nothing she has ever heard before. It seems to be coming from miles away, lacquered and greasy, and she feels it coursing through her like her own blood, feels her eyes burn with the sudden burst and blaze of lightning, rising in her again and again, burning her face. And then - she is gone, and Mother with her.

She lays there, from dawn to night fall, she, cold ancestor. Bloodless daughter of Chaos.  

When she wakes again, she is laying on the banks of a river, half naked and ice cold, her body wreathed in wisps of the pale blue mists moving across the waters. When she awakes, her blood is on her mouth, red and terrible, and she is flying through the trees, energy and magic both rolling off of her slight form in frantic and kinetic waves that have the skies rumbling with the promise of a storm and rain ready to pour down from the heavens. 

And she, no longer Maiden; she, only daughter of Chaos, touched by bright, endless Death, a frazzled, tragic mess of a creature - eyes shining and cheeks uncharacteristically flush as she runs and runs and runs, and never stops, 

Has never stopped, shall never stop, until Mother is given that which she desires, that which she is bearing for her: until that bloodless womb is filled once more with that which she shall summon for her— dry rot and everflowing death, the pulse of the Maiden inter-weaved with  that of the Crone's.

[relationaltherapist]

The cool, salty breeze blowing off the shore stirred the meadows of her memory. 

The gurgle of the water rose above the breeze rustling the leaves overhead, one harmonizing with the other in the melody of nature.

The songs of birds carried on the air, and the sunlight flirted across his eyelids.

Breathing slowly, she listened to the desert wind whistling ghostly elegies of sun-bleached bones and weathered dreams.

It was magnificent, if one enjoyed bitterly astringent notes too far removed to be called flavors.

“You’ll make my dinner return for a visit right here at the table.”

‘Oh, be still my beating heart!’ The journalist fanned himself. ‘He looks like the next incarnation of Bond and he’s single. This is double-oh-dangerous!’

[nonobadcat]

A real world AU Gothic Romance - part 1/3

Pairing: Ghost Shigaraki X Fem!Reader

Rating: Chapter one is PG-13. The other two chapters will be for readers 18+ only.

Content Warnings: Dead dog mention, cannon typical parricide

Eventual Kinks: Toys, V/oy, relations with a literal ghost

Chapter One Word Count: ~3k, Ao3 Mirror

Part 2 ---❤--- Part 3

Saturday October 15th, 2022

“So…?” gesturing like a vaudeville showman, you held out both hands towards your new house. “What do you think!? Great, right?”

Your best friend, Serenity, shoved her purple box-frame glasses up her wide, button nose and pursed her plush lips. Clicking her tongue, she curled her pointer finger into a loose coil of hair. Two tone sarcasm purred into her one word reply: “M-hmmm…”

Scratching the back of your neck, you glanced up at your new purchase just in time to watch one of the old tiles slip from the upper pitch of the dual-hipped roof. It bounced off the attic dormer, rolled past the mildew coated eaves, and slid across the mossy porch awning before tumbling a mere foot into the patchy, overgrown taxus bush. 

You forced a smile and pointed to the ancient, untamed yew. “Well, at least the roots are strong.”

Serenity pinched the bridge of her nose. "Please tell me you didn't use the realtor's home inspector."

"Oh come on Ren-Ren," you laughed, waving her off. Your eyes rolled to the side as your smile fell by one tooth. "I mean… I checked the plumbing myself, so…"

Brown eyes narrowed at you as your voice trailed off. With a deep, motherly sigh, she squeezed your shoulder. "Listen, you know I love you, right?"

You nodded.

She hooked her thumb over her shoulder. "It's a dump."

"It's a historical home!" You protested, crossing your arms. "It has good bones!"

Serenity eyed up the dingy, chipping brick and sun bleached slate tiles before shaking her head. "How many square feet?"

You fanned your hand across your chest. "3.5k with an acre of property plus a full attic and root cellar."

She blinked. "Hold up. That's like $400k+ most places! I thought you said your budget was $220,000?"

You grinned. "Yeah, and this was only $130,000 including closing costs. Crazy, right?"

Your best friend did a double take, staring at the ramshackle Second Empire with renewed interest. "Well… at least that covers the roof and siding." She thumbed her chin and cocked her head. "You're sure this thing has indoor plumbing?"

You shoved her shoulder. "Don't be a dick."

Serenity snickered into her palm. "Okay, so aside from having a friggen 'root cellar' and all the curb appeal of a haunted house, what else is wrong with it?"

You pointed to the far edge of the property where a line of grizzled pines swayed in the autumn breeze. "Busiest train tracks in the greater metropolitan area."

She whistled. "That's gonna blow."

"Literally," you agreed, massaging your temples.

She elbowed you in the ribs. "Still quieter than living with your ex."

You grinned. "No kidding!" With a wave of your hand, you beckoned her around the side of the building. "Wanna see the cool part?"

"Your definition of 'cool' is sus."

You grabbed the sleeve of her caramel colored duffle coat and tugged. "Just come on!"

Across the clover riddled lawn, Serenity trudged behind you in her knee high, slouch boots. She wrapped her arms around herself and rubbed to fight off the cool October wind. You pulled to a stop beside a massive old swamp oak and opened your purse. A wax coated paper sack appeared from the depths of your handbag. Scrawled in inky cursive were two words: "Doggone Delish".

You squatted low, and reached between tumbling roots. Gently brushing the leaf litter aside, you unveiled a carved piece of lichen encrusted soapstone. Time had worn the words smooth, but they were still legible.

"Mon: 1885?" Serenity murmured the text out loud before her eyes fanned wide. "Don't tell me that's a—"

You laid the oatmeal biscuit on the gravemarker and patted it fondly. "He was a Corgi. I found an old picture in one of the drawers." Rising to your feet, you brushed your hands on your jeans and grinned at her. "I always wanted a pet Corgi, and now I've got one."

Serenity eyed the long, dark branches of the towering giant above you. Their bare, grasping fingers crawled at the breeze. "Yeah well, hate to tell you this but your new dog is up the stump and fattening the squirrels by now." 

You scoffed and flashed her a playful smile. "So? Ghost dogs are cheaper than live ones."

"Freak," she teased, kicking your heel.

You stuck out your tongue and wiggled your fingers at her.

A low rumble tumbled in on the wind. The train's whistle shrieked out in the distance. Serenity covered her ears and grimaced. You shrugged and pointed to the house. She nodded, trailing behind you.

When they spotted the biscuit upon the gravemarker, the pair of crimson eyes in the upstairs window wrinkled with delight.

After a brief climb up the sagging porch steps and a short war with the new latchkey, your party arrived in the entryway. Pastel grey and tar black tiles arranged in geometric patterns lay just before the lanky old staircase. To the right, sunlight streamed through the bay windows of the empty, blandly colored front parlor. As Serenity handed you her coat, she examined the silk rose print wallpaper of the foyer. 

"The previous owners have all tried to renovate, but all of them had to stop the repairs before completion for some reason." You patted the yellowing flowers. "So a lot of it is still the original turn of the 20th century decor."

"Okay…" A puff of dust fluttered through the air as your companion tapped one of the old gas landliers in the entryway. With a grin, she turned to face you. "This place is kinda old-timey cool."

"Keep your shoes on," you told her, shuffling her coat onto the hanger. Tucking it into the cedar-lined hall closet, you toed the chipped porcelain tiles. "I haven't finished sweeping yet."

Serenity rolled her eyes. "Nobody’s got time to clean this much house by themselves!" She huffed and crossed her arms. "Why do you think my trunk looks like I scrubbed Mr. Clean’s bubbles?"

With a squeal of happiness, you flung your arms around her shoulders and crushed her against your chest. "Marry me, Ren-Ren."

"Keep that talk up and Marcus's paranoid self is gonna blow my phone up with his 'Baby, where you at?’-s," she laughed.

You released your friend and toed her boots. "You sure keep that boy under your heels."

"Mistress Ser knows what he likes,” she agreed, using the sleeve of her hubbie's hoodie to wipe the dust off the flecked glass of an old, gilded mirror. Tracing the ornate brass with the pad of her finger, she turned to you. “I’m loving this. Where’d you get it?”

“Came with the house.” You nodded to a cabriole legged, mahogany console just below the looking glass. Though the deep auburn shellac had silvered with sun damage, crystal knobs and burled wood spoke to its posh pedigree. A square shaped water ring in the dead center hinted at the old flower vase which must have once graced the hall. “Anything fabric was mouse eaten, but I saved the bedroom set.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You’re gonna sleep in some dead person’s bed? Gross.”

“Don’t make that face, Ren. I’m changing out the mattress.” You sighed. “Besides, this is legit heirloom stuff. When will I ever be able to afford fancy antiques on a my salary?” 

Serenity patted your shoulder. “Long as you don’t go banging a ghost or something.”

You shoved her down the hall. “You're really gonna go putting those thoughts in my head?!”

“You love it,” she teased back, running her hand over the dusty glass shades of the wall bracket lamps. “Are these oil?”

You shook your head. “Natural gas with an open flame. The seller said they capped the lines years ago though. Apparently, they caused a huge house fire back in the day and killed everybody except the little boy who lived here. After that they switched to kerosene and candles.”

“Open flame?” Serenity pulled away from the light as if it had teeth. “Small wonder the place went up.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, cupping your elbows. “Sounds like the people who owned it in the forties tried to repair the damage to the gas when they added the electricity. Supposedly the lines were sound, but the gas never worked right. The flame was always going out, leaving the gas running unchecked. They think it was low pressure or something. It made them annoyed so they sold it.”

As you walked, your companion eyed the soaring twelve foot ceilings and ornate transoms above the massive box doorways. “Well duh. If you make your walls friggin fifty foot tall, of course you’re gonna have pressure problems!”

“Yeah, but the water pipes work fine,” you pointed out, grabbing the round brass handle to the empty parlor. Chantilly parquet floors creaked below your feet as you strolled to the old coal burning fireplace and rested a hand on the chipped marble mantle. In the center of the elaborate plaster medallion, a dusty teardrop crystal chandelier hung above your heads. You flipped the wall switch. The light flickered to life with a painful click, illuminating faded scarlet walls. “The electrician says the wiring is safe, but it still sounds sketch to me.”

“Like it’s grinding or something.” She pressed her ear to the peeling, geometric patterned paper before shaking her head. “Well, at least I don’t hear any bees. Marcus’s mom had them in her walls one summer and Memorial Day turned into a horror movie real fast.”

You strolled to the old pocket doors on the far wall and pushed them wide. Beyond the thick walls, worn stain and gouged wainscot welcomed guests to the formal dining room. Ready for eight, the solid mahogany table stool proudly on hand carved, reeded legs. Beside the bay windows, a matching buffet complete with a wide, oval mirror and rosewood inlays awaited crystal bottles filled with port and brandy. Between twin hall doors, the empty hutch cried out for platinum-edged bone china and silver candlesticks to fill the empty shelves encased in its diamond mutins.

“I had to strip the cushions from the chairs,” you explained, resting your hand on the glossy table. “But the wood cleaned up nice with some mineral spirits and paste wax.”

Serenity shot you an incredulous look. “You've been watching too much ‘This Old House’.”

“It’s only $10 a quart at the hardware store. Way cheaper than a new table.”

Your companion rolled her wrist and beconked you to her. “Show me your hands.”

You cringed, holding out dry, peeling fingers.

Her eye twitched. “That’s it. After we finish this tour, I’m gonna drag your scaley self to Sally's Beauty.” She ripped her phone out of her pocket, furiously thumbing the keyboard. When the signal lit up with one bar, she snarled. “If there even is one in this podunk town.” 

You shrugged. “It’s a well water and septic world out here.”

Gripping her head, Serenity groaned. “I’m buying you a Brita filter. Asap.”

Heading down the long foyer, you made a sharp turn onto a narrow, walnut trimmed staircase. The dark, hand carved banister wobbled in your grip. You frowned at the loose fourth baluster. Not another one! Stupid Victorian hide glue! The original carpenter did some beautiful dovetail joinings but that stuff could not handle the humid summers in this area. More and more, the only dates you seemed to go on were with Norm Abram, Titebond and wood clamps. Now… the question was should you Amazon Prime some of the original stuff for authenticity’s sake or go with the stronger, cheaper wood glue you could get at Milton’s Hardware?

Cheaper probably. Considering the cost of Mansard roof repairs, cheaper was about what you could afford.

Leading her to the creaky upper hall, you bypassed the largest of four bedrooms on the south side of the house. Serenity paused, peaking through the crack in the old, tilted door frame. You shook your head and jerked your thumb down the landing.

“I got stuck in there last week. The house shifted so much over the years that it jams on humid days. I have to sand and rehang it before next summer.”

“Stuck? With cell service this bad?” She glanced out the far window at the long, overgrown expanse of forest which blocked any sight of your neighbors. A shiver rippled down her body. “Creepy.”

You paused, shaking hand rattling the old brass knob to the northern bedroom. “Tell me about it. I’ve left a crowbar and one of those fire escape ladders in there ever since.

Past the solid, double hip door sat a time capsule to the late nineteenth century. The original oak floors had yellowed with age but even the home inspector was impressed by their lack of seam gaps. Overlooking the front of the property, late 2000s double hung bay windows (a testament to the seller’s half-finished remodeling) encircled a small sitting area near the original coal burning fireplace. After hours of fighting with cast iron grating and a stubborn chimney flue, you’d managed to seal out the worst of the draft. The elegant brass chandelier surrendered its tarnish after two hours of polishing, leaving it capped with a luxurious glow every time the sun peeked through the gauzey Walmart curtains. Unlike the worn examples downstairs, dark wallpaper with golden peony blooms looked untouched by the years. 

You flopped onto your new, plastic wrapped mattress and stretched your hands wide. “Behold! Antiquey expensive stuff!”

Serenity’s jaw dropped as she took in the six part, solid mahogany bedroom set. As lovely a red as the day it was made, each piece of satin smooth craftsmanship testified to its owner's fortune. Capped in gothic embellishments and trimmed with burr wood inlays, the queen sized bed looked more like a cathedral than a sleeping space. A marble topped, tiered dressing table with dangling pewter drawer pulls stood ready for silver backed, boar bristle hair brushes and ambergris scented perfumes. You could hide four bodies in the massive armoire. Deep dresser drawers would hold six full skirted walking costumes with ease. Loveliest of all, the free standing, body length mirror reflected your companion’s flabbergasted gawking.

She pointed to the tall, narrow door. “Ho-how’d they even get this stuff in this room?!” 

You snickered, rising to your feet. “That era was all knockdown furniture,” you explained, turning the dressing table around. Tracing the dovetail seam between top and bottom, you tapped your temple. “Not like they wanted to haul all this stuff up the stairs anymore than we would.”

Serenity whistled. “Smart.”

“Oh! I almost forgot!” You dashed across the room to the six foot tall secretary desk and pulled down the writing table. In the center cubby, a luscious painting of olde English foxglove, Narcissus, and Lily of the Valley graced the Purpleheart inlays. You turned the small brass key in the latch and extracted a yellowed, black and white photograph of two children and a pudgy Pembroke Welsh Corgi. “Meet Mon, Tenko, and Hana Shimura.”

Your friend studied the picture. Hana, decked in high pigtails, stood solemnly in her dark pinafore and pristine, lacey apron. Tiny lips smashed in a thin line hinted at her efforts to control her smile. Under a messy flop of black hair, Tenko’s bright eyes gleamed with delight as he forced the Victorian portrait frown while clutching his new puppy. 

“Hold up,” Serenity demanded, tapping the picture with her long, lavender nail. “Aren’t those Japanese names?”

You nodded, returning the old photo to its hiding spot. “I think so.”

She crossed her arms. “Japan had its borders forced open by Perry in 1854. We’re supposed to believe some super rich Japanese family just packed it up, moved to Gilded-Age America, learned the language, and built a mansion in the middle of Podunk, USA just a few decades later?” Jabbing an annoyed figure at the elaborate plasterwork around the chandelier, she added: “Possible, but unlikely much?”

You shrugged. “Deus ex machina?”  

Serenity clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes. “I guess, but it’s a terrible one, even for a smutty fanfic.”

“Eh… it’s Halloween. Gotta get our fix somewhere,” you replied, kicking the cotton batting. “Help me get this on the bed?”

Bustling to your side, your companion tore through the thin plastic. “So… which one of the Shimuras burnt the house down?”

“I think it was the dad,” you explained, hefting the edge of the mattress above the bed frame. “Might have been rich, but rumor has it he was a perfectionist and family beater. According to the librarian, local gossip was that, after he killed the kid’s dog, the wife tried to take them and leave.”

Serenity grunted as she swung her side up and over. The mattress flopped into place with a woosh before sinking down into the platform base. “Yeah, bet a man like that doesn’t take too kindly to his favorite punching bags up and walking away.”

You scoffed. “Anyone who hurt Mon-chan deserves to burn.”

All at once, your hackles rose. Pricked ears caught the tail end of a distant cackle. You whipped around scanning the room.

“What’s up?”

Rubbing the back of your neck, you shook off the feeling like a wet dog. “N-nothing. Just swore I heard a…” Your voice trailed off as you fixed your gaze on the old looking glass before glancing to the window. “Weird…”

“Hey!” Serenity grabbed your shoulder. “Don’t be pulling that ‘I thought I saw something’ nonsense when I’ve gotta sleep here tonight!”

You laughed and threw up your hands in apology. “Sorry, sorry. Just caught a glint of sunlight in the mirror. That’s all.”

Inside the glass, body shaking with laughter, Tomura’s pale hand clamped tight over a skeletal grin.

