#sobs can suck a cumber

[cezorian]

have some doodles i did of the sillies from the upturned :))) also sorry i havent been posting a lot woomp womp

[sennextheassasinkingoflight]

Redemption, My Love

Chapter 10: Soot

Explicit

Lancewain (Cursed tv 2020)

Cross posted to AO3 check there for complete list of tags.

Cw for this chapter anxiety/panic attacks.

This is where I'd put a "read more" link if mobil wasn't such a ....

PYM pov

Pym sits up, her back stiff as she stretches her arms out above her head with a yawn. Her unkempt red braid falls over her shoulder with the movement. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. It is her turn to be keeping watch over Nimue until she wakes up while Arthur and the council including Merlin (somehow, she still isn’t clear on that) and Morgana figure out what their next step is now that they’ve got the Fey off the open shores of the beach and into a ruined town near a cave system in the woods. For now it's the best they have and she will take it. Not all of the buildings burned; it looks more like the village was abandoned before the paladins ever got to it. There are supplies and, though they are limited, it's an improvement over what they had. There are enough houses standing that between them and the caves, everyone has a roof of sorts over their heads. It's better than they have had in a long while. The gardens and nearby fields, though unkempt and unattended, have meager growth, enough to feed their people for two or three weeks if they ration and are lucky.

Blinking open her eyes, she gasps and falls backwards out of her chair in surprise, as she sees Yevas large eyes staring at her from across the bed. It clatters to the ground and Nimue moans. Yeva hoots out a laugh and shakes her head as Pym climbs to her feet and looks at her friend and rubs the soreness from her backside. She brushes away stray strands of hair while Nimue's eyelashes flutter against her face. She happily notes the fever is gone, and smiles.

“Her fever has broken Yeva.” She states, voice light with awe and looks up at the Moonwing.

“Good. Now she needs to wake up. The infection is still inside her. When she does, make her drink the tea we made for the others. Change her bandages and come find me. There is more work to be done. Others who are sick and injured.”

She nods resolutely and watches as the woman leaves. It’s strange working with her. She’s strict and direct, and yet, she is a healer, an elder of the Fey, not only her own tribe but all of them. Gentle with her hands, wise, and knowledgeable even when she seems unapproachable. And she is taking the time to teach Pym. She can only hope to do well, to learn what the woman can teach her. To help, and maybe one day, lead in the way that Yeva, Cora, and Polly do.

Getting to her feet, she walks to the small table under the window and checks that the water is still hot, that her supplies are in order, and then she walks to the other side of the room and opens tattered window shutters. Crisp air blows into the room raising clouds of dust to reflect the sun's rays. It’s nearly noon, and Pym smiles as she watches a few children run through the streets. It looks like they’ve just come home from a long journey, not like they are refugees moving through the countryside, starving, sick, and dying. Letting out a long sigh, she remembers when she and Nimue used to do that, remembers Gawain chasing them through the crowds, and them doing the same to Squirrel and some of the others. The tears come unbidden to her eyes and fall without her consent as she watches one of the girls tackle the other. There has been so much death, and of all the people she knew, that she loved dearly, only Nimue was left and her life hung in the balance. Taking a deep breath, she wipes the tears from her cheeks and determinedly turns to the bed to see if her patient is awake yet.

“NIM!” She yells, surprised and full of gladness as she runs to the bedside. Nimue tries to sit up higher on the bed and groans, tilts her head back against the cleanest musty pillow Pym had been able to find.

“Don’t move around too much. You’re still healing. Gods, you’re awake.” Throwing her hands around Nimues neck, she sobs into her shoulder.

“You’re awake. You’re finally awake. I was so worried. Nim. I thought— oh thank The Hidden you’re alive.”

“Wh--” Nimue coughs and curls into herself. “Where?” She manages, voice rough from disuse, lips cracking from dehydration. Pym pulls away and ignores the tears on her face as she stands.

“I’m so sorry. Let me get you some water. Then I can answer some of your questions.” She flutters around the end of the bed and to the table. She pours water into a wooden cup and brings it with the tea back to the bedside. She sets them on the nightstand and sits on the bed to help Nimue into a sitting position. When she is comfortable, a pillow tucked between her back and the headboard, she pushes the cup into Nimue's chilled hands, which are as stiff as if they belonged to a corpse.

“We are in a village. I don’t know which one, but it’s been abandoned. Merlin and Morgana found you after you fell.” She pauses and takes a deep breath. “Uther betrayed us. We were attacked on the beach by Cumber's men. We’ve allied with the Raiders, The Red Spear, the one whose ship I was on. We got lucky; the fields and gardens weren’t burned here. There are some extra supplies. Arthur and the council are discussing what we should do now.”