Part II coming Saturday October 22nd, 2022

Taglist:

@THE-LADY-WRITES-WHAT @wonwoosbestbuddy @OCEON6  @dabisqueen @shig-a-shig-ah-ah @feral-creep @bat-eclecticwolfbouquet-loveuet-love @smilinghowever @imaginedheroine @CLOUDS-NO1-FAN @MOONTHECREATOR @HARLEYWRITESFANTASY @MANJIROSGIRL @vamperilous @MADDY-HAT @cakernofakers @builtd-different25 @kurtasim @shiggyniggy @koreluvsspring @smilee-spooks @beware-thecrow

@m0nim0ni @minnieplier-blog @blehitsriot @moonwad @saikis-seceretcoffeejelly @nainainairi @bakuhoe37 @un-deadinsomniac @nonominchan @utena-akashiya @molita111 @nekolover93 @pimp-in @slaughterbat777 @chxrryvibes @blackchemicals @coldsaladpiecop-blog @flamme-meuf2-shiggy @aphorditeslust @just-yer-average-key @rekoii @justnothingguys

[dreadfutures]

Happy friday/dadwc!! The Midjourney thing looks super fun -- what might it make of the word "dreambook", or the phrase "a black dog who answers to my whistle"? (Both of these are from the poem "Empire of Dreams" by Charles Simic!)

Thank you so much for this @dadrunkwritingunkwriting prompt, syrup!

I told Midjourney AI: "a dreambook black dog who answers to my whistle empire of dreams spooky" because I kept getting something that was DEFINITELY more "children's book cover."

This is the image that was created by Midjourney:

And here is my story inspired by it!

Kieran in Serault

-:-:-

It had been weeks since a spirit bothered Kieran in Serault, and he was beginning to grow suspicious of it.

He had felt the forest's annoyance plainly after he rejected Desire's advances atop the Tower of Lights, yet there had apparently been no consequence to that decision. Perhaps the Applewoods had simply hoped for a show, rather than cast any true value on the actual decision itself—though Kieran himself admitted that he had not given Desire a chance to really explain what the decision was. He tried not to think about it much, honestly. He knew that if the Applewoods, or his grandmother, or whatever Force governed this strange world truly wished for him to become entangled in that web, he would at some point be caught.

His mother did not like to hear him think like that. She preferred to keep him free, unfettered, and with his fate firmly in his own hands; she had so far been successful, and yet the memories that lay layered like onionskin around his soul knew better than to think that would last forever.

The part of him that was more ancient than even the waking world knew a pattern when it saw one. It was familiar with chains of all kinds.

So Kieran knew that it was only a matter of time before he felt a tug that he would not be able to resist.

He tried not to dwell on it. Why let it spoil the perfect days of early summer, when there was nothing he could really accomplish with worry, anyway?

And yet when he saw the creature, he found that he was not quite as resigned to the grim turn of fate as he had thought.

Maybe the problem was that he had no warning. It was a perfect morning for early summer with a pale blue sky and a fresh breeze that stirred the wildflowers that the Marquis allowed to run rampant in his gardens. They had been an offering of friendship from the Horned Knight, the Marquis had once said; the flowers did not know that they were not meant to bloom year round, or that they were meant to be the same flowers from day to day, but the Marquis said it was more charming than the first floral arrangement the Lord of the Forest had sent him once upon a time.

When Kieran began his walk of the grounds, the flowers were golden and red under his soft-soled shoes, and the morning dew soaked through them quickly. He had not minded. The only reason he wore shoes at all and did not go barefoot was because he had been scolded by the Acerbic Dowager for tracking in mud once before and thought better than to attract her ire again.

All in all, it promised to be a peaceful morning and a beautiful day.

And then he felt the eyes upon him.

Kieran simply lifted his gaze from the flowers beneath his feet to the hillock in front of him, and as he raised his eyes, all the color seemed to drain from the world. The emerald grass turned to ebony, and every vivid flower was bleached bone-white. The clear sky lost its young blue favor and became a watery yellow-gray blanket that shivered with fog. It was as swift a transformation as if a cloud had rolled across the sun, and yet there had not been a single wisp in the sky.

No. He suspected that the wisp stood before him now.

Its black limbs rose up from the black lawn as though it had been grown from seed, and its fur had a strange quality to it that was nearly vegetal. A silver cord seemed to wind through its coat, all along the length of its strangely lumpy body, and coiled around its neck like something of a collar. And from its neck hung a narrow black face set with pale eyes, its domed skull too large for its face but too small for its ill-proportioned body.

Kieran wondered if Desire had ever seen a dog before. It hadn't even gotten the number of limbs correct.

The beast looked at him mournfully for a long time without moving. The whole world seemed frozen stock still, even though Kieran could feel the breeze brushing against his cheeks and bending the heads of flowers all around him. It was something deeper than air, than time, that had gone frozen at the appearance of the hound.

And then it cracked, and it began to flow again, and the effect was as startling and vast as the crashing of the frozen river below Skyhold could be after the spring thaw.

The world came pouring in through the cracks, and with it came the Marquis themself.

"Hmm," said the Marquis.

"Please tell me, are you familiar with this being?" Kieran asked tersely, daring to take his eyes off the beast for a moment.

The Marquis blinked at him in surprise. "Of course. That's my dog."

They looked back at the "dog" together. It had not moved once, not even to breathe.

"Or what's left of it," the Marquis added sheepishly.

"Please explain that to me."

"There's not much to say, really. I grew up with a shaggy black dog—incredibly loyal, watched over my cradle as a babe. I was told that he was a great boon to accompany one on the hunt. And it seems to have been true, because the first time I joined a hunt in the Applewoods, he saved my life." The Marquis smiled faintly. "We were both injured in a bear attack, and while I was carried to safety, my dear hound was left to the forest. A trade, perhaps."

Kieran frowned. He knew the Marquis was not a fool, and it was clear that this creature was not the dog he had grown up with. Or, again, a dog whatsoever.

But certain things were beginning to add up to Kieran.

"How old were you then?" he asked.

"Oh, about your age. I had honestly wondered if he would reveal himself to you, for something like that reason," the Marquis said with a shrug. "From time to time I hear stories from town of children being guided safely out of disasters by a figure such as this one."

"So it is…harmless, you think?"

The Marquis shrugged.

"I think that depends what you want," the Marquis replied. "But I will tell you this: when I want his help, I simply whistle, and he answers my call."

[l0stmyfr0g]

mim dreams of the end.

he dreams of the house he grew up in. he dreams of his family, his sister and his brother.

there is something hanging over them, a violent dread that clings onto their shoulders and tugs at their throat. she tries to tell them but her tongue can’t shape the warning. it sits sluggish and heavy in their mouth and spins their words into a muted gurgle.

he strains his lungs until they ache and he coughs up blood. their shriek emerges from their chest as nothing but a whistle, like wind working its way between a crack between stones, or the empty spaces between ribs long dried by the sand and bleached by the sun.

they dream of a fire. they see the melting of flesh and the charring of bone. she smells it in the air.

he wakes up wailing like a child. in the dark, he sees the flesh of his chest pulse and shift before falling still, invisible threads grasping their heart and forcing it to slow from its thudding.

they stare at the window until sunrise.

[prince-everhard]

No. 31 - HURT & COMFORT disaster zone | trauma | prisoner Alt Prompt 12 - regret (replacing prompt 11)

Title: given half the chance would i take any of it back Fandom: Naruto Character(s): Kushina, baby!Naruto Rating: K Warning(s): implied character death Wordcount: 282 Summary: Kushina takes Naruto to see Uzushio. [part of the Kushina lives AU]

@whumptober-archive

It’s quiet.

She’s not sure what she expected. Uzushio has been abandoned for almost two decades now, ransacked and destroyed. There is the crash of distant waves, the lonely whistle of wind through the ruins, and the soft sound of Naruto’s breathing where he’s sleeping swaddled against her chest. Rubble and what might be bones crunch under her feet as she takes a step into what used to be the main thoroughfare. 

If she closes her eyes she can almost see it- crowds packed in around carts and stalls in the midday market. Children running by in packs, cheeks rosy with laughter and sun. Grandmothers sitting on the porches of nearby buildings, rocking and watching the comings and goings of natives and visitors alike. Shinobi, jumping from building to building in both hurry and playful competition with one another. She can almost see it but it’s too quiet and the vision fades.

Kushina takes another step and almost twists her ankle as the broken cobbles slip out of place. She lands hard on a knee instead, hand coming up to shield her son from- from the impact, from the ruin, she’s not sure. A sob tries to force its way out and she clenches her teeth. She wants Naruto to know about his heritage, but… not like this. Her hand settles on his head, his fine blond hair peeking through her fingers. It’s so much like Minato’s that another sob successfully rips its way out. 

Chubby fingers reach up and clumsily swat at the tears on her cheeks. Kushina looks down at Naruto, at his bright blond hair and sky blue eyes against the bleached ruins of her home, and she weeps.

[funkzpiel]

In collaboration with @crocro-dyle for the Geraskier Midsummer Mini Bang (@geraskiermidsummerminibang)! Crocrodyle is the amazing artist responsible for the illustration you see above, and you can continue to follow their amazing work via Tumblr or Instagram!

Special thank you to Smaller who was the wonderful beta for this fic!

Also available on AO3.

TW: graphic violence during hunt

Summary: Jaskier had always known Midsummer to be a night of festivities, celebration and heavy drinking - preferably with a beautiful partner to warm his bed. When a stroke of good fate landed them in a village prepared to honor the occasion, Jaskier couldn't wait to share the night with his witcher as soon as he returned from his hunt.

Then Roach showed up in town. Alone.

The wound was severe. Claws had torn into his side, piercing flesh like butter, and were it not for his armor and the very last of his wits, he would have been gored. But he hadn’t been. And the attack that should have secured the victory of the Alp that he had been hunting blessedly became its end. As long, wicked talons carved deep into his side, Geralt grit his teeth and with his elbow he pinned that eviscerating hand to his side – all the while thinking of the words of witchers before him: One must aim one’s sword with great precision, for Alps are unequaled in the art of evading blows.

She would not evade this.

The female Alp howled, the pale span of her thighs quivering as she yanked to free her hand. Nails tore through tissue. Geralt felt pain rip the air from his lungs, but he endured. He endured, because that was what witchers did. Endure until the job was done.

His silver sword would be too long, so Geralt dropped it. The Alp sneered as that silver blade sang against the gnarled roots of the great tree they found themselves entangled beneath. Lush, green leaves crooned a hushed lullaby above them, thrumming with the power of the impending shift into Midsummer. That pending change echoed in the sway of the grass, in the way the breeze carded through his hair. He couldn’t die now. Not before he paid homage… Not before he gave thanks…

“Have you given up, witcher?” the Alp hissed, lips pulling back in a cruel grin of fangs and bloody teeth. Venom pearled at the tips of her teeth. “Too weak to hold your sword?”

Let her think him weak, he thought to himself, free hand reaching back for the hilt of his silver dagger, its blade dipped in Vampire Oil and glistening with deadly promise. Let it be the last thing she ever thinks.

He plunged the knife into her neck without a single word, his own teeth bared and white as marble against his dirt-streaked face. What began as a shriek to incapacitate him in a last-ditch bid for freedom became a howl of pain, then grew wet, her teeth marred by her own blood. Black, shark-like eyes stared at him, enraged. Afraid. He anticipated that she would pull away. Anticipated one last grapple to the ground to finish what he had started. Instead she clenched her hand into his side more viciously and pulled him in. Despite drowning in the weeping of her own wound, his knife still in her throat, she bit him. Carnivorous teeth dug into his shoulder. Venom pushed into his veins. Geralt let out a strangled yowl before yanking his knife through the rest of her throat. Blood poured down his front as the Alp let him go, stumbling back. He let her, the hand he had used to pin her to his side now rushing up to check the worst of the bite.

Surprisingly superficial, he realized. But death likely hadn’t been the intention. He could feel venom threading through his veins already, black ichor spreading like a spider’s web beneath his skin – promising suffering ahead.

The Alp fell into the underbrush of the forest around them, body writhing as her heels dug into the dirt and her hair tangled in the twigs. Her ribs heaved. She gasped wetly. Slowly, her thrashing stilled.

Finally, naught was left but the hum of Midsummer’s approach in the wind and Geralt’s breathing – sharp and thready – as the venom began its work. Not for the first time, Geralt cursed his foolishness for not taking another night to brew Black Blood as he should have. But another night would have meant another innocent death, and so he took the job without it. At least then the death might only be his own.

He curled an arm around his wounded side and with shaking fingers, he whistled for Roach. His hands were nearly numb with venom as he dug into her saddlebags. He wouldn’t be able to take much, lest he trade one ailment for another. Half a vial of Swallow to stem the worst of the bleeding from his side and neck. Half a vial of Golden Oriole to dampen the venom coursing in his veins. The last of the vial fell numbly from his fingers not long after. He leaned into Roach. Felt her snuffling at his hair.

“Jaskier,” he tried to tell her, to ask her to fetch him, but all light began to wink out of his vision. Beneath his skin Alp venom sang and nightmares beckoned. Midsummer kissed his cheek with a pleasant, warm breeze. It reminded him of the homage he had yet to pay. He grasped that thread like a lifeline.

But it was too late. Between one shuddering blink and another, he was gone.

- ˑ༄ؘ -

Jaskier was grateful that – for once – their travels brought them to a sizable village right in time for actual civilized festivities. Midsummer was upon them and there was no mistaking the fact that the village was prepared to celebrate it in style. While it would by no means be an affair like the ones in Oxenfurt that he held so close to his heart, the town had a healthy population of villagers and appeared to be enough of a trade hub to have allowed the town to celebrate a little more lavishly than most. Kegs were being set up at stands in the streets. A wide range of summer wildflowers had been woven together by the women and children to wreath the town’s buildings and signs in floral drapery. Candles dotted the edges of the roads and vendor tables, all ready to be lit at dusk that night. It was an attractive enough scene at noon, but Jaskier knew that once night fell, the light of the candles and the fireflies would cast their cheery party in a beautiful, ethereal glow. It appeared there might even be a wedding planned for the night. It wouldn’t be an uncommon affair. Midsummer was known to be a celebration of life and love; how better to celebrate than through consummation?

He could already imagine the pleasant heat of the bonfire. The way it would tickle his cheeks as he drank beer and enjoyed slices of cured meats and cheeses, and danced among the townsfolk, learning the steps common to their dances here, whatever they might be. Maybe he’d even be able to coax Geralt into joining, if he were lucky. While they had known each other for years, this would be the first opportunity to spend the occasion of Midsummer together. He wondered if witchers celebrated it, or if Geralt would see it as an opportunity to rest in the inn without harassment after his hunt – not that Jaskier would blame him.

He hoped they could spend it together, though. The mere thought of Geralt beside the Midsummer bonfire, his creamy skin alight with warm oranges and yellows, sent a prickling up his spine not unlike the feeling that looking at a masterpiece painting might inspire.

Maybe he could even sneak a few flowers into the man’s white hair. Bursts of forget-me-not blue and dandelion yellow entangled in snowy locks, all cast in the flickering shadow of the bonfire’s glow—

—Jaskier visibly jumped when his thoughts were cut short by nosy lips snuffling at the back of his collar. Nearby the children giggled at the way he shrieked. He scowled at them, then whirled to find Roach pushing her long snout against his chest with a great, heaving sigh. She had been running, he realized.

Running without Geralt.

“Where is he?” he asked, all ire crushed beneath the great weight of dread falling in his stomach. She took him by the collar again and tugged, careful to mind her teeth. Jaskier needed no further prompting. He climbed into her saddle and let her take him away – all too aware of the blood smeared on the clasps of the saddle bag and the unmistakable red handprint on her neck, large and familiar.

- ˑ༄ؘ -

Jaskier found him face down in the mossy underbrush of an old tree, the sort of tree that spiraled high into the sky. He was mere feet away from a woman, her face twisted into the ugly grimace common to Vampires. Her throat was nothing but a bloody maw, open and wrecked. Already she had begun to stink of rot and death. Jaskier covered his nose and felt a weak shiver thread down his spine, nearly stealing the strength to stay in the saddle from his bones. Beneath him, Roach stamped her hooves impatiently, pawing at the ground. Jaskier gave himself but a moment to gather himself – just long enough to ensure the sight and smell alone wouldn’t make him fall disgracefully from Roach’s back – before he dismounted.

He forced himself to ignore the dead Alp. Forced himself not to take in the long red train of her hair, or how normal she had probably looked among the other villagers before Geralt had coaxed out her true nature. Instead he went to his knees beside the witcher, his name on his tongue as he reached for those broad shoulders and flipped him over.

He was paler than normal. Jaskier didn’t think that was possible, yet here they were. He looked as white as a crisp royal sheet, bleached like a bone in the sun. His neck was a mess of punctures, and with a shiver that shook him right down to his belly, Jaskier plucked a tooth from Geralt’s flesh and flicked it across the clearing. Worse yet, there was a gash in his side. No, not a gash – more punctures. Punctures where clawed fingers had made a home in his flesh. Both wounds had slowed to a sluggish bleeding, however, and a quick look confirmed his suspicions. Not far away two bottles lay forgotten in the grass. One empty, one still the littlest bit full – their contents puddled into the earth. Potions. Two of them.

At least he wouldn’t die of blood loss, Jaskier thought as he started the long, arduous task of trying to settle Geralt over Roach’s saddle as safely and harmlessly as he could. So much for celebrating Midsummer in style. Though even as that thought struck him, he found it to be more a muted old ghost than any true regret. An echo of selfishness from lonely days.

Instead Jaskier whispered a soft plea of gratitude into the air as he took Roach’s reins beneath her chin and began to lead her away.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you for getting me here in time.”

- ˑ༄ؘ -

Jaskier had wanted to return to the inn. He wanted a roof over their heads, and a tub of water to clean his hands with rather than the river, and a bed to let Geralt rest. But the thought of parading Geralt’s limp body through the village gave him pause. And furthermore, the promise of music and partying that was sure to fill the streets that night nixed the deal entirely. There would be no rest for his fickle sleeper of a witcher even if he weren’t injured. Add in potion-intoxication and fevers from his wounds, and he’d be miserable without reprieve; on edge, instincts flaring, and unable to do a thing about it.

So instead he took him further into the woods, away from the Alp’s corpse or anything the bloody battle might attract. Finding a spot to camp was second nature to him now after years of traveling at Geralt’s side. Not too close to water where prey animals and predators alike gathered. But not so far away as to make fetching water impossible. A dark, nestled nook of trees that were out of sight most ways you looked at it. There was little he could do to hide Roach, but she was – in her own right – another layer of security. She’d sense if something was wrong long before Jaskier ever would. And she’d never failed to protect herself before. So he removed her saddle, bit and bridle, and let her graze at her leisure with a soft promise to wash the blood from her coat as soon as he could.

He took Geralt’s tent from her saddle and set up a slanted covering using the trees. Something to provide a little security and buffer from the wind that night without limiting too terribly his ability to tend to Geralt. He rolled an old shirt into a tight ball and tucked it under Geralt’s head. He made sure the witcher was as comfortable as possible before he took a spare water skin and trudged to the river to wash the worst of any filth from his hands, then to fill the skin in preparation for cleaning Geralt’s wounds.

It was thankfully a far tamer affair than usual, with Geralt unconscious. No half-hearted embarrassment to make the witcher growl and sit stiff as a board as Jaskier tended to him. No self-depreciation for needing care. Geralt’s muscles didn’t fight him as he lifted his arms, legs, chest or neck to remove what clothing needed removing to do what needed doing.

Jaskier cleaned the wounds as delicately as he could. He mopped the sweat from Geralt’s brow as the man twitched, and tossed, and turned, plagued as though in the grip of a nightmare. And the reality was not far off, Jaskier realized. He had heard Geralt explain the dangers of an Alp’s kiss to villagers before. He knew the nightmares their venom could induce. He could only hope one of those vials the witcher had taken had subdued the worst of it somewhat.

He wrapped the wounds. Stitched what could be stitched and left the rest for the witcher’s biology to handle. Then he helped the man back into his clothing, left his armor aside, and shifted Geralt’s head until he had it cushioned in his lap, fingers threading through his hair.

Geralt’s eyes opened. Soft flickers of hazy gold peeking out from beneath sooty lashes. Sweaty brows furrowed and creased. The witcher moaned – a sound that was as much reaching out for Jaskier in confusion as it was reacting to the pain. Beside them, their little campfire leapt and popped merrily, painting Geralt in relief with yellows and oranges, and for a moment Jaskier nearly laughed as he thought perhaps he would get to see his witcher beside a bonfire after all.

“Jaskier?” Geralt croaked, looking up at him from his spot in the bard’s lap.

Jaskier weaved his fingers through sweaty hair – the knots long worked out – and said, “How kind of you to join us, sleeping beauty.”

Geralt frowned, but the ire melted away the pain that had contorted his face, and if Jaskier had to deal with a little ire to soothe those wrinkles away, he’d gladly do so. The bard smiled.

Weakly, Geralt lifted a hand, asking without words for water, and it was a testament to their time together that when Jaskier helped him sit up enough to drink, Geralt did not snarl or pull away. The bard held the water skin with Geralt as the witcher drank, urging him to slow when Geralt forgot to be mindful of how quickly he quenched his thirst. Geralt didn’t begrudge him the help. Communication so personal and second nature that neither had recognized when they had become so fluent in that language; only that they were grateful that they had.

When Geralt had drunk enough to soothe his throat but not so much as to upset his stomach or the delicate blend of potion and venoms therein, Jaskier set the skin aside – Geralt’s fingers trembling over his.

“The Alp?”

“Dead,” Jaskier said, “I just didn’t think we should camp near it.”

He knew Geralt would want to go and find it tomorrow when he felt better. That he’d want the head as a trophy to prove to the town he had done what he had set out to do, lest they try to swindle him. The Alp might be devoured by then. Jaskier knew that thought rankled Geralt something fierce. But he didn’t regret his choices, and he knew that while annoyed to potentially lose out on payment, Geralt didn’t begrudge him the decision either.

“Good thinking,” Geralt rasped. Jaskier felt a little plume of warmth unrelated to the fire fill his chest.

“Believe it or not, I have picked up a trick or two from you on our travels,” Jaskier preened.

Geralt’s fingers brushed over the wrappings that concealed his side, his throat, and said, “I believe it,” the words acknowledging, and the tone grateful. As close to ‘thank you’ as witchers tend to get. Once upon a time, Jaskier would have harped on the man for more. Now, it felt like everything.

“I fed and cleaned Roach. Your pack is fine,” Jaskier rattled off, this not having been the first time they’d had this conversation – nor would it be the last. “Afraid we don’t have much in the way of food, however. We’ll need to go back to town in the morning.”

“Surprised you didn’t go tonight,” Geralt said.

“Ah, yes, well… It's Midsummer’s Festival tonight. I didn’t think you’d appreciate the noise,” Jaskier admitted. He longed for a hot tub to soak in, fresh clothing and a pitcher of ale to watch the festivities with – but even so, none of those desires made him regret where he actually was or what he actually was doing. The thought of staying behind to celebrate, oblivious to Geralt lying wounded in the woods, made him shiver. It must have shown too, because Geralt’s hand closed over Jaskier’s free one on the witcher’s shoulder and squeezed.

Another unspoken pearl of gratitude.

“You said you had my pack?” Geralt asked, eyes fixed on Jaskier as though he were in the middle of deciding something.

“Yes,” Jaskier said, his own brows drawing ever so slightly tighter as his free hand moved from Geralt’s hair to his forehead, “You didn’t forget I said that, did you?”

Worry bubbled in his gut.

“Just making sure,” Geralt said, squeezing his other hand again. “I… It’s Midsummer tonight.”

“Yes, I know. I told you that. Are you sure you’re alright? You don’t feel feverish, but—”

“M’fine,” Geralt said quickly, cutting him off before his worries could spiral too transparently. “Truly. I just… there’s something I have to do tonight.”

Jaskier leaned back a little at that, surprised. He blew out an amused little breath and said, “I didn’t take you for the celebratory type, Geralt. We can just have our own party tomorrow night, if you’re that keen on it. I’ll braid flowers into your hair, and we’ll have our own little bonfire when your side looks more like flesh and less like holey cheese.”

“Lovely imagery,” Geralt deadpanned.

“Thank you,” Jaskier said beatifically.

Geralt searched his face for a long moment after that. Between them, the fire crackled innocently. Insects chirped. The moon filtered in pleasantly through the pines. But all of that paled in comparison to the look Geralt gave him. It was all at once unidentifiable, but also perhaps one of the most intimate things Jaskier had ever shared with the man. It stilled the breath in Jaskier’s lungs and left him as attentive as a deer in the field, waiting – always waiting.

“It can’t wait, Jaskier,” Geralt finally said.

“What, are you cursed to celebrate Midsummer or you’ll self-combust?” Jaskier joked, trying to ignore that lingering sense of dread that was snowballing dangerously in his gut. This was entirely unlike Geralt. Jaskier could count on fewer than the fingers of one hand how many times Geralt had sought his permission in situations like this. If he wanted to do something, he’d do it. He’d pick himself up from their makeshift camp and he’d limp off into the night, and the best Jaskier would be able to do was follow and hope he could help.

Even as their fight from the mountaintop rang in his head – long forgiven, but still haunting – he’d try to help.

And yet Geralt was not lifting himself up. If anything, the man looked as though he were on sleep’s doorstep. Jaskier brushed white locks back from Geralt’s sweaty brow and felt fear clench in his breast when Geralt closed his eyes at his touch and didn’t open them again right away.

“I’m too tired to explain, Jaskier,” he finally admitted. “And I’m… I don’t think I…”

Geralt choked on the words, still unable to admit his weaknesses after all this time. Some habits were rooted too deep to conquer and weed out altogether. But what the witcher had weeded out made Jaskier proud. So in this, he couldn’t begrudge them. They all had their flaws. Nothing was ever conquered in just a day.

“What do you need me to do?” Jaskier asked instead.

Geralt swallowed.

“I’m supposed to do it,” he said.

“And you will. Just help me help you do it,” Jaskier affirmed.

The witcher let out a slow, whistling breath through his nose. Then, after a moment, he nodded. And he told Jaskier what to do.

That’s how the bard found himself opening Geralt’s pack – not his large, more often-used rucksack of equipment and medical items, but instead a smaller pouch he hadn’t noticed had been attached to Roach’s saddle. Inside was a small saucer with a curved lip, a handful of candles, and a pouch of recently plucked flowers. It echoed the festivities he had seen in town, but without much effort it was obvious to note that this was different. Through his studies he had a rudimentary knowledge of flowers and their meaning. Of candle colors and scents and wicks. Each and every item in the pouch had a meaning. Flowers that promised blessings. Scents that paid homage. Colors that prayed for forgiveness. Little blooms that helped the dead find their way beyond the veil. And at the bottom of the pouch a small bundle wrapped in cloth. He had nearly unfolded it when Geralt said clearly, “Don’t,” from across the camp.

Plagued by curiosity, Jaskier looked to Geralt, fingers paused. But at those eyes – so amber and dazed, yet so keenly worried – Jaskier simply nodded, and stood to place it in Geralt’s hand, still wrapped, instead. He heard Geralt swallow thickly. Felt their fingers brush gratefully.

Geralt had a lovely voice, when he deigned to use it. He spent the early hours of the night listening to Geralt explain how to weave the flowers. Which colors and blooms to use when. What to lace over what. Which to tuck where and when. Without any description of what final result to expect, Jaskier followed him on faith. Something warm stoked a fire in his chest as he realized the more they went along just how personal this must be to Geralt. He had never quite heard of anything like this. With a quick pang he realized it must be a well-kept tradition of witchers – or at the very least of the Wolves of Kaer Morhen. And he – Jaskier – was helping Geralt do it.

Once upon a time he might have thought of it as a very boring, and perhaps even demeaning, way of helping the witcher. It wasn’t heroic or theatrical. He was so much more talented than a mere man with ten fingers to weave flowers with. But as Geralt narrated him through the process and his tone turned steadily nostalgic, Jaskier was struck with how much more this simple act meant to Geralt than any wound Jaskier had ever sewn.

He made a wreath of flowers and when it was done, he held it up for Geralt’s inspection.

“Like this?” he asked.

A little bit of the tension in Geralt’s brow softened, making him look younger as he breathed, “Yes. Just like that. Set it on the plate.”

Jaskier did so. The little blooms ringed the curved lip of the plate beautifully, leaving the pale center of the dish exposed plainly.

“Now set the candles inside. First the tallest along the inner edge of the crown of flowers, then the second tallest, then the third. Leave room in the middle.”

Jaskier did.

“Good,” Geralt said between heavy blinks, “Now light a match to melt the bottom of the candles to the plate and let it cool… We can’t let them fall.”

Jaskier did. It took a few matches and a few burnt fingertips and a few curses, but he did.

“Now what?” Jaskier said after he had waited for the wax to cool, gently poking the tallest candle of the three to ensure it wouldn’t budge.

“The part you won’t like,” Geralt finally said, beginning to force himself to sit up.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait now!” Jaskier said, delicately setting the plate aside so he could scramble up beside Geralt. He had half a mind to ease him back down, but the look in Geralt’s eyes was sharp and telling. He had allowed Jaskier to do as much as possible, but there would be no persuading him to lay back any longer. Not at this point.

“It’s midnight, Jaskier,” Geralt said through clenched teeth as he forced himself to his feet – swaying all the while. “I must do this.”

The bard caught him by his elbow when amber eyes drifted, and it looked as though he might fall. Geralt leaned into him for only as long as it took for the dizziness to pass before drawing in a deep, steadying breath, his gaze falling on the bard pointedly.

“I must,” he repeated.

“Then we will,” Jaskier said simply, but he kept his grip on the witcher’s elbow tight and just as pointed. He waited, jaw clenched and shoulders set, for Geralt to argue. Instead, after a brief moment of searching Jaskier’s face, the witcher merely nodded.

Jaskier held the plate in one hand and Geralt’s elbow in the other, and together they slowly made their way into the dark with nothing but the moon, Geralt’s uncanny eyes, and the sway of Midsummer’s breeze around them to guide the way.

“Where are we going?” Jaskier asked only once, but Geralt did not answer. They paused when they needed pausing, pacing themselves by the rasping of the witcher’s heaving breath. Occasionally Geralt would turn his nose to the wind, sniff, and change their course accordingly. Side by side, Jaskier followed his witcher into the dark until finally the trees parted and the moon rose high above to light the clearing that Geralt had found.

It was a lake, vast and wide, at the mouth of the river Jaskier had been using for water. The lake was wreathed in trees, and in the center of its glassy surface the moon above shone brilliantly. It lit the water in a fiery glow of pale opalescence, enchanting and so much more than any pool of water Jaskier had ever seen before.

“Help me down,” Geralt said, drawing Jaskier’s attention.

“Down?” Jaskier asked. “You don’t mean…”

But Geralt just leveled him with a patient, if unyielding stare. With a little sigh of resignation, Jaskier tested the solidity of the bank and plotted a course to ease the witcher into the water. The water was freezing. His clothing would be ruined. Mud squelched beneath his boots. Water sunk into his shoes. His back arched like a cat and with his shoulders up against his ears, he tottered around to offer Geralt a hand and help him in – only to pause, hand halfway between them.

Geralt looked otherworldly. Despite his damaged shirt and muddied pants and his bloodied flesh torn asunder, he looked beautiful. In him the moonlight seemed to catch and grow – not from any magic, but from the sheer significant focus in the witcher’s face. Whatever this was, this was important to Geralt. This was no party, no night to dance to. This was tradition in a sense that most people no longer understood. This was decades of beliefs passed down by calloused hands and grizzled, spoken words. A small moment of peace and mercy in a lifetime of ungrateful, dangerous work.

Jaskier sucked in a little breath, then steeled himself. He took a squelching step forward and raised his hand for Geralt to take. He bade his body maintain its balance as Geralt’s weight made him sink further into the mud, but for once the thought didn’t even cross his mind that he had likely ruined his shoes beyond repair. Every trivial worry, every materialistic concern – all of it disappeared as Geralt took his hand and let the bard guide him into the water.

The water rose first to their knees, then just below their hips, until finally Jaskier stopped Geralt with a firm hand against his sternum. He wouldn’t let the wound get wet. That was the line he wouldn’t cross, and in the moment Geralt looked at him, the witcher seemed to recognize a fight not worth having when he saw it.

“Hold out the plate,” Geralt finally said, his hair a halo of moonlight. When Jaskier did, he formed a quick sign with his free hand, and one by one the three candles sprung to life. Then he paused.

Jaskier looked between the plate and Geralt once, twice, then asked softly, “Is that it, or…?”

From a little pouch tied around his neck, Geralt removed the bundle he had asked Jaskier not to open back at camp. He swayed in the water, tired and aching, but remained steadfast as piece by piece, he revealed a silver medallion emblazoned with a wolf’s head. It looked just like Geralt’s, only older. Older and scarred, a jagged groove slashed right across the width of it, its chain dangling weakly from Geralt’s fingers.

“We give thanks for the lives we saved,” Geralt said, the words sounding like the echo of a prayer said dozens and dozens of times across the span of centuries, “and we beg mercy for the things we couldn’t change…”

Jaskier stilled, the candles flickering delicately between them, and waited with bated breath. Afraid that any inhale too loud, any flinch too jarring might shatter the moment.

Geralt’s gaze lowered to the medallion in his hand. He ran a rough thumb over the scarred metal, licked his dry lips and said, “We pray for safe passage for our brother, and plead that his sacrifices weigh more than his sins. For he was good, and in this hard world he tried to be just.”

Jaskier’s fingers tightened on the plate. He felt the lake sway around them comfortingly, as though it were a presence all its own. This is what witchers did on Midsummer while humans drank and danced. And while he hardly begrudged the town their making merry and celebrating, it made this moment all the more painful to bear. They could celebrate because of witchers like Geralt, who saved their fathers and mothers, their daughters and sons.

So why didn’t witchers get to dance and make merry?

Instead they prayed for peace, and grace, and mercy – knowing that when they returned to the hunt the next day, that the people they protected would widely never truly thank them for it. Jaskier felt suddenly choked by the contrast. His lashes burned, but he bit his cheek and forced himself to bear it. The plate felt suddenly so heavy. No wonder Geralt couldn’t carry it alone.

With a sharp breath – a sound that struck Jaskier as resigned and weary – Geralt placed the medallion into the halo of flowers and candles.

“And finally, we ask for blessings in the coming days,” Geralt said softly as he brought his hands over top of Jaskier’s instead of taking the plate away, “so that we may walk the Path until it ends, and another prays instead.”

Jaskier sucked in a shuddering little breath, his eyes only darting up when Geralt rubbed a thumb soothingly over the backs of his hands on either side of the plate.

“Lower it down,” Geralt said softly, and as though they were lowering a man into his grave, they set the plate atop the surface of the lake. With a gentle tap, Geralt urged it on its way and they watched it drift, side by side.

It was a long moment before Jaskier could find the words to speak.

“I thought witchers burned their dead,” he croaked, his hands trembling from the weight of it all. Even as Midsummer blew a warm, soothing breath across the back of his neck, he shivered. Geralt didn’t take his eyes off the plate as he thought over that, leaning into Jaskier the longer they stood in the lake – the mud slowly giving way beneath his feet.

“We do,” Geralt said. “But we do this too.”

“You deserve better,” Jaskier said.