Nimue nods at her, looks down at the cup in her hands and lifts it to her lips, sips it. Pym smiles.

“I need to go and help with the other injured. Yeva has agreed to apprentice me. I’ll tell Arthur and Merlin you’re awake. But first I need to change your bandages." Nimue lets her undress her and change out the bandages and apply new salves. The work is quick, well practiced now. The wounds are healing nicely, the skin returning to creamy white and the redness leaving it.

“Gawain? I called on the Hidden Nimue finally says. Pym bites on her lips, finishes tying off the bandages and helps nimue back into the shift she has been wearing before she dares to answer.

“Was he…”

Nimue nods, tears slipping from her eyes.

“I’m sorry. If they answered, we do not know.” Pym rubs at her shoulder. “We haven’t seen Squirrel, either.” She pulls Nimue into another hug, holds her as she sobs, kisses the top of her head and waits for her to stop. When her tears have faded, Pym sits away.

“I wish I had better news for you. I really do. Yeva asked me to have you drink this tea to help with the pain and the leftover infection. I’ll tell the others you’re awake, but I have to go before Yeva comes looking for me. I really don’t want to piss her off. I’ll be back tonight.”

“Thank you Pym.” Nimue mumbles to her as she leaves the bed. Pym can only nod at her as she steps into the sunlight. It doesn’t take her long to find the council and tell them that Nimue is awake; and it only takes them a moment to decide to reconvene in an hour. It takes even less time for Merlin, Arthur, and Morgana to leave for the house Nimue rests in. With a sigh, Pym continues towards the large home they have turned into a sick bay and prepares herself for what waits within.

Percivals POV

The sky is grey above them and the air wet with mist. Frothy white fog surrounds them in all directions. It looks soft and inviting and Percival wants to fall into it, use it as a pillow and go back to bed. He shivers against the cold and pulls the monk's cloak tighter. Lancelot shifts behind him, warm and solid, and Percival leans back against him without much thought. He blinks. Then blinks again. His eyes are so heavy. Lancelot puts an arm around his waist and he can’t keep them open anymore. With a yawn he closes them and drifts off to sleep despite the chill on his nose.

When he wakes, he does so gasping for air and scratching at his throat. The air is cold against his lips, as it travels down his throat and into his lungs; and yet, he feels as though no air is coming in. A firm hand on his back pushes him forward. He hunches his shoulders in response; the cloak he had been wearing falls from them. A horse whinnies somewhere far off.

“Lean forward. Breath through your nose.” The voice is uncomfortably close and he wants to listen but can’t. Tears well up in his eyes and his fingers are too numb to wipe them away. He gasps for air, shudders, and starts coughing from the exertion.

“Percival. Percival. You’re safe.” Another voice tries again more firmly. There is a hand on his shoulder and he instinctively lurches away from it. Something solid and heavy catches him around the waist and he pushes at it with useless hands. The tears spill from his eyes and coat his cheeks, they mix with the rain falling around him. Lancelot's breathing behind him is strong, steady, and deep. He tries to focus on it, tries to ground himself in it. The sound of falling rain hitting grass, and the clip clop of hooves as they squish against the ground is enough to make his stomach roll and distract him. He squeezes his eyes closed and grips tightly at the weight around his waist. Gawain is speaking, but it's loud, like it's right next to his ear. He can’t make out what it is. Percival tries to focus on that over the other sounds and can’t. Instead he covers his ears and leans forward trying to curl into a ball. Trying to escape the weight on his stomach. His throat and lungs ache, burn with the effort of it all. The arm around his waist moves up and pulls him back, like a hug and he fights it. In the end he loses, exhaustion stops him from fighting anymore and he lets his head lull back in surrender. He whimpers and shakes. The weight of the cloak settles over him again and he sniffles as someone hums gently. Finally, finally he can breathe a little easier. He closes his eyes and sucks in deep breaths of cold, wet air.

The voice shifts from melody to conversation.

“Is he asleep?”

“No. Just resting I think. His breathing is evening out.”

Percival sniffles, presses back against Lancelot and the arm around his chest tightens in response. It’s a quiet assurance of the other's attention and presence. He coughs again, opens his eyes and lets his mind drift as he watches their surroundings.

As the afternoon begins to settle around them, the rain tapers off to a drizzle and Percival wraps his arms around him tighter. They're all wet, tired and hungry. He tries to sit up a little better but gives up and slouches back down into the warmth of the dryness where he had been lying against Lancelot for support. No one has spoken since his episode this morning. He can barely recall it, but knows he has worried Gawain by the glances that keep coming his way. He clears his throat; there is one thing that is bothering him.

"How will you explain Lancelot to the others? Why he is free instead of a prisoner?"