Geralt hummed.

“Perhaps,” Geralt said, voice trailing away as the plate became a pinprick of light in the night. “But doesn’t everyone?”

Jaskier looked at him then. Took in the profile of this man – this man who had his childhood stripped from him to protect the very folks that abandoned and condemned him daily. Felt the weight of that injustice. The beauty of that sacrifice. The urge to write swelled within him. Ballads to convey the witcher’s plight. Rich, round words to even the scales and turn the tides.

And yet he knew that Geralt would not want that. That Geralt would not want to share this rare glimpse of peace with the world. This moment was for witchers and their tiny found family. And so the ballads faded, and the songs bled into silence, and instead all Jaskier could think to say was this:

“Thank you for sharing this with me, Geralt.”

“I’m sorry it’s no feast,” Geralt said weakly, wryly, as though he had been afraid of what Jaskier would think about this witcher’s tradition in comparison to the parties he was used to.

“Midsummer is a celebration of life and love,” Jaskier said, holding Geralt’s gaze. “There is no wrong way to do that, Geralt. It only matters that we do.”

Geralt nodded at that, not blinking as Jaskier wove an arm beneath his own to help take some of the weight off his wounded side.

“This is how the Wolves of Kaer Morhen pay homage to Midsummer,” he said softly.

“I hope they won’t mind that I imposed,” Jaskier went for charming, but an apology drifted anxiously at the heels of the sentence. Geralt hummed.

“You don’t have to be a witcher to be a Wolf of Kaer Morhen, Jaskier,” Geralt said. He stood stiff in the bard’s arms. Anxious, Jaskier realized. Even as his own heart soared, he realized the significance of what Geralt was suggesting. The fear of rejection that corded his muscles tight.

“Noted,” Jaskier said, turning Geralt just slightly so they might press their foreheads together and simply breathe. “Then I suppose I’ll have to mark the occasion on my calendar from now on, won’t I?”

Geralt’s breath shuddered against his lips. An exhale that emptied him of all fear until nothing was left but two men standing in a lake, family found in suffering. A consummation of love beneath the moon, a promise made in the curve of two bodies holding one another up despite the hardships that awaited.

A homage to love in Midsummer; quiet, patient and unrelenting.

[covrtofnightmares]

( JAMES &&. FAUN ) + @nymphcts

At long last, James Deerling was coming down from the mountains.

The crisp air of the Dawn Court slid through him, ruffling James’ hair and clothes as the late High Lord of the Spring Court stalked through the Dawn Court’s glittering capital city, his gaze a glower as he stalked through the city’s streets of whitewashed and sun-bleached stone. Rage simmered beneath the former High Lord’s skin, threatening to strike against any who dared cross his path. It had been a long journey, these nearly twenty years, and James Henry Deerling had become a monster; an enraged god made of bone and flesh. In fact, as the warrior fae made his way up the long and winding steps that led to the Dawn Court’s impressive high castle, James felt that the court’s late leader was lucky he was already dead. If the Caerwyn line had not nearly tapered off, James was almost confident he would have burned them all to the ground with little more than his bare hands.

Getting into the castle was not going to be a difficult feat today; the White Wolf of the Spring Court did not need to force or fight his way through its impressive, burnished gold doors. Though violence was at the tip of his fingers, threatening to break through, James had never been a particularly volatile or cruel man. There was no reason for the innocent servants and staff members to suffer the loss Rosaline Liancourt and the Caerwyns had dealt to his family. Besides, he could not imagine that Faun would have wanted war or violence to fall upon these people; it was simply not within the depths of her heart. So as James stalked up the steps, the doors opened for him with grace and ease. James nodded at the sight of the existing royal advisor of the Dawn Court: Eryk Lutz, a man who was just as in the dark about the creature who lived in the bowels of the Dawn Court as James had been. The former High Lord stood just inside the threshold, his fighting leathers stretched across his large, impressive torso as his gaze surveyed the bright interior of the room before him. A foyer, or an entrance parlor, if he had to guess. Two swords were strapped to James’ back, creating a rather intricate pattern alongside his dragon scale wings, and he turned his fierce and calculating gaze on the advisor situated near him.

“Your dungeons, Sire Lutz, and I’ll let you keep the appendage below your waist,” James said at last, his voice a low, rough growl. James had requested privacy for today’s meeting, and thus far, it seemed that the advisor had delivered on his promise. The palace, from what he could tell, was mostly empty, though James held no misgivings about the servants who likely lurked around corners and strained against closed doors, furtively attempting to hear the whispers and roars of the strange man who had come to visit their home. As James descended from view of the surface level of Dawn’s castle and into the underbelly of the court, he felt his heart racing within the confines of his chest.

Faun was alive. Faun had always been here, close enough for him to taste, hidden from her mate and her children. James didn’t understand everything, of course--not the sacrifices or the secrets or even the reasons, but he hadn’t spent the last two decades toiling away over nothing, after all.

His heart was here. James was simply not going to leave until he had retrieved it.

He made his way into the dungeons alone, blinking at the significant shift in lighting. His wings were restless at his back, but James stalked forward into a lushly decorated room, complete with a large, ornate bed with a princess sleeping atop it. No, strike that--a queen, in all of her honey and marigold glory. Faun Deerling was spread out, her curls surrounding her like a soft halo, as she slumbered on through the magically-induced coma she’d been placed under. Since finding out the source of Faun’s preservation, James had feverishly flipped through his available resources, studying up and practicing enchantments and counter-curses to safely lift his wife from her bonds. He’d read, in an archaic text on ancient magical customs, that enchantments were made weaker if the caster had passed away. Given Lysander Caerwyn’s untimely end, James was banking on as much being the case today. 

But for now...for now, he approached Faun with an aching tenderness in his heart; the organ threatened to burst forth from his chest and take flight like a restless bird as his eyes searched every available inch of the woman who had been his mate for over half a millennia. Ripped from him far too soon and hidden here, like a fairy tale princess, waiting for her prince to come. Pure nonsense, of course; Faun had never needed a man--or anyone, for that matter--to save her. She was about self-preservation, but more so than that, about putting the lives of people she loved before herself. Her sacrifice had nearly ruined James, and as he quietly made his way over towards his wife, he swore he felt every single nerve ending in his body light up, like a candle taken to flame. She was beautiful, preserved in her physical state and sleeping soundlessly. There was no pain or distress evident in her gaze, and James took a long moment to memorize every soft contour and curve of her face; the gentle sloping of her nose, the full plushness of her velveteen lips. Hesitantly, James reached out one scarred, calloused hand, gently stroking his fingers across the high arch of her cheekbones. A shuddering, fragmented sound slipped past his lips, threatening to send his entire body buckling as his skin warmed at the contact.

“My little doe,” he breathed at last, and his voice felt oddly rough and hoarse as it cracked under the weight of his heavy emotions. His thumb brushed against the full plush of her lower lip, and in that moment, James Henry Deerling, a man of few words and even less expression, felt close to crying. Memories of the life they’d cultivated together, bred in clandestine kisses and caresses under a moonlit sky, tore through his mind. Their marriage, brief as it was, before she was torn from him once more. He had never loved a creature as desperately as the one spread before him, and as James removed his hand from her face and centered his energy on expelling the boundaries of the magic that folded itself around her, he knew he never would again. If he had to sacrifice every shred of himself for Faun Deerling, he would without hesitation. Practicing the incantations and form he’d studied for weeks leading up to this moment, James placed his feet apart and secured his stance. His eyes closed, briefly, as he focused on the energy that buzzed throughout the room. It always felt different, hearing and feeling someone else’s magic, and Lysander Caerwyn’s was no different. It felt almost violating to breach the secure hold someone else had placed--a magical barrier, if you will--that separated his wife from the rest of the world.

James concentrated, his brows furrowing together as he repeated the words of the Old Tongue; the incantation to strip a weakened spell as his fingers curled around the stifling magic in the room. It was difficult work, particularly for a warrior fae whose skillset was specialized in brute strength, and James let out a low hiss of anger as he gritted his teeth together, closed his fingers into fists, and pulled. Hard. A gust of wind whipped through the dungeons, causing the cracks in the stones to whistle as the room let out a long, suffering sigh of relief as the weakened spell was unraveled. With one last burst of energy, James severed the final ties binding Faun to the worlds between here and the afterlife; it was entirely possible he was screaming, as the last dregs of the late High Lord’s magic tore through him like a ricochet, and by the time James opened his eyes once more, the air had grown still. James lowered his hands slowly, immediately moving over Faun’s body and sliding a hand behind her neck to cradle the back of her head, his gaze feverish and desperate as a plea slipped past his lips.

“Wake up, my love. Wake up.”

[scoundrels-in-love]

Tomorrow (with you) I’d like to lose myself in the fleeting moment

Brienne hasn't always been responsible, but for most of her life she's felt the weight of these choices. During her visit on Tarth, accompanied by Jaime, she rediscovers the joy of simply following what her heart wants the most. 

Also on AO3

Brienne hadn’t always been responsible.

If she were, she wouldn’t have flung herself off the cliff’s edges, pursuing Galladon with shrill laughter, in that summer when all was simple still and the sun of Tarth sigil was love that could cast no shadows.

If she were, she would have put down her sword and weight of that choice would’ve dragged her shoulders lower and lower, until she did not loom over Ser Wagstaff anymore, when he took her for wife in the Sept. 

Maybe she wouldn’t even have picked swordplay up in the first place, but it was that moment when it truly became a transgression against her father, against her island.

Not acting responsibly had not freed her of the weight choices she has taken (or avoided) would drag into her chest, like carcasses of some unfortunate prey. There, they slowly became bleached bones, taunting with what ifs and made her stumble at unexpected times, when another broke under her foot. She had spoken of it with Lady Sansa once, just once, after she had received her father’s letter that asked if she could come home, if only for a visit. Brienne hadn’t meant to, but her Lady’s face had been wistful: “It is good you have a father who is proud of you, Ser Brienne. Few deserve it as much as you. Of course I shall grant you leave.” As if she doubted her father would be proud of her, the girl that had survived snares and pain greater than most, the woman that had reclaimed Winterfell for the pack to come back to, the Queen in the North.

“If he is proud of me, it is unearned. I have failed him, as his only heir. I left to chase dreams of knighthood and even now, I do not plan to return to take my place as future Evenstar. No husband and no children to name as one, either.” Brienne’s voice had been steady, but her fists had clenched by her sides as she felt wind whistle through skeletons of every abandoned responsibility. 

Lady Sansa had smiled at that, almost as if she had a sweet secret melting on the tip of her tongue. She did not divulge it, but her eyes had been warm and serious, like the hearth of a well-loved home. “Perhaps it is selfish of me, but I am grateful you did so, Ser Brienne. I would not be here, if not for your choices.”

It had been odd to hear this - she had never thought of her role as so important in the grand play of things. She thought of it still sometimes, months later, of the sense of rightness it had given her. Brienne was satisfied with who she is and the roads she has traveled, so it felt almost vain to feel a burst of pride and to think her irresponsibility have truly saved lives on a larger scale, maybe even changed the world. And yet, it had eased something in her. 

If the shift had been apparent, Lady Sansa did not acknowledge it and continued on: “If Gods are kind, your father shall live for years still and who knows what our lives will be like at the end of this Summer. We have already seen how a single year can change great many things. Now, you should prepare for your journey.”

And so she had.

Jaime had firmly announced he would go with her, despite her protests. “I am your sworn sword, Brienne. It would make no sense for me to stay here.” Brienne thought it made perfect sense - he could take her place by Lady Sansa’s side, during her absence. And yet, he insisted and so did her Queen. “Ser Podrick will do just fine,” she had assured and again smiled a sweet smile, reminiscent of a child who knew where the treats were and merely needed adults out of the room. 

Now that they were standing shoulder to shoulder on the edge of gardens, watching the merriment, Brienne could quietly admit to herself how truly glad she was for his stubbornness. They had laughed, drunk and even danced, before drifting away from the center together as others continued to celebrate the Festival of Mother in full.

There was silence between them, filled with floating tunes and flickering lights of bonfire, and she could watch him while his own thoughts wandered somewhere. It must be a good place, she thought, judging by his smile. Jaime smiled a lot more these days, caught himself once and said it must be something in the wine or the water. 

He liked Tarth, it was obvious, and it pleased Brienne more than it should. She wasn’t staying. He wasn’t staying. But when they sparred in the yard in mornings and his taunts nestled in secret places they weren’t meant to, when the green of his eyes were bright with excitement, rivaling the dim light of armory as she showed him Ser Duncan the Tall’s shield, when he laughed together with her father in way she hadn’t heard either of them in years, she wished they would. 

Wished so fiercely as she had only wished to sword-fight and to be a knight. In those moments, she felt recklessness of her youth coming back to her, the easy with which she could make the reckless choices because her heart thought of them as just. But this wasn’t just, was it? It was just a want. And she was too old to follow those blindly, had seen how much it could cost.

Almost funny that she’d think about the meaning of responsibility when looking at a man who self-proclaimed to never give two shits about it. But perhaps that’s the reason - despite his loud words, despite Oathbreaker branded on his back in invisible, yet so loud, ink, Jaime was responsible about things that mattered. His value scale was a little tilted at times and he obviously had no intentions to fix it, but his heart was always true. She only wished she could care little less about propriety, too. About losing him to her own storm of wants. 

He looked at her, perhaps having sensed her gaze, and his smile softened, like a beam of light through stained glass, landing green or blue or red and gentle on the floor. Her heart lurched oddly, as if it wanted to lay down in it, forever.

She looked away.

“Brienne, is everything alright?” He touched her hand and she followed it, as if he had pulled her - a step closer, her palm shifting against his, but not daring to entwine their fingers. He was the one who did, the warmth of his touch reassuring and heady all at once.

“I am,” she assured, blamed the wine for her heartbeat that outraced the beat of the music. “Merely thinking of how much longer we can stay, I have duties--”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t think so much at all times, Brienne. Or, if you must, think about what you owe to yourself, for once: to be happy.”

It sounded so absurdly alike what her father had told her just days before that she distantly wondered if he had overheard. But then again, Jaime had reminded her to think of herself more often in these years.

Her gaze dropped to his lips, as if she could scry the answer in them, and he licked them, which sent her thoughts scattering like hand through smoke. Only one wispy want remained, persistent.

She had thought of kissing Jaime before. In the moments before the War of Dawn, when they didn’t know if there would be another sunrise and she wanted to taste sunlight on his lips, just once. In the aftermath, when being alive did not feel real yet and it freed her of mocking echoes, but too soon she had been anchored back to ground. When he had sworn to her and she had almost told him she wants a different oath from him - the thought so bold she had barely recognized its shape before she had dropped it like hot coal. When they discussed strategies or fought, when they broke fast together or bid good night to each other. So many times that the count had lost its meaning.

Jaime tugged her closer by their joined hands, as if there had been much space left between before. And she wondered if it was just reflections of fire and her own want that danced like fireflies in his dark gaze. “Brienne,” he said in a low voice and in it, she found her answer. 

He tasted like wine and freedom, and the joy of daring. 

When he murmured words of love and her name as if it was one of them against her mouth, she thought that maybe this would be one rash decision to shape their world better.

When, two years later, they came to Tarth a second time, now to stay, she found that it had been true and that the graveyard in her soul had greatly shrunk and grown much more quiet. 

[rhnuzlocke]

Chapter Nine: It’s Not Easy

Ren sat on a long beam of driftwood, worn smooth by sand and surf and bleached bone-white by sun and salt. Foam drifted across the sand, and whitecaps gleamed out behind the rolling breakers. The sunset played pink and orange across the glittering water, and red flashed across the sand as Ren released her team from their pokeballs, all except for Akahana.

“Those people who were after the Devon prototype came after it again. Steven kept us out of the battle, but it set off some wild pokemon and Akahana was badly injured protecting me.”

“Is she alright? Where is she?” Iki demanded with a shrill edge of worry.

“There was some internal bleeding, so the doctors are keeping her overnight for observation, but her prognosis is good. No battling for a week to make sure the cracked ribs mend well, but she should be released tomorrow morning.”

They all seemed relieved, except for Hakeka, who just looked around at the others. Then, all Ren could see was Akahana shifting and wincing on her gurney—downplaying her injuries despite the pain she was in. Ren couldn't decide if Akahana was trying to spare her or if she was afraid. She couldn’t decide which was worse. The Poochyena had seemed startled by Ren's apology and agreed to remain on the team without the slightest hesitation.

“I'm so sorry. I should never have taken the job.”

“There's no need for that,” said Panahi, nudging her arm with a wing. “None of us blame you, Honey. It was just an accident. These things happen.”

“I bought us here and then I panicked! If I had done what I was supposed to do and recalled her in time, she wouldn’t have gotten hurt!”

“Battling is dangerous sometimes. We all know that,” chirped Māia. “Akahana knew what she was signing up for.”

“Yeah, you sent me out,” said Tāraki. “And you helped me evolve to fight the rest of the wilds off. You’re a good trainer!”

“I think you’re being a bit hard on yourself,” said Panahi with a tilt of her head. “I know I just lectured you about taking responsibility, but there is a difference between that and blaming yourself for things you can’t control.”

Ren’s eyes fell and her face tightened. She bit her lower lip and said nothing.

Iki stepped forward. “I understand if this scares you. Battling still scares me a little. But I don’t think you’re a bad trainer and we are a lot safer with you than we would be alone.”

“Thank you. I’ll do better next time, I promise.” Her team shared a few glances and Panahi sighed, shuffling her wings. “In any event, we’ll be here a few days at least while Akahana recovers. I was thinking we could challenge the gym here. Māia, I know you missed out last time, so I want to give you the opportunity to take the lead on this one.”

“Hell yeah!”

“Do you mind backing her up, Ahi?”