Gawain looks back from where he is riding a few feet ahead of them. He watches hazel green eyes rise from his face to Lancelot's.

" I had thought… I would reclaim the weapon and take you into the camp bound, but under my protection until the council could hear our stories." The Green Knight appears to pick his words carefully.

He can feel The Weeping Monk's breath catch for a moment."That would make the Fey feel safer. I will surrender my weapons to you again…. Trust myself to your protection."

"You have my word, Lancelot, no harm shall befall you before the council has judged you."

With that the three of them continue on towards the beach, sunlight starting to peek through the clouds and the sound of crashing waves rising over the breeze blowing the grass to and fro.

Lancelot's POV

In truth he does not like the idea of being bound and weaponless among the Fey. There is little reason for him to distrust Gawain's word. He has seen the knight prove himself over and over again. Still, he can't help but feel like a lamb led to slaughter. There is no reason the council should allow him to live. His sins are great, his crimes many.

He does not remember much about his mother's teachings regarding The Hidden, but he has little faith that they wish him to live. Still, Gawain being alive is a miracle and the man swears it was the Hidden that saved him…. Perhaps there is something to be said for these other gods. He hasn't prayed to his God since he absconded with Percival, but if ever there was a time to cry out for The Lord to spare his life, it would be now.

So he does, he says the words of prayer in his mind, some by route, others from the depths of his heart. He prays for grace, mercy, a miracle. He prays for Percival to recover from whatever fear has gripped his soul. He asks for understanding and wisdom, for discernment and above all forgiveness. And yet, here on this meadow clifftop, chilled to the bone and almost physically whole, he feels no closer to the presence of God than he had when he was bleeding before the altar in his tent. Grinding his teeth, he determines to find a copy of the Holy Scriptures and to read it all. First he must learn to read better than he does; knowing a few words will not be enough. Bringing such a book into the Fey camp will be a risk… though this plan hardly matters if he is put to death.

With a sigh he nudges Goliath to catch up with Gawain and puts it from his mind. The road they've found runs parallel to the cliff edge and will take them down to the beach. They cannot see it from here, the fog covers the air in dense rolling waves. With one hand Lancelot undoes the sword belt around his waist and pulls it off. He hands it out toward Gawain, who eyes it steadily.

"In case we come across a scout. It will be easier to only explain my being unbound than my having a weapon. You still have my knives I believe."

Gawain only nods at him as he takes the blade and belt. His eyes are dark, more green than hazel and stormy as the air around them. Lancelot averts his gaze and they continue in silence.

The beach is empty. At its center lies a heap of ashes, the remains of burned corpses visible within. The charred remains are stacked high: their fingers curling and mouths agape where they did not burn hot enough to turn bone to ash. The pyre had been too large and had not had enough fuel. It is a sight he has seen often; still he turns his gaze away and looks for signs of any life. Hesitantly, glancing at Gawain, he dismounts and gives Percival the reins. With light steps he explores the sands as they turn in the wind. There is very little evidence to be found. The tide and the wind have erased the story, but from what he can see there was great bloodshed. With measured paces, he moves towards the cave. Gawain and Percival follow on their mounts for a while. He pays no mind when they stop nor does he look at them. There is sadness there that he does not wish to see, that he cannot understand and does not long to know.

This area, shielded from the wind and the waves, tells him much more. He kneels, picks up a bowl from the sand, and sniffs. The balmy sickly sweet scent of medicinal herbs reaches his nose and he coughs. Inside the caves he can see the remnants of a camp, nearly a week old. There are still logs and kindling stacked near a fire pit, and tools lay forgotten in the sand. He glances back at the pyre, the scent of Fey and man blood alike reaching him in the wind.

He turns back towards his companions. Percival stands with both horses near the cliff edge, and Gawain is studying the sea. He goes to Percival's side; the boy looks forlorn. Tears threaten to run from his eyes, his jaw is clenched tight and he holds to the reins for dear life.

"Are they my people?" Lancelot does not need to follow his gaze or ask him to elaborate.

"Some. Though I smell men among them. More than Fey."

A month ago such words would have been infuriating, but today they are soothing like cool water on a burn.

"Take the horses to the cave. It is sheltered there. It is growing late and these conditions are not good to travel in. There is wood. Start a fire if you like." The boy nods up at him and leads the horses away.

As he walks towards Gawain, he turns his head this way and that to get his hair out of his face. It does not comply and whips wildly in the wind. With some frustration he pulls his bun loose and gathers his dark curls back and rebinds them. It helps.

"They are mostly man-bloods. There are signs that many people, many Fey, took shelter in the cave." Gawain turns towards him, nods and turns back to the pyre.

"I wou-"

"Go away." Gawain seeths. Anger lines his shoulders, sets in his jaw as he turns towards the ocean.

Swallowing back his words, Lancelot silently does as he is told. He does not know Gawain well enough to push and prod at the edges of his anger. Lancelot would gues they are raw, bleeding still unlike Father Cardens had been. Without looking back he hears Gawain dhout and kick at a fallen log. Shaking his head he retreats to the cave where Percival has tied the horses, lit a fire, and curled up to sleep next to it. Basking in its warmth.

After a moment of uncertainty he makes a decision and locates his knives. He has work to do.

[healingbymyself4myself]

Toys

1987

“So Shannon, what’s this I hear about you having a date to the step-up-day-dance”

My stepfather asked in a tone that was intended to be casual family dinnertime conversation, but wreaked of the Policeman line of question he was unable to remove when he stepped out of uniform, surrendering his gun and nightstick in exchange for a party size pizza with his family.

My sister, bloated with puberty hormones that threatened to burst her clothes at the seams like the acne that was erupting on her forehead. She blushed head toe at the mention of the dance and the compulsive heterosexuality that dictates that 13 year olds attend semi-formals complete with corsages and cumber-buns.

“Um yeaaahhhhhhh” she pushed out with breath so great you knew she rather die then have this discussion with him, her stepfather, the cop that faked care whenever fear crept in.

“Well then! Who is this boy?” He inquired, forgetting all those family therapy sessions that encouraged him to ask open ended questions that allowed us to want to open up to him!

“His name is Shawn” she whispered picking at her acne ridden forehead, shielding her face as it turned from fire engine red to beet red.

“And does Shawn have a last name?”my stepfather bellowed showing his utter irritation.

“Yeah!” I announced proudly “I know which Shawn! Shawn Dildo, Well Sean Guilbeau, but we all call him Shawn DILDO”

Silence

Silence, Except for the “clink” as my mother dropped her salad fork glaring at me and growling through her clenched teeth “Go To Your Room” as my sister exploded into a pubescent puddle of tears and my stepfather sprayed milk to the ceiling followed by hoots and hollers that felt confusingly validating and condemning.

I laid on my top bunk, full belly sobs, gagging as chunks of my lush long hair were vacuumed into my mouth as I sucked in lung fulls of air between sobs.

My stepfather forcing space between his laughs just long enough to squeal “Shan I’m sorry” and “Donna, Keel has no idea what that means”each statement interrupted by his boyish laughter.

From my top bunk, through my closed bedroom door, I took his opinion as an opportunity, “I don’t know what it means” I repeatedly sob-screamed

“I reeeeeAaaaaallllyyyyy don’t know what it means”

After dinnet, strained my hearing as my parents whisper-processed their next move. I’m sure that they did not have to draw straws because my stepfather was still snorting down laughter that I was sure was still bringing tears to his eyes.

My mother entered my dark room, light off, shades drawn, smelling of snot, sweat and tears. She wore that sullen scowl she will forever be memorialized as wearing. “So! What do you think dildo means?” She inquired accusingly.

“Um...well..Shawn has really big ears so I think its like dumbo but mixed with dolt? I mean, Like he’s not smart and kinda ugly”

My mother’s voice shook as she leaned over my 10 year old body her finger so far extended in my face I could smell the pizza she had just eaten. “A dildo is a fake penis women use that can’t keep a man!” She growled and slammed my bedroom door, sending vibrations through the whole house

Flash forward

Thirty years later

2017

My own daughter approaches me, as I lay in bed waiting to read her bedtime storybooks. I can see curiosity cross her face as she stares slightly above me, as if the question she is formulating is expressing itself in hieroglyphics on her bedroom wall. “Hey mom? What are those penis looking tthings you have in your drawer near your bed?”

I can faintly hear my mother’s prudish disapproval as it echos through the ancestral caverns of my family of origin, the caverns of trauma, shame, self loathing, internalized homophobia, sex negativity and straight up women hating bullshit and I banish it all into silence as I proclaim “it’s called a Dildo and you should play with them honey, they are mine.”

“But what do you do with them mom?” She pushes, as she always does,towards truth and understanding.

“Sweetie, don’t play with them because I put them in my vagina!” I declare feeling the ancestral caverns of my family of origin—-the caverns of trauma, shame, self loathing, internalized homophobia, sex negativity and straight up women hating bullshit—-I feel it quaking in its outdated historical boots.

“Ewwwww” She recoils in age appropriate confusion “WHY?”

“Because” I say as I pause to plan my next move, “as a grown up, I think it feels good and we will talk about this more when you are a grown up.”

She and I exhale together as my chosen ancestors rejoice with loving approval

and the chains of shame crumble at my feet!