“Not at all, Honey.”

“Great! I’m gonna wade in the surf for a bit. You gals can all relax.”

Ren got up and went down to the water, trying not to run. It took a few moments, but Iki and Tāraki came to join her. The wind carried Hakeka’s chattering from up the beach.

“I think we are ready for the gym,” Panahi answered, “but I’m a little worried about her.”

...

Ren and her pokemon stood in front of the Dewford gym. It wasn't nearly as dramatic as Rustboro, but interesting nonetheless. The building was a ring of interlocking aluminum plates set on stilts above the sand to keep it above the storm surge. Ren could see the circular sand battlefield through the struts and what was probably a retractable roof folded neatly above the structure, waiting for inclement weather to be deployed. But for now, all was bathed in warm, sparkling sunlight.

“I know we won’t all be battling,” Ren said as she looked up the long stairs to the door, “but I would like everyone to stay out and watch.” Ren turned back to her pokemon, and her eyes caught on the bandages around Akahana’s middle. Blue scales, an IV line, and a gurney she can barely see over swims through her vision before she forces it back. “We’re a team so we are going to do this together.”

“Yeah! Go team!” Tāraki crowed.

Panahi and Hakeka rolled their eyes at his enthusiasm, but Māia whistled in agreement. Iki just hunkered down on the sand, face tilted down. Ren wished she knew how to help her. She'd figure something out after they won this badge.

After registering, they waited in the arena as a few trainers assembled to face them. Ren took off her boots to feel the warm sand between her toes. She stretched up and down, then side to side.

“Māia, do you want to warm up on a few of these guys?”

“Nope. I’m ready. Tāraki can have them.”

“Yes!” Tāraki pumped his fist.

There was another conversation between your pokemon during the trainer matches that I think it may benefit you to hear.

“Oh, well go ahead then. I’ll circle back to my point.”

The rest of the team watched as Tāraki squared off with a Mienfoo, Māia whistling encouragement while Hakeka eyed him critically. Iki crouched, stirring swirls into the sand with her foot. She glanced up at Akahana, who was observing the battle with her usual passive expression. Akahana’s eyes slid over to her and Iki squirmed for another moment before breaking the silence.

“I—it’s just—We’re supposed to be a team, but I can hardly even talk to Māia and Ahi.” Iki’s black eyes lingered on Akahana’s bandages. “I’m not strong enough to be any help when things go wrong.” She sunk down onto the sand, making herself small. “I don’t know why Ren keeps me around.”

Akahana looked back as Ren cheered Tāraki to land a final blow on the Mienfoo. He ran back to her, and she hugged him.

“I think I was wrong before.”

Iki looked back up at Akahana, body tilted in question, and Akahana met her eyes.

“When you asked me for advice, I told you to look out for yourself, and I stand by that. But I don’t think she is going to get rid of us.”

“I don’t think so either,” Iki murmured, bringing her legs in even closer.

Akahana sighed and then pinned her ears for a moment at the pain it caused her. She turned back to the battlefield where Tāraki was facing off with a Timburr.

“Pokemon like us will always have a disadvantage. But not everyone on the team has to be equally strong. None of us can compete with Tāraki now that he’s evolved.”

Taraki caught the Timburr’s driftwood log with a big grin and threw it back at his opponent.

“There will always be someone stronger.”

Tāraki did a high backflip to dodge the next blow, but wasn’t used to his new form and landed wrong.

“But that only means that we have to work harder.”

Tāraki clutched at his arm for a moment, but grit his teeth and landed a Fury Cutter with his good arm. The Timburr fell to the sand.

“I know what it’s like to feel weak.”

Tāraki tried not to grimace as Ren felt his injured arm for a break.

“I know it feels like you’ll never be good enough, but bugs grow fast.”

Tāraki grudgingly agreed to yield the remainder of the battles and Panahi strutted forward to take his place.

“You will catch up.”

Tears welled in Iki’s small, black eyes and the tension started to fall from her posture. “T-thank you, Akahana. I’ve never had such a good friend.”

Akahana pulled her head back and blinked in surprise, but Iki smiled as tears ran down her face and dripped into the warm sand. Slowly and hesitantly, Akahana leaned down, pausing before nudging Iki’s helm gently with her nose. Iki smiled even brighter and stretched up to rub on Akahana’s chin, wiping her tears away with a slender limb.

Are you alright?

“Mmm. I’ll be fine. You had to know this was coming.”

Yes. You did warn me you were—what was that phrase you used? Unbearably sentimental?

“Shut it.”

Panahi finished battling the remaining pokemon uninjured, and Ren realized how tight her shoulders had been as they started to relax. She threw a glance at Tāraki and did a few quick stretches, rolling her head until her neck clicked.

A man with sun-bleached hair, a rash guard, and board shorts sauntered into the ring and waited in the middle for her. He tipped down his big, orange shades as she drew close, and a huge toothy grin split his face.

“Reeeen! I didn’t know you were coming my way!” He stowed his sunglasses atop his head and thrust out a hand. His handshake was heavy but relaxed. “Pleasure to finally meetcha, dude! What brings you to Dewford?”

“I had an errand to run.”

“Awww! That’s no fun!” He had no idea. Ren strained to keep smiling. “Glad you decided to drop in.” But she must have given something away, because his own grin fell just a little and his eyes narrowed slightly for an instant. “Hey, you wouldn’t want to come out surfing with us tonight? It’s a full moon, clear skies. Should be pretty sweet!”

“Yeah. That sounds nice.”

“Most excellent!” The toothy grin was back full force.

“Although, I don’t really know how.”

“It’s cool, dude. I’ll bring some of my tamer boards for you.”

“Thank you.”

“No prob! So you here for your second badge? Roxanne told me you totally killed your first, so I'm pumped to face ya. Who’re you gonna use to throw down?

“Māia,” Ren said as the Taillow flew to her shoulder. Māia flashed her wings and chirped in challenge.

Brawly raised his eyebrows. “Aight then! She seems ready to rumble!”

They parted to make room for the battle and Brawly sent out a Meditite. Behind him, more of the gym trainers had gathered and were talking while they watched, but the breeze carried their words away. Ren took a deep breath and focused on Māia.

“Time to show us your moves, little birdie!” Brawly called. “Hua, Feint!”

“Up and outta there, Māia!”

The Meditite sprinted forward and Māia took to the air, narrowly dodging its attack.

“Let’s put a lid on that fancy flying. Confusion!”

Māia came swooping around towards the Meditite, prepping for an attack, but she managed to roll aside just in time to miss the oncoming psychic waves.

“Yes! Now Peck!”

Māia instantly corrected her flight path. She dropped onto the Meditite’s head, dealt a sharp blow with her beak, and took back off again in one fluid movement. The Meditite wobbled, but stayed upright.

“Wing Attack!”

Māia barreled into her turn and came at the Meditite like an arrow, wings glowing light blue. The Meditite crossed its arms in a guard but went careening back as Māia’s strike hit home. Māia landed hard, sand spraying as she skid to a stop in front of her trainer. Without even bothering to turn around, she struck a pose, assured of her victory. Sure enough, the Meditite stayed down. Ten tried not to grin quiet as smugly.

Brawly chuckled. “That’s a righteous Taillow you got there! Let’s see if she can handle something a bit tougher!” He withdrew his Meditite and sent out a Machop. “Kick it off with a Karate Chop, Motu!”

“Parry with a Wing Attack!”

The Machop jumped forward, open hand glowing, and Māia spun to meet it with a glowing wing. The two limbs met and both pokemon slid back from the force of the impact.

“Get some momentum and use Steel Wing!”

Māia sprung into the air, quickly building speed as she swept around the ring.

“Wait for it…” Brawly cautioned, and his Machop froze and tensed. Māia dove. “Seismic toss!”

The Machop caught Māia by one glinting wing, using her own momentum to sling her at the gym walls above them. Māia tumbled through the air without a modicum of control.

“Tuck your wings!” Ren commanded in the voice that always gripped her, strong and sharpened sure. Māia obeyed in almost the same instant, spinning even faster without the resistance. “Open!” Māia opened her wings, and slowed enough to turn sharply before she met the wall. “Wing attack!”

The change in course had left Māia diving towards the ground, but she angled up just in time to level off a few feet from the floor. She arrowed straight for her target.

“Karate Chop!”

The Machop braced, hands at the ready, but Māia changed course at the last second. The Machop’s strike sliced through the air where she would have been, and Māia’s wing struck it in the opposite shoulder. The combined momentum set it spinning on its heel before its toes snagged and sent it face first into the sand. Māia used her remaining momentum to vault back up, flip gracefully in the air, and touch back down in between Brawly and his fallen Machop.

“Alright, alright,” Brawly laughed as he withdrew his second pokemon. “I’ve got a bigger challenge for you.” He sent out a Makuhita, and it flexed, thick layer of fat rolling over the muscles beneath. Māia spread her wings and let out a challenging cry in response.

“Bulk Up, Mauī!”

“Wing Attack!”

Māia shot forward as the Makuhita breathed in, entire body glowing. Māia aimed for its chest, but the Makuhita stretched up and out, and Māia hit its stomach instead. She bounced off and tumbled head over tail before landing on her back. She groaned but righted herself.

“Arm thrust!”

Before Māia had a chance to breathe, the Makuhita darted forward with shocking speed, mits glowing brightly. Māia got her wings up to shield herself in time but went sliding back from the impact.

“Parry with Steel Wing!”

Māia met the Makuhita’s next punch with a solid metal wing. She caught its second fist too, and it withdrew its hands, hissing is pain. Māia was puffing, and her wings were drooping, but she grinned smugly. Suddenly, the Makuhita surprised them all by throwing one last punch. Māia was caught completely off guard and went flying back.

Ren clenched her fists. No. They weren’t done yet.

“Nice hustle! One last Knock-Off ought to finish it!”

The Makuhita nodded and lunged forward.

They could still win this.

“Boomburst!”

Māia righted herself, dug in, and let loose. The attack always started deceptively quiet—a whistling as the air came together and the pressure massed—before blooming into something so loud Ren could feel it in her bones. The Makuhita hit the wall of sound as if it were solid and bowled over backwards, rolling twice before sinking into the sand. It lay there and groaned, the ring of aluminum walls still resonating around them.

Ren resonated too. Her own magic was in it—her strength leant to her pokemon and their power combined into one overwhelming show of force. A wild joy had seised her and her heart thrummed in her chest.

“Whoa,” Brawly muttered with a yawn, rubbing at his ear.

Ren whistled, and Māia flew to her raised arm. “You did it! The undefeated streak continues!”

“Of course!” Māia chirped. “As if I’d lose to a fighting-type.”

Ren failed to stop a laugh, the giddy warmth of her inner fire bubbling over. “A little humility! They put up a good fight.”

“Yes, worthy opponents.”

“Whooey!” Brawly called, and they looked up to see him on his way over. “That was something else! Congrats you two!”

Ren grinned, and Māia dipped her head.

“Here’s the Knuckle Badge.” He slapped it into her palm. “I gotta tell ya, a lot of trainers come in here with a Taillow or a Wingull or some other little flyer and expect to breeze through on type advantage alone. We usually send those slackers packing. But you two blew us out of the water! Your Taillow’s got guts, and she really knows how to rumble! She’s a true fighter after my own heart. More importantly, ya really trained her well. I thought I had ya a couple times, but you two kept turning it back. Basically, I just wanted to say that you totally earned this badge.”

The thrill of it was still buzzing through her veins, and for one more moment all was as it should have been, as it once was. “Thank you.”

“Absolutely! Your talent and dedication is gonna keep you riding that big wave all the way to the top!”

“I used to want that. I wanted it so badly, but I hadn’t even let myself think about it until he said that. Actually, I still didn’t let myself think about it, not then. If I had, I might not have made it much further. I don’t even remember what I said back.”

Ren clutched her arm. She could barely hear past the chaotic rhythm in here ears.

“You take care now!” Brawly called after her. “And don’t forget to eat dinner early! There’s no hurling on my boards!”

Ren managed a laugh through the tight ache in her throat. “Will do!”

...

There were no lights on the beach at night and not many still on in town, but the moon shone brightly. The sand was cast in silver, and the breakers flashed against the dark, glittering water. About a dozen people and their pokemon were gathered around a fire pit when Ren and her team arrived at the agreed-upon spot. Almost all of them were young women around Ren’s age garbed in wet suits or rash guards with varied fighting-types milling between them. Ren wondered if she should have sprang for a rash guard as well, but her two-piece was quite secure. Besides, if observation had taught her anything, it was that the people of Hoenn had fewer qualms about showing skin than her homeland.

A cheer went up as the group caught sight of her, and they gathered round to offer fist bumps and introduce themselves. One asked if Māia was the legendary Taillow, and when Ren confirmed it, they all fell back and made a big show of bowing and groveling, arms outstretched. Māia puffed up, looking supremely pleased, and flexed her wings for them.

Brawly broke through the ring to elbow out a little space and presented her with a longboard. They paddled out, most of the company in tow, and Ren stayed floating past the breaking waves to watch and work on her balance. Many of the pokemon had come out to surf as well with their trainers or on their own boards.

Once Brawly had taken her through the basics and let her watch for a while, he had her kneel on his longboard while he took them in. She managed to stay on the board, and they splashed into the shallows to much applause. Tāraki danced around, yelling about how cool it was, so Brawly volunteered to take him out for a spin, while two of the women eagerly took over coaching Ren.

Soon Tāraki was given his own board, and he and Ren tried their luck side by side. They wiped-out but came up laughing and kept going. Tāraki got the hang of it pretty quick and crowed when he made his first successful run. He collected high-fives as he paddled back out and Ren laughed and laughed.

Why are we revising this particular evening? A sorely needed moment of relief?

“Yes, but there's more to it than that. It was just like judo and drumming and everything else I tried after I quit trainer school. It was fun, kept my body active and my mind quiet—an element of competition, a sense of camaraderie. I caught myself thinking I could be happy like that. Sometimes I still think I could have been a lot of things. But deep down the fire still burns. And when I try to hold the lid down, the pressure only builds. And the flames eat all my oxygen.”

Not long after her first successful run, Ren retired to the beach and sprawled out on the sand to dry. She continued to watch Tāraki’s antics and the incredibly impressive surfing of the women who had been showing her the ropes.

Her nav buzzed, and she opened it to find a text from Wally.

Are you okay?

Ren had to think about that for longer than she would have liked.

Yeah What's up?

(´▽`ʃƪ) I was watching the news and the Champ got ambushed in Granite Cave?? You said you were gonna be there and I got worried (·᷄ὢ·᷅) Kinda silly But I had to check

Not that silly actually I was there when it happened

(*ﾟﾛﾟ)

Steven took care of the battle so I wasn't in the middle of it or anything But Akahana got injured by a wild

Oh no!! Is she okay?

Ren looked up, and her eyes fell on the Poochyena. She had dug herself a little divot in the sand and was curled neatly inside with Iki nestled snugly atop her. Ren had never seen her that close to any of her teammates before.

Yeah

Thank goodness! Give her a big Ursaring hug from me ʕっ•ᴥ•ʔっ

The ghost of a smile pulled at Ren’s lips, and the beach fire flared as the wood resettled.

Will do

Ren almost slipped her nav back in her pocket before it pinged again.

Swerve But Did you meet the Champ?

Yep! We talked for a while before everything happened

Awesome! You're so lucky omg Or maybe it’s not such a big deal for you Since your dad's a gym leader Haha |´∀｀●)

It was still cool Steven is really nice But not the first Champion I've met

(＊〇□〇)……！ Kaspa?

Yep

w(°ｏ°)w ᵒᵐᵍᵎᵎᵎ What’s she like??

Uh Scary

(ᗒᗜᗕ) lol I bet

But also really interesting She’s fond my dad because he’s a Sekei League Victor, and they get along well She wrote him a letter of recommendation when he applied for Gym Leader here She has always been nice to me

That is so hecking cool!! (◎0◎) I’m losing my mind!

Are you settling in okay? How are things?

I’m great! My cousin’s fiancé is really nice Not as awk as I was afraid it would be And Rosalie gave me TWO pokemon! She found a Togekiss to pair her Roserade and bred me a Budew with battle lineage! She has Giga Drain/Natural Gift/Life Dew/Extrasensory Right out of the shell!! She’s so feisty! I love her so much! (灬♥ω♥灬) Her name is ♥Beatrice♥

Cute!

Then Rosalie swapped some favors with another breeder to get me a therapy Leafeon! Her name is Daphne and she is a professional™️ I feel like she’ll probably give me an earful when the understanding sets in ꉂ(ᵔ̴̶̤᷄ꇴ ᵔ̴̶̤᷅⌯))л̵ʱªʱª⁎*.＊ I’ve kinda been running around a lot more than I should But between Daph and the air up here I can actually breathe?? Like I can just Go outside? Whenever I feel like it?? Is this how other people live all the time? Faris and I have been training almost non-stop I mean I’ve had a few _(´□`」 ∠)_ episodes obv Just me doing stupid stuff I was so caught up in the euphoria of being able to walk around That for like a minute I lived in a world where my lungs were functional

This was quite the shift from the day they met, when he could barely bring himself to reference his illness, and Ren felt warmth flush out the rest of her surprise.

Oh geez we’ve hit the memes Sorry for rambling (o_ _)o

Dude this is all so fucking amazing I’m so happy for you! Gush as much as you want

(◜◒◝)♡

Haha Where are you getting all of these? Your texting style is wild

I have an app! ー(´▽`)ﾉ Maybe you should get one The way you type out every word is pwecious

I don’t even know the Kantogo abbreviations that well I’m sorry to say you’ve befriended a troglodyte

Obv

You know, you’re a lot bolder via text

Lol that’s cuz I have WAY more practice I’ve never had an irl friend before Just internet pals

Maybe you can make more now I’ll introduce you to Kai sometime He could use more friends too

Aw thank you! Actually You’re gonna be in Mauville soon right?

End of next week

Maybe we can meet up? I was planning on getting my first badge

Nice! It’s a date

٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و

“Even when we barely knew each other, he always had a way of centering me. It’s easy for most people to tell me not to worry so much. They don’t understand the risks, not all of them, not really. But without ever telling me how to feel—or saying anything at all—Wally has always said that it’s worth it anyway.”

And do you believe that now?

“You think I would be here if I didn’t?”

I wouldn’t be so certain. But perhaps you might have been less angry with me when I asked you for help.

“…Can’t argue that.”

Ren picked her head up in time to see Tāraki wipe out again, but he came up smiling and paddled right back out. Brawly gave him a high five and then rode in himself on the next good breaker. Some of the others were getting tired enough to settle around the fire. Brawly stuck his board in the sand and plopped down beside Ren.

“So, ya have fun?”

“Yeah! Everyone was so nice.”

Brawly nodded. “They’re a good bunch. And you made quite a splash.”

Ren leaned back on her arms and shot a smirk at him. “Metaphorically, or when I fell off your board?”

He laughed breezily, sliding deeper into his careless slouch. “The former. Everyone was asking if you’d show tonight.”

Ren looked away for a moment, at her pokemon resting in the sand, at the others gathering around the fire. Maybe it was a kind exaggeration. But their enthusiasm had felt quite genuine. Not that she needed to sort out what kind of enthusiasm it was. She’d be gone by tomorrow.

Her eyes found Tāraki in the surf, and her smile returned.

“Thanks for inviting me. Tāraki won’t forget this anytime soon. I think you gave him a new hobby.”

“Never seen a surfing Grovyle before. Usually they can’t stand the salt water.”

“He’s from a tiny island to the south. He said he and the other Treecko used to play in the tide pools and gather seaweed.”

“Far out.”

They were an unusual group, this bunch of surfing pokemon and trainers. On the surface it was nothing like her father’s gym, but perhaps there was one parallel to be drawn. While martial arts were more traditional—in Johto and Kanto at least—the surfing certainly had something to contribute. Strength and balance for one. And thinking back on her battle, there was something in the pokemon’s movements that resonated: energy harnessed and redirected, push and pull.

“You really get it. Usually I have to lay it out for people.”

“Well, maybe there’s something else you can explain to me?”

“Like what?”

Ren eyes flicked back over to the rest of the group. “I notice there are a lot of women in your gym.”

Brawly leaned back with a casual stretch. “Yeah, we keep it pretty steady at three to one.”

“It’s very unusual.”

“I know right?” Suddenly, he was up at attention, and his wide eyes glinted in the firelight. “Most fighting-type gyms are like total sausage fests. But it so doesn’t have to be like that! It’s not like there aren’t tons of ladies out there who like fighting-types. It can just be way harsh to train in a fighting gym if you’re a woman. That’s why I try to keep it chill and welcoming here. Seems to work.”

Ren thought that over for a moment. “Are you sure it’s not cause you’re, ya’know, super good looking?”

That triggered another breezy laugh, and he slicked back the damp hair that fell into his eyes. “I guess some of the trainers that come in are crushing on me or each other.” He shrugged. “I mean, we’re all here to train, so I try to keep the gymcest to a minimum, but I’ve got nothing against the people who just want to feel it out.” He sat back again and thought about it for another moment, and Ren sat forward, crossing her legs and waiting for him to continue. “It’s like, it doesn’t matter why you start something. As long as you work hard and have fun, what’s it really matter?”

“Hm. That’s… really cool, dude. You run a great gym.”

His face broke into a broad, toothy grin. “Thanks! That means a lot.”

They let the silence hang for a while, until Tāraki finally came trudging up the beach, too exhausted to continue. Brawly took back his board, and after a good rinse from Panahi, Tāraki went into his ball.

“You ready to join the rest?” Brawly asked her, jerking his head towards the fire.

“Yeah,” she replied, and they went together.

“I wasn’t sure why, but what he said resonated then. I was able to let go again for a while—think about the short term instead of what would happen when it all caught up with me.”

You’re still not sure if that was a positive.

“You’ve seen what happened. Maybe it didn’t help to dwell on the past, but ignoring the future didn’t exactly serve me well in the end.”

Even if it is not always the case, perhaps it is what you needed in that moment. There is a balance, as in all things.

“Hm. Maybe I’ll find it some day.”

I think you’ll find that you become a better seeker with every misstep.

“That’s a nice way to look at it. And yet… I suppose it was too much to hope a god of cycles might see an end.”

Well, then as a god of cycles, let me assure you, that you do not run in circles as much as you think you do.

“That does bring me some comfort.”

[phoenixflames12]

Sea Salt

A/N: The final chapter of On Loving A Wounded Boy- on AO3 here. 

This story would not have been possible without the love and support of @hopefulfridays and @lacomandante both here and on AO3. They, and anyone else who’s read it, have my eternal gratitude.

Chapters 1-10 can be found on AO3 here

Miranda joins the Moreno-Sharpe and Harper families for an evening on the beach

The last lights of evening cast long, low shadows over the sea as they pull up in the twilit silence of the visitor’s carpark later that evening.

Richard had suggested an evening down on the beach, with a fire and a barbeque and the Kelly Kettle to make tea. The wind is light against Miranda’s upturned face, the tide just turning, the sun blazing over the sea.

The tussock grass that rises from the dunes is bent back against the force of the wind, the path a thin, shell strewn line that winds its’ way down onto the shore. Coils of bailer twine litter the path, shells and stones and bottle caps, bottles and cans from midnight drinkers kicked into the grass.

Harper picks up an old aerosol can and snarling unspoken displeasure earns a chuckle from Richard.

A flock of Dunlins take flight over the tide mark, rising together in a flurry of black barred wings, their silhouettes hanging in the vivid fire of the sky.

Miranda sees tangles of rope crowned with plastic bottles, washes of orange Polypheme net. As they clamber down on the shore, their shoes rubbing over shingle, she picks out seals’ vertebra, the bleached starkness of whale bone, a necklace of dry seaweed.

The sea air is sharp and sweet on her face, the wind blowing out a blustering of rain.

She exhales slowly, watching Ramona untangle little Patrick from her arms and letting him clamber the last few rocks down onto the softer sand.

Out in the inky darkness of the horizon she can just make out the distant rolls and peaks of coastline rising and falling as it sprawls out towards the west.

‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’

Teresa is at her shoulder, hugging herself into her coat, her nose tucked into her collar.

Her eyes are shining in the fading light, soft brown tendrils of hair caught with sparks of sunset framing her face.

Ben and Antonia’s shadows are just visible as they scout the dunes for firewood, a gale of laughter whispering back on the wind.

Sheltered under a dune, Richard and Harper set up the fire, laying out picnic blankets, finding rocks, a length of driftwood and an old blue fishing box for seats.

Little Patrick’s shrieks of laughter carry back from the shoreline, a tiny shadow clinging to Ramona’s guiding hands as they splash into the shallows.

‘Yes,’ Miranda replies, the word simple against her tongue, her mouth filled with salt-sharp sweetness. ‘It is. It’s beautiful.’

She’s about to say more when Ben appears at her shoulder. His hair is wild in the wind, his mouth filled with smiles.

The hand that takes her own is light, fingers running against her palm, pressing deep over her skin.

Behind him, she sees the first licks of flame leaping from the fire, Richard’s shadowed face half lit as he watches it burn.

‘Come on.’

Ben’s voice is soft in her ear and Miranda can’t help but smile as she accepts his hand, watching Teresa’s face soften as she watches them.

The tussock grass sags against their shoes as they climb the dune, Miranda’s fingers brushing against wind-bent flower-heads.

When she finds Richard’s botanical guide to plants back at Birchwood Cottage, their names will be a whispered lullaby against her lips, their lyrical alliteration dancing in her dreams.

Sea bindweed with its’ fuchsia pink flowers.

Lyme grass.

Sea sandwort.

Sand sedge.

She lets Ben lead her into a cleft between the higher dunes, the wind’s whistle rippling over their heads.

They tumble down together, their feet sliding, catching in the soft give of the sand, loosening old shafts of seaweed, disrupting showers of shingle.

His eyes are glimmering in the darkness, the last lights of the sun burning in his pupils.

He comes to her wordlessly, his hands soft and giving in the all-knowing dark.

Her mouth feels dry with an unknown desire, her lips aching for his and he gives them gladly, his hands slowly reaching into her hair. She feels the nip of a fingernail against her scalp, his fingers teasing her hair from the bun that she had tied with such numbness that morning.

His mouth is hot and dry and sweet all at once when she breathes in his scent. Loses herself in the dexterity of his artist hands, the hands that have swapped rifles for pencils, the hands that still harbour secrets which he cannot yet name.

‘Miranda.’

Her name is a husky breath in his mouth, his lips searching, finding, holding her own.

‘Oh, God, Miranda.’

She buries her head into his chest in answer, her hands spanning the width of his shoulder blades. Her lips are caught against his skin, her tongue grazing against sinew and tendon.

Around them the gulls continue to call, the waves slowly pulling back over the shingle, a babble of laughter pulled back on the wind. The sky is slowly darkening, a few stars pricking their light against the clouds.

With tangled limbs, they sink slowly towards the earth.

Somehow, they have shed their coats, now lying in a tangled heap amongst the flattened tussock grass.

His movements are slow, his fingers fumbling slightly against the buttons of her blouse and for a moment she wants to let him. Wants to forget the last time that a man had put taken his hands to her, had caught her top and fondled her breasts, his breath hot in her ear.

This is different.

This- This is Ben.

He’d never- He would never-

But in some dark recess of her mind, his hands are her Grandfather’s hands, his breath her Grandfather’s breath deep in the shadows of the kitchen, the darkness suddenly stifling, and she can’t breathe-

‘No. Benito. Please, please don’t-‘

The words are bitten against her tongue, caught between her teeth.

Instinctively, her hand reaches to push his away, squeezing his fingers until she hears a sharp intake of breath.

‘What- What is it?’

In the shadowed darkness she cannot see the way that realisation crashes against his face like a wave tumbling over the shoreline.

Can only feel his hands wrench themselves out of hers, his breathing suddenly sharp.

‘God- Miranda- I- I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, mi querida. I didn’t- I didn’t think-‘

His voice breaks on the words and she shakes her head mutely, realising too late that he cannot see her.

She feels him draw his hands away until they are quite apart, staring at each other through the darkness.

‘I don’t think I’m ready for it yet.’

The words are spoken to her knees as Miranda pulls them up under her chin, hugging herself.

She feels rather than sees his nod.

All right.

It’s all right.

I understand.

Feels the warmth of his weight tentatively return, his hand resting lightly against her knee, the press of a long, lean body against her own.

‘Lo siento,’ she whispers, the words broken in the quiet.

‘No. Fue mi culpa. No te arrepientas nunca,’ he replies just as softly and her heart breaks at the sound of her childhood language sweet on his tongue.

He pulls his other arm around her shoulder and she leans into his touch, the jut of his chin nestled deep in her hair.

Wrapped in a bed of coats and tussock grass, she watches the last vestiges of light play against the inky line of the horizon, the flames from the bonfire licking the sky.

Watches Richard and Teresa’s shadows draw closer over the fire, sees Antonia stand to wave to them, her hair glowing fire-bright in the flames.

Sees Harper take little Patrick from Ramona’s arms, a whispered conversation that she can’t hear passing between them.

‘We should join them,’ she murmurs.

‘Only if you want to be pulled into any ridiculous last-minute job that Dad and Harper can dream up,’ Ben replies drily. ‘Stay here a little longer, love. They’ll call us when they’re ready.’

                                                    ~*~

The fire is burning down to its’ embers and the grill assembled by the time they clamber out of their dune and join the rest of the party.

‘Come to join us, you two?’

Richard grins from over the fire, his face shadowed against the flames as they slip onto the one of bleached pieces of driftwood that Harper has found for a seat.

Miranda pushes close to Ramona, leaning over her shoulder to see little Patrick fast asleep in her lap.

‘He wouldn’t go back to the car, but he’s exhausted. Pobre cosita,’ Ramona murmurs over the sleeping head, her face soft with smiles.

Miranda nods, glancing up as Harper comes to join them, squatting on his haunches and resting a hand on his wife’s shoulder, his lips pressing deep into her curls. His smile to Miranda is softly tender, making her think of the quiet congratulations underneath the birch trees in the Cathedral grounds once Ben and Antonia had been pulled away.

‘How’s the little one?’

Ramona’s smile is soft as she looks down at their sleeping son and back up into her husband’s face.

‘Exhausted. It’s been too exciting for him today, I think.’

A smile quivers against Harper’s lips as he reaches over to ruffle the crop of dark curls, a finger lingering over the line of his son’s cheek.

Watching him, Miranda remembers Juan as a baby.

Remembers how his barely-there baby eyes had slowly darkened into the colour of river pebbles, sharply watching everything under a water slick of dark hair.  

Remembers her Father holding him in the kitchen when her Mother had been allowed home from the hospital with an almost reverent sense of wonder.

Remembers how his arms had trembled as he had taken in the squalling bundle that had been Juan, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Remembers watching them kicking a ball together in the garden when Juan was older, their Father cheering as Juan scored goal after goal.

Remembers Juan’s sharp eyes, noticing everything around him with a softly questioning gaze that was only for their Father.

Even at the age of six, Juan had been the only one who was able to cool their Father and Grandfather’s rages with laconically, smooth smiles. The only one out of all of them who spoke with his head before his heart, listening until he could swerve the conversation back onto safer ground.

He’d just had his sixth birthday when she’d left, too young to really understand why she had been forced to leave.

With a pang that feels like homesickness, she hopes that her little brother is safe and loved, wherever he is.

Wordlessly she reaches for Ben and he draws her closer as she tucks her head into his chest, the rise of chest a comfort against the pull of the waves on the shore.

‘I can take him back to the car if you like, Ramona?’

Little Patrick blinks at Harper’s question, slowly uncurling himself out of Ramona’s lap.

Miranda cannot help but smile at the sight of his little hand reaching blearily for his Father, eyes widening at the sight of the fire.

‘Da-‘

‘Come back to the land of the living, have ye ceann beag?’

Harper chuckles, taking the searching hand and giving it a soft squeeze.

Ramona nods, sitting back as she admires her boys.  

‘Right my lad, it’s time for your bedtime I think. D’ye want to be a big boy and walk or shall you be carried?’

A stubborn shake of the feather-dark head at the idea of being carried earns a collective chuckle as Harper nods gravely before turning to the others, his face cast in shadows from the flames.

Richard looks up from the grill and Teresa pauses turning over the red pepper halves that are about to burn to listen, Antonia pausing midway through pouring another drink.

Miranda feels the warm weight of Ben’s arm slip around her waist, his head resting on her shoulder.

‘I have been selected to accompany the young and very gallant little Patrick on a quest to the car.’

Harper’s voice startles a late flock of sand pipers in a flurry of shadowed wings. The birds weave in and out and around each other, their calls stark against the sounds of the sea.

‘We can save a sausage for you if you’d like, Patrick?’

The question is soft from Teresa and little Patrick nods excitedly, all appearances of exhaustion suddenly vanishing as he tugs at his Father’s hand.  

Miranda watches them go, leaning back against Ben’s chest.

‘You all right?’

Ben’s voice is a murmur, his nose buried in her shoulder and she nods; sipping her drink.

‘Are you?’

His reply is caught in the weight of his fingers losing themselves in her hair.

‘Never better.’

Overhead a cloud passes, the first glimmers of starlight just visible.

A hissing tail of sparking embers flies into the night as Richard shifts them with a stick, their brightness caught against a deeply indigo sky.

‘Almost there,’ she hears him say to no one in particular, shifting the charred red pepper halves to one side and flicking sausages into the centre of the flames.

With a murmur to her Father, Antonia finds plates and cutlery from one of the picnic bags nestled behind the fire, her hair a mane of burnished gold as it catches the flames.

Out in the open water the great breakers continue to barge down to them, their white horses just visible in the dark.

A guttering orange light winks and glimmers on the horizon, belonging, Miranda imagines, to a fishing boat, its’ hull sharp with salt and expectation as it rides out the night on the waves.

And then a crash of returning footsteps disturbs the quiet and Harper’s shadow shutters the fire, his feet falling over shell and stone and seaweed, rubbing his hands at the thought of food.

‘All tucked up and quiet,’ Miranda hears him murmur to Ramona in answer to an unasked question.

Ramona is about to reply when Richard’s exclamation that the food is ready cuts through the chatter.

Plates are passed over the glowing embers, drinks are refilled, and Miranda leans back against Ben’s chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heart.

The fingers of his free hand are sticky with grease as they tangle themselves in her hair, his breath smelling of salt and sausage and charcoal.

‘Are you happy, mi querida?’

The question is simple and sincere and for a moment she looks at him, his face caught against the firelight, contemplating her answer.

His eyes are shining, the shadows that have clung to them for so long slowly beginning to fade.

There are ghosts there still, ghosts that she has not found a way to banish, but the time to face them will come.

Turning back to the firelight, she sighs, half listening to Richard telling a joke that she hadn’t heard the beginning of, catching a wink from Teresa.

Sees Antonia get up from her place and weave around the fire, her curls glowing in the firelight.

Feels the warm weight of the younger girl’s hand slipping into hers and squeezing lightly.

She smells of smoke and sea salt, her dimples creasing as she settles herself.

‘You OK, ‘randa? How does freedom feel?’

Miranda nods wordlessly, pulling herself away from Ben.

‘Good,’ she replies simply.

‘I’ll have to come and visit you now that I’ve got more time. You can give me that secret grand tour of London that you’ve been promising!’

Playfully, she jabs Antonia in the ribs, making her squeal and look appealing at Ben, who nods sagely in agreement, eyebrows quirked.

‘You did promise, ‘tonia,’ he murmurs, taking a swig of his beer.

The younger girl rolls her eyes in an expression that reminds Miranda acutely of Mathilde when she was turning thirteen and discovering the strange world of teenage rebellion.

‘But I’ll have to come and visit you! Get away from London! See all of Ben’s artworks!’

‘The ones that I’ll let you see, hermanita. You’re not going through my sketch books! Hey!’

Ben breaks off, dodging Antonia throwing something that Miranda can’t make out in the dark.

‘Ugh, fine.  I’ll make sure that you two gets first dibs on visiting when I move into my new flat, after Mum and Dada.’

The exasperation in her voice makes Miranda chuckle.

‘Naturally,’ Ben replies with a sardonically charming smile.

‘Muchos gracias, querida,’ Miranda murmurs, pulling Antonia closer and tucking her chin into her shoulder, her other arm reaching for Ben.

He gives it gladly, pressing his nose into the pit of her shoulder blade; unseen kisses lost through the fabric of her coat.

She takes his face in her hands, her thumbs pressing against the rise of his cheekbones, stroking out the skin.

He reaches with his free hand to rest it against her own. Turns it up so that his thumb rests lightly over the pulse point on her wrist.

For a long moment, they stay there, listening to the rush of the waves on the shoreline, the steady thrum of their united pulse.

‘Thank you,’ she whispers finally.

The words sound impossibly loud in the quiet, dancing over the whistle of the Kelly Kettle, the hiss of flying sparks as Harper stokes the dying embers.

‘What for?’

Ben’s eyes are dancing as he accepts two steaming mugs from Teresa with a grin, passing one over.

The warmth of the tea seeps into Miranda’s palms, curling up around her fingers, diving deep into her thumbs.

‘For-‘

She pauses, running the words over in Spanish in her head and then back into English.

Por creer en mi.

Por darme una segunda oportunidad.

‘For believing in me,’ she says simply.

He chuckles softly at that, the sound rich and deep in the base of his throat.

‘I suppose I could say the same about you,’ he replies, appraising her with soft eyes. ‘I hope I haven’t given you cause to regret it, mi querida.’

She takes a sip of her tea and shakes her head, turning from the fire to look down the dark shore towards the sea.

The little fishing boat out on the horizon has vanished, but she can just imagine its’ light flickering in the darkness as it plunges and rises through the waves; a lifeline for battered souls.

Ben follows her gaze, his hand draped over her shoulder.

‘What’re you looking for?’

It is a smiling question that is soft in the quiet, whispered in a breath against her ear.

‘The fishing boat I saw earlier,’ she replies, still scanning the horizon. ‘I thought it might be giving a lifeline for anyone who’s out there.’

‘Probably,’ he reflects, gulping down the tea from his own mug.

She answers him with a kiss, laying her half-drunk mug aside and taking his face in her hands.

His lips are soft and giving, the skin over his cheekbones taut under her touch.

Her fingers lose themselves in his curls, as his lips reply, smiling behind the kiss.

‘Mi querido niño,’ she murmurs and he chuckles, the sound a breath against her mouth.

Around them the waves continue to break against the shoreline, the stars a glittering blanket against the sky and she realises that she’s home.

She’s home and home is here on this beach with the song of the sea in her ears, the rustle of the Lyme grass on the dunes.

Home is Richard, Teresa and Antonia with cream on the tip of her nose as they eat raspberries that were picked from the fruit cage that afternoon.

Home is Harper and Ramona toasting the night in Irish Gaelic and Spanish, their laughter ringing across the sand.

And home is Ben.

Home is her wounded boy who is trying so hard to mend himself.

Trying to knit together shattered memories and a fractured soul that is courageously shining despite everything the world has thrown at him.

Leaning into his weight, watching the moon slowly slip out from a cloud and bathe the sea in a shimmer of silver light, she realises that she does not want to ask for more.

                                                           ~*~

                                                           Fin

[thecatwhogrins]

Brought Back (Part 2) Obiyukiweek19 (Day 3: Gluttony)

Part two of the Necromancer AU :)

Warning! Mentions of abuse and death.

Obi sat on his bad with a sigh, a glass of whatever alcohol he had found in his cabinet and wiped a hand over his face, trying to dispel the last remnants of sleeps from his mind.

Instead, when he closed his eyes, he remembered Shirayuki.

He remembered her wide eyes full of fear but also curiosity. When she had softly touched him, he had shivered. Hard. It had been so long since he had felt the touch of someone who was alive and breathing. He decided he would keep that feeling like a token to remember that the real world existed, that beyond the calls of the dead and the pain of the living and the bruises caused by human hands, there also existed good people.

His phone rang, pulling him out of his reverie. He answered, his voice slightly muffled, the pain in his jaw too painful to ignore. As soon as he heard who was on the other side, his day went from bad to worse.

*

Shirayuki ended her shift, sighing heavily as she took off her equipment, snapping her gloves off. Despite the several coffees she had downed during the day, her whole body still felt heavy with weariness. Yuzuri and Shirayuki were mortuary assistants, they worked with the coroners or medical examiners. It wasn’t an easy job, but she did it well and the pay wasn’t bad.

The body they had just examined was part of an unusually violent homicide case. She wasn’t sure about the details yet, but it seemed to be part of something larger. Yuzuri was worried they might have a serial killer on the loose. Garack, while not voicing it out loud, seemed to think the same. This wasn’t uncommon in a big city like Tokyo, but the thought of it sent shivers down Shirayuki’s back. Suddenly last night’s encounter seemed even less safe.

Her mind wandered off to Obi, wondering if he managed to get back to his apartment without encountering the other man. Yuzuri would probably have a field day admonishing her about the dangers she could have been exposed to once she’d hear about the encounter.

“I’ll be right back, going catch us some lunch. What do you want?” asked Yuzuri, smiling as she headed out the door of the break room. The break room was near the morgue itself, but other staff members of the hospital used it as well. Doctors and nurses were milling around, drinking coffee and eating lunch.

“Just the usual, please. Thank you, Yuzuri,” Shirayuki smiled at her friend.

“Gotchu!” she winked and left.

Shirayuki looked down at her paperwork, absorbed by what she was seeing. The corpse she had just helped examine belonged to a female, probably in her twenties and had had its hands cut off and the face had also been badly mutilated, probably to avoid identification. The strangest detail of this homicide was the fact that the rest of the body had been treated with utmost care, almost reverentially. This was important, as the other bodies concerned in the investigation had also been in the same state. What were they dealing with?

Shirayuki’s mind was reeling when suddenly she noticed someone walking in the hallway.

It was Obi.

His face didn’t look much better compared to yesterday, purple and yellow blotches blooming all over like dark flowers. His gait still indicated that he was in pain and his hair wasn’t brushed. His eyes held a wild determined look as he strode forward. Shirayuki found herself standing up unwillingly as she followed him. He was heading… straight towards the morgue.

No one was there at this hour. She followed from a distance, cautious.

Why was he here?

*

Obi entered the morgue, hoping no one had seen him. He locked the door, as he wasn’t in the mood for interruptions. What he was about to do was risky and demanded his full attention. Fortunately, this was not his first rodeo.

He searched the tags, looking for the name, Shizuka Atsushi. Having found it, he carefully pulled the metallic stretcher out, revealing the corpse. Obi swallowed heavily, closed his eyes and started invoking. His whole body ached with the effort as the voices screamed in his ears.

The corpse trembled, fingers twitching slightly, as though a newfound breath of life had entered it. But it was unnatural life, a factice, twisted version that crawled throughout the long-dead corpse. The body started sitting up, jerkily, like an obscene puppet being pulled up by its strings. The other voices quieted down and the only one that Obi could now hear was loud and clear and it said:

“Oh my God!”

Obi looked up, startled, as the woman from last night, Shirayuki, stood by the door, mouth agape in horror.

His fragile concentration snapped like a twig and he lost control, the corpse started jerking, the spirit inside trying to break free. Obi brought his eyes back to the corpse, trying to regain control, but he could see the redhead ready to bolt.

He dropped everything and ran to stop her from alerting the whole building. His hip crashed into the side of the stretcher, cursing and in pain, he managed to grab her wrist. Before he could open his mouth, she crouched, used his weight against him and flipped him over her shoulder. He landed on the cold linoleum floor, wheezing, air knocked out of him.

The silence was resounding in the small room as Obi tried to regain his breath and Shirayuki her composure. She turned around once more to alert someone, but he finally managed to talk.

“I swear I wasn’t doing whatever you think I was doing,” he managed to wheeze.

“So, you’re telling you were not about to steal the corpse? I don’t see any other reason why you’d be here. Unless…” A true look of disgust and horror manifested on her face and Obi wished he could die. Telling the truth seemed almost worse than whatever she was imagining.

As he was about to try explaining himself, the corpse started moving again and Shirayuki let out a string of profanities so long, Obi would have laughed in other circumstances. It started to try getting off the stretcher, its stiff limbs and handless arms shambling with dull thuds.

Obi scrambled off the floor and asked a petrified Shirayuki to hold still while he released the spirit. She probably hadn’t even heard him as her whole body was frozen in shock. When she had entered the room and seen the body move, she had thought it had been Obi trying to prop it up. But, clearly, this wasn’t the case anymore. Her mind was reeling, trying to understand and make sense of what she was seeing but she couldn’t.

The corpse stopped jerking and settled back down. Obi heaved a sigh and looked at Shirayuki who still stood frozen. He tentatively touched her shoulder, as he was afraid she’d throw him over shoulder again. Instead, she flinched and cowered from his touch. He couldn’t blame her.

“Did that corpse just…” she couldn’t make herself say the words that were on the tip of her tongue.

Obi was at a loss. Even if he told her the truth, she’d never accept it. This went beyond what the human mind could comprehend. Some days, even he had a hard time understanding his powers.

His curse.

He cursed mentally at himself, at how careless he had been. She was probably going to call the police, and this meant he wouldn’t be able to get the information he needed. Which meant he wouldn’t get payed. Which meant no booze.

Shirayuki was staring at him again, the same expression she had last night was once again on her face, a mix of fear and curiosity.

“You’d better explain this,” she said, almost too calmly.

“You wouldn’t believe me even if I did,” he whispered.

“Try me.”

*

The first time Obi brought a corpse back to life, he had been seven years old. He was playing in the backyard where nothing grew, except for a few weeds and was kicking around rocks, singing to himself the theme of Kamen Raider to cover the sounds of fighting back at the house. The new foster parents were much like the ones before, using him to get perks from the government. He had learned that adults were like insatiable pigs, always searching for more and always taking. He was nursing his sore cheek, and the other bruises were sure to show up soon.

In the dirt, a white pebble stuck out, like a growing plant. Obi kneeled by it, observing the strange protuberance. It was a gloomy day, the sun was hidden and the wind was patrolling the city. On the street, a dog barked, and Obi suddenly wished he had a companion with him to play with.

The wind whistled, then roared. At Obi’s feet, the white pebble started moving on its own, and what he once thought was a pebble turned out to be a bone. Other bones joined, clattering, in a mound at Obi’s feet until there sat a pile of them. The started to form themselves into a small form, like a mouse or a gerbil. The small creature had probably died there and decomposed a while ago, the bones were bleached white, no muscle or meat in sight. The revenant clattered and rattled, threatening to dissolve if it moved too much.

Obi marveled at this but a sense of fear also grew in the pit of his stomach. He wasn’t allowed to have a pet in the house, what would he do with his new friend?

He snapped back to reality when a rough hand slapped the back of his head.

“What are you doing here, boy?” the voice was harsh, the smell of alcohol harsher.

Whatever the man was about to say was swallowed by a terrified scream of horror and a string of profanities .

The mouse became a pile of bones once more.

Obi didn’t see the sun for three days.

The day he summoned a spirit for the first time was also the first time he learned he was a monster.

[wanderlust-and-road-dust]

Prompt #21: Hardscrabble.

Heads up, murder below. Not particularly graphic or anything, but it’s there.

 The quiet grating of boots treading across pea gravel seemed to whisper profane secrets to the lone figure ghosting south. The silent specter paid no nevermind to the message in the static, their mind was on other things. Murder by lantern light, intimate proximity to a dying man yet living. Long strides over parched land, the moans of its thirst echoed in the wind sighing through the sagebrush. 

 The land didn’t care what liquid slaked its thirst and as such was no stranger to the hardscrabble life of those living on the edge. Of law, of life, of society. It was a hard place for hard people and as such it drew the malcontents of life to its bosom, nurturing them with blood and whiskey. Sometimes the blood and whiskey was mixed, a serpent suspended evermore in the amber liquid. A macabre drink for cynical people who drank to live all the while death was present in the very essence of what they drank.

 Cactus needles rattled and crunched under the heavy tread of a heedless foot, head tucked against the wind, ears deaf to death fast on his heels. Death was an old friend, a dance partner to every last sun bleached soul that made their livelihood under this cinema scope vault of sky. It dulled the anxiety that rode alongside you, tamed it into something more a vague recollection. When it grew too dull, that was when death had a habit of striking. Testing you, seeing if other things had grown dull with disuse. Reflexes clogged with the fine powder of pulverized sand, slowing you down, weighing you down. A coffins weight strapped across your back, an hourglass slowly filling up telling you buy the back breaking weight that your time was up. Borrowed time soon to be paid back with interest.

 Like this fool, Jack Dempsey. Hit a ceruleum convoy, spirited off the volatile substance to some unknown bolthole. Probably intended to turn a profit by selling it to a shady individual not wanting to pay into the coffers of  Amajina & Sons Mineral Concern. The russet figure clad in shades of sunset couldn’t say they blamed anyone thinking such thoughts. Bastards had once upon a moon sold to the Garleans so any bad luck that happened their way was just deserts. Still a convoy was hit, souls were fed to the thirsty land, the tithe of blood greedily accepted. A life for a life, the land cared not whose, innocence or guilt mattered not. The ceruleum would attract bombs eventually and that would impact the whole area more so than just a missing shipment.

 Lives were cheap and not the cause for the bounty. Just some volatile rock processed and used to make ships fly. Funny how a rock could make a ship fly, escape the bonds of the sea and take to the heavens. But without it would just come crashing back down the the earth it had forsook. Pure poetry that. Just like fate fast following the fugitive fleeing a fearsome finale, funny.

 A furious sound like a fumarole going off was a startling contrast to the soft sighing of plainsong dancing lightly over the midnight wasteland. F’nor had no compunction about shooting a man in the back. Life was hard and only fools made it harder than it needed to be. Honor? She didn’t need it, a restrictive construct that got people killed. She fully intended to not be one of the countless untallied  dead heaped into a dry gulch to feed the carrion birds and coyotes of Thanalan. No sun whitened bones as an empty testament to fate turned fickle and fae. No sir, not her.

 The grisly sound of heavy knife biting through flesh was just a common undertone to the melody of life here in the desert. Whistle of steel, grunt of exertion, sand sifting softly along the serpentine soil, grating of steel on bone. The pop and crunch of gristle crackling and a dark chuckle of grim satisfaction. Life was bought with death here, especially those hanging around the bottom rung. Fingers only just barely grasping the corroded iron of life.

 The young bounty hunter turned into the wind and tugged a dust rag over her face. Decapitated head grasped by lank greasy hair, she headed off silently to collect her pay. Someone else could do the hard work of finding where the ceruleum had been stashed. The price of a bottle of whiskey, sidewinder coiled in the potent liquor, a bullet and a night of watching a wanted man drink his way to the bottom of a bottle hadn’t been that steep for the pay. Not a bad way to land a big fish.

 Beneath the dust rag a smile blossomed in the hardscrabble desert. This was a life she could grow used too.

[deathbyvalentine]

Magic For Wolves

The first thing I did was bury the bones. Bones could be more effective than a fence, if you knew where to put them. So I took my ruler and measured six inches into the soil and dug there, small graves perfectly suited to the bones that would rest there. They encircled the house, only the overturned soil hinting where they lay. It was only afterwards it occurred to me that the circle looked like a target, the house sitting at the bullseye. I doubt it would have stopped me if I’d realised during. We were always targets, visible or not.

*

He was washing the dishes when I came back inside, tutting when I thrust my hands under the tap to get the thick dirt off my palms, splattering the dishes. He tutted but didn’t complain which was my brother’s personality in a nutshell. He quite enjoyed being long suffering, I suspected, and I gave him plenty of opportunities to be so. Or so he said. I was never aware of my being difficult until long after, usually when I had overheard some whispers from the in between the landing banisters. There had been less of that recently, due to him having nobody to complain to. I preferred it just the two of us personally. There was less chatter, less noise, less pointless static filling up the air and cluttering up my head. Sometimes we could go long days without talking, just sighing and tutting instead. It was like his own language. Mine was made up of chirps and clicks, copied from the birds in the thorny brush outside. He understood it anyway, I think.

The reason we were alone now is because I didn’t bury the bones last month and Saffy got got. Even though I liked it better now, I had liked her fine. She was tall and wore dresses that had been bleached paler by the sun. She laughed constantly which made my brother smile which made me okay. The morning after she hadn’t come home, I had found a pale yellow scrap down by the river, caught in the breeze. I knew it was from her favourite Sunday dress so knew she was gone. I gave it to Robert and he’s using it as a bookmark nowadays. 

I told him I was going to bury the bones today and he had nodded with those great brown eyes of his. His eyes reminded me of mud and the woods and the dark fur I only managed to see in flashes. Robert wasn’t a wild thing but I sometimes wondered if he was one when he was my age. I couldn’t imagine him as anything but what he was now, but he must have been smaller once. I wonder if he knew what I knew - about the bones and about the tree carvings, about the words you should say for luck and the rivers you should never cross at night. These weren’t the sort of things you learnt. They came to you, little flashes like silver fish. The kids from the village called me a witch but it was just common sense. The world around you talked and you had to listen and at the very least talk back. 

I had been smaller than I was when I realised how important it was. I had fallen asleep with the window open, even though it was winter. I had woken up shivering, the cold moonlight that had fallen through the window chilled me to the bone. I had gotten up, bare feet on the wooden floorboards. I padded over to the window. Things were different at night. All the grass and hills and trees were not the same ones anymore. They were dark or silver, some of them had faces and some of them weren’t there at all. The village was only just visible, nestled at the end of the long road. And the wind whispered, coming from far away. I almost fell asleep on my feet looking out because it wasn’t all scary. It was beautiful too. I could hear the river and the leaves moving and something underneath it all, something like the earth humming.

My eyes were just closing and I was swaying a bit on my feet when I saw it. Standing below, it’s eyes empty and silver. It didn’t move and neither did I. I think I held my breath. I knew it could hear everything. It could hear my heart and my eyes when they blinked and if I breathed it could hear that too. We looked at each other. We looked and we looked. Then there was a noise from deep in the valley and off it sprinted, quicker than quick.

In the morning, mother said I must have dreamed it, that the moon was hidden behind clouds last night to begin with and besides, who would be wandering around at that hour?

Well she died three weeks later, so what did she know?

*

The fence did its job admirably but I was running out of bones. You couldn’t use the same ones twice and though sticks with runes did an okay job, they weren’t nearly as powerful. So I asked Robert for money and went into the village. 

Usually we looked after ourselves. We had chickens and vegetable beds, but Robert said we weren’t to kill anymore chickens until next year and anyway, we needed things we couldn’t make. Things like soap and candles and matches. He said I could spend whatever was left after the list was bought, as long as I didn’t tell him what I bought. This worked for me. Things being secret made the magic more potent. 

I didn’t step on a single crack on main street but that meant I was looking at my feet which meant I walked straight into someone. They were putting up posters on the telephone poles that dotted the street. Nearly every single one was covered, not just by this newest poster, but by ten or so similar ones that had gone before. All with faces rendered in black and white, all missing. I knew were they were but Robert had told me that if I said so, it would just upset the people of the village.

The people of the village loved Robert. They said his red hair was lucky and with his temperament and our house any girl would be lucky to have him. Everyone thought he was going to marry Saffy so now she was gone, they were jostling for attention again. Sometimes we woke up to baskets on our doorstep, filled with jam or bread or flowers or love notes. I hated that - it meant I had to go and check all the way around the circle to make sure they hadn’t kicked up any dirt or disturbed the bones. It was stuff like this that made the village people go missing. No respect, no common sense. They didn’t even notice the world around them if it wasn’t written on a newspaper or banker’s letter. I didn’t mind the jam though, that could stay.

When I got home, I gave Robert his bag of boring things then took my bag of exciting things to my room. I had bought; one steak, a deck of playing cards, a new pen and a whistle. I had also found on the walk home a handful of blackberries, a dead cricket and several interestingly shaped stones. The stones went onto my collection shelf and the blackberries went into a bowl to be crushed later. Blackberry juice could be used to dye fabric or wood, staining it a deep rich purple. You could always tell when someone had been eating blackberries. It stained skin too, fingertips and lips especially. It wouldn’t wash away, not for a while, not even with soap.

When that was done, I went outside and tucked the steak underneath the elderberry bush. The sun was starting to be drawn out the sky, like poison from a wound, leaving only stars behind. I appreciated it for a moment, the lazy buzzing of sun drunk insects, then headed back inside. I barred every door and latched every window. That was the sort of thing you forgot to do precisely once.

*

I didn’t sleep well. Dreams plagued me and made me walk while still asleep in my bed, my arms and legs aching when I woke up. I inspected myself in the bathroom mirror after stirring myself. An anxiety overtook me whenever I could not sleep, caused by remembering how much she tossed and turned before she simply disappeared completely, as quick as a spell. I looked at my reflection for signs of her illness. But there was no feverish flush high on my cheeks, no white spots on my tongue. When I sneezed, no blood painted the handkerchief. Cheered by this, I rescued Hazel from under my bed and carried her downstairs.

There was a stranger in the kitchen with Robert. My eyes flickered to the back kitchen door, but it had been rebolted with no sign of forced entry or scratches. Robert was smiling, which both reassured and scared me all at the same time. The stranger was a man with blonde hair and grey eyes and grass stains on the knees of his pale suit. His fingers were resting against Robert’s wrist when I entered, like he was taking a pulse but he moved as soon as he saw me. I stood in the doorway, Hazel squirming in my arms until I dropped her. She padded across to her empty food bowl and looked at me balefully but she would have to wait.

The silence lasted longer than anything ever had, but it was Robert who spoke first. Apparently this man was a police man, checking up on the village and us, to see if we knew anything more about the missing people or if anyone had threatened us. Nobody had, not in a long time, so I wasn’t sure what he was still doing here and I said so. He laughed, though it sounded like a laugh on the radio and picked up his hat, sliding over a card to Robert and telling him to call if he needed anyone to talk to. Which was a stupid thing to say because Robert had me. I watched him leave, still standing in the doorway. Robert got up and began fussing over breakfast plates and bowls and not looking at me. A great and terrible passion rose in my chest (that’s what my father called it, a passion) and I got so angry I pushed the milk jug off the table so it shattered on the stone floor into a thousand shards, maybe more. Robert stared at me. 

“Ellen, what was that for? You know we don’t have another.”

“That was for Saffy.” It wasn’t but I wanted to see him flinch, and he did, his eyes going big and hurt. “Since you’ve forgot.”

“No I haven’t. I’m... I’m allowed to have friends.”

“I’m your friend!” I bared my teeth. “You know what happens to our other friends.”

“I...” He trailed off because he knew I was right. Triumphant, I snatched a piece of toast from the pile and went back upstairs.

*

I stayed awake until it was pitch black and the moon rose over the horizon. I wasn’t meant to, but sometimes it was okay to look. Sometimes. I peeked over the window ledge and they were standing there, like I knew they would be. More of them than the first time, the wind catching their hair and fur, even though I couldn’t see the grass moving with it. 

I felt a tug in my chest that I thought maybe was sadness when I saw the state of Saffy’s dress. She used to like to stay so neat, ironing it until it had no creases and brushing it free of Hazel’s fur. Now it was torn and ragged and dirty and even if it hadn’t of been, it would have looked all wrong on her because she looked all wrong. She looked like her skeleton was wrong for the body it was in and her eyes didn’t see me anymore. They all faced the house, their shadows being cast across the hills.

I wonder if Robert looked too sometimes, or if he felt too guilty about it all. Or maybe he thought I was the cursed one. Either way, he would fret. I came away from the window and crept into bed, falling into a sound sleep. Tomorrow, I would go to the pond and collect frogs. I would sleep well.

[star-veil]

Desert Creature

By Nellie Evergreen, an original piece

Content warnings: Body horror, vague but descriptive violence in the form of murder, self-hatred/vanity

-

The flat expanse seems to stretch on for miles and miles, not a single dune or ruin to be seen as far as the horizon will allow me to. One gloved hand shades the sun from the hollow pits of my eye-holes, preventing the light from glancing off of bleached cheekbones and into my sensitive lenses. I can feel, as sure as the sun burning lasers into my faded raincoat, the hopeful watch of my friends, hoping for any good news on our path.

I turn and shake my head- telling them there are no structures in sight. They are quiet, and I am thankful I can’t see their dismayed expressions. Just dark eye-holes and the whistle of wind picking up sand and pelting it at our bodies.

“Then let’s keep going,” Nadia says out of the quiet, stepping to the front to lead the way down the hill. “That just means we’ve got a long walk ahead, so let’s start now.” Everyone follows suit, shuffling over the peak of the dune and down, down, down onto the flat.

We travel quietly and nobody speaks. There is the crinkle of coats crusted in sand, the wind and the crunch of soft dust underfoot, and sometimes gentle breaths of friends who need an extra gulp of air. It is hot. I don’t blame them.

Just ahead of me are Snap and Button, holding hands gently. I admire their affection, and I smile. They have each other. It’s rather darling. They were together when Nadia found them, frail and dying under the feeble tarp of a tent. They are together now, happier and safer in the group. Snap pulls away for a second to stretch his fingers. The tough leather of his gloves crack and crease before he grasps Button’s hand again. I can feel her happiness. I wonder how Snap ever fell in love with her; how one could fall in love with a bony mask and a hidden body. Maybe they knew each other before.

Snap caressing Button’s golden locks, her hands running down his tanned chest.

We keep walking.

The sun is moving down toward the horizon. Another hour? Two? I pull my hood down further to block out the light. I look down at my boots, which had split at the toe. I curse myself for letting that happen.

“Ah!” We all perk up, eyes front and scanning for what had caused the exclamation. “There!” It’s Crook, waving their arm like a flag. “Ahaha!” They made breathy noises like a lost ewe. “Look!”

We notice, and a collective sigh of relief releases from our lungs. In the distance, just at the edge of what could have been possible to walk for the night, is a frail but standing building beckoning us in with promises of safety and a good night’s rest.

-

The house is stable and for that we are thankful. We decide to stay for the night, and I split off to step into the bathroom while nobody is looking.

It’s nothing much. The toilet hasn’t been serviced in a long while. There’s a dank pit in the ground where the bathtub should be. Instead of a sink, there’s a bowl of packed dirt with some seedlings sprouting out. They won’t fare well without sunlight.

I’m chewing on my lip as I scan the room, and settle on the mirror. Shattered, only jagged fragments hanging on at the edges- sharp enough to slice skin. I draw blood with my teeth and suck it up, coppery and slick.

It’s alright. I reach into my pocket and feel for the familiar smoothness tucked away by my thigh. I run my thumb over the surface- knowing every bump and dent like the back of my hand. Touching it brings out a little sigh of pleasure. It is my illicit safety.

I pull it out with care and hold it in both hands. It’s shiny and pink. The plastic lettering on the front has chipped a little, gold paint flaking away to reveal white. I run my finger along the curved edge until I reach the hinges. Then I open it, this is the most exciting part and I forget to pace myself- heart skipping a beat as I tilt open the handheld compact. Yes… this is it.

A beast. Reflect where I should be is a creature with a mask of bone. It’s jacket is torn and tattered and it’s hidden itself under layers of protective clothing. I seeth at it. I grind my teeth and let out a guttural growl. It’s a predator, it’s an enemy, it’s something to be hunted and destroyed.

I rip away my hood and tear off the bone on my face. It clatters on the countertop as I drop it. I rip off my gloves while balancing the compact and let it all fall to the ground.

In the mirror I see nothing. I’m exposed, I’m pure, but I’m disgusting. I pull at my hair. Mousy, brown, messed from being underneath the hood for so long. I grunt and drawl and drag my fingernails down my cheek leavin red trails. I scratch away at my jaw and snag my ears. I want it gone. Eradicated, erased, burned away to nothing. Crushed to ash and mixed with sand. Torn into pieces and thrown into the sky. I want it gone. I want it gone. I want it gone.

-

I walk by Ram and Nadia on my way out from the bathroom. I avoid eye contact. Ram doesn’t call out to me and I am glad.

I settle down in the room behind the entrance hall. The absence of furniture leaves ghost marks on the ground. Lighter patches where things should be. Scratches and glass fragments, bits of fabric and piles of dust. Signs of life, but life very long ago. Flower is laying in the corner and using her arm as a pillow. I don’t know if she is asleep, so I didn’t bother her. I sit beneath a window closed up with withering tarp so the draft would go right over my head. This is time for me to think. To be alone with my thoughts and let them resonate in my head, let them take over my very conscious being. Just for now, I allow myself to fall back into deep thought.

Misery. Fear. Hopelessness. Sympathy. Pity. Hatred. Indifference. All of the emotions that bounce in my heart throughout the day.

I don’t count the days or years of time gone by, couldn’t count how many granules of sand dug scars into my flesh. I couldn’t count the losses and the gains and the problems and the fixes because it all happens so often that it blurs together. Every day is the same and eventually it becomes one great sandstorm that mars my complexion and warps me into a desert creature.

When I do fall asleep, I dream of this.

I am a hunter. I’m running through dark woods and leaping over fallen logs and boulders. My legs are strong and carry me swiftly. My nose twitches, a blood red trail of scent leading the way. Yes- I can taste it now. I lick my teeth- sharp and jagged like glass, and draw blood on my tongue. It tastes like victory. I will keep running.

I take a sharp turn and leap over a small creek. The water is still and murky. Under the cover of brambles and bush I drop to my stomach and crawl, digging my hands into the dirt to pull me closer.

But something moves in the distance- and I shoot up, ears swiveling and throat rumbling. I can feel eyes all around me- someone is stalking me. Watching me. My heart is pounding and my vision turns a sickly yellow as I feel pits of fear sinking deep.

It leaps, and we scramble-!

Claws on flesh and teeth on bone, I heard crunches and cracks and liquid coats my face.

Dank dirt nearly sucks us up and mud mixes with crimson.

I am pinned suddenly and sharp claws pierce my skin.

I look up, and my hunter smiles down with a sickly maw. Bone juts out of uneven facial structure like crystalline growths. Rot leaks out of every crevice and hole, and through its eyes I can see it’s organs and heart, trapped in a cage of thorny branches. It snarls and spits it’s acidic saliva. It’s ribcage is split open to reveal a moss-covered stomach just yearning to swallow me whole.

“NO!” I cry, and slash up with all the strength I can muster-!

The creature yowls and falls back. I’ve split it down the stomach, and sand pours out of the wound. It’s flying and kicking up and covering me, burying me until it covers my nose. The creature is screaming as sand falls from its body. It’s decomposing. Becoming glass and crystal. It disappears into sand and swirls down my throat.

I choke on the sharp granules, it’s tearing me apart and sucking the air from me- the more I try to breath in the more sand I heave in. I can’t breathe. Blood and sand fill my veins and choke out my life, dying, rotting, becoming nothing but sand-

I wake up and I’m sitting under the window again, and Flower is snoring in the corner, and I’m breaking out in a cold sweat that makes me shiver despite the warm air that’s pouring in above me. Morning light is peering out of holes in the tarp and is creating a pretty design in front of me that I take a moment to stare at before standing. It’s morning now and knowing everyone is asleep, I feel an impulsive pang to run into the bathroom and hide.

I go through the hall, step into the kitchen- Ram and Nadia are gone, but Crook and Tetra are still asleep on the floor. In the next room over, Larkling is curled close with Fen. I leave them be. I do wonder where Ram and Nadia have gone, but it doesn’t worry me as I poke my head into another room in which Snap has fallen asleep across from Siddie. I think they were playing cards, I can see some scattered around. I almost stop to pick up the cards, but I turn away and continue down the hall toward the bathroom.

My hand sneaks into my pocket almost involuntarily and circles across the compact. It’s hidden power excites me. I want to see myself clearly. I want to-

“I thought I’d find you here,” Ram says.

I spin around. My other hand was on the bathroom door handle and releases almost instantly. My heart races. I feel sweat sticking to my mask.

“I want to talk,” he steps forward and I weigh my options. I want to go feral, maybe I can punch that mask away and bite him in the cheek. That’ll scare him.

“Why won’t you talk to me?” He knows why. An instinctive growl grows in my chest. He makes a move to reach out to me and I panic, letting the animalistic snarl loose and turning to bolt down the hall. I don’t turn to see if he’s running after me because I am too focused on reaching the door, my feet moving faster than I can comprehend and my hand stretching out to turn the knob-

As soon as my boots crunch into the sand I freeze. There is no light. A shadow swallows me, and my stomach turns to ice.

I hear a choked gasp behind me- Ram- and my head tilts up slowly like a wind-up toy about to spring.

She is a monument of death himself. Crucified like an ancient savior, torn apart like a carcass by vultures. I don’t fixate on the gore spilling from her seams but the peak of the totem- something that could, one day long ago, have been a head. She is a Queen standing before subjects with a crown of bone. She is a statue crafted by artisan hands smiling down with unsettling love. Her face is sculpted and chiseled, and her mask is her frame- shattered to expose her raw expression Her jacket has been torn away to showcase the work of art and I find that the more I look upon her murdered body, the more I realize I had forgotten about my own. Deft fingers, long and pale. Brown locks, mussed only by the wind. Even her back although split open to create the horrific statue was something out of old paintings. Immaculate and unstained in every way. A flash of envy- she is beautiful, I realize.

Ram grabs my shoulder. “What the fuck?!” He cries, spinning me around.

I look at him with a vacant stare. She is beautiful, I want to tell him.

He screams and shakes me, but doesn’t hurt me. He knows I couldn’t have done this, and he releases my shoulder to fall to his knees and let out shuddering sobs. I turn back to her to look at her corpse again. Nadia was a masterpiece. I felt disgust. I felt adoration. I wanted it to be gone. I wanted everyone in the world to see it.

-

Inside me there is a creature. It is rotting and made of glass ground up underneath my boots. It smiles wickedly and pulls my strings like a puppeteer. It drives my every movement and it controls the words that spill from my jaw. Inside me it simmers and waits, waits, waits- to strike.

As I walk across the desert flat I can feel the compact in my pocket. It’s smooth against my thumb. The creature rumbles, I am pleased like a dragon hoarding gemstones. We are alone but there is crusted blood on my hands to keep me company. I don’t quite remember when it got there, but it flakes off in chunks to join the sand below. I think, briefly, that I do not miss anyone. There is no one to look at me in all my grotesque wonder. There is no bone to hide my smile.

The creature rumbles.

We walk.

Crunch.

Crunch.

Crunch.