#taking advantage of her raw living flesh in order to get to know herself better since the wound was open

[aquadays]

Finished my first clarice lispector girl what the FUCK

[tseneipgam]

““from the tensed heart came the gigantic tremor of a powerful, shaking pain, from the whole body a shaking--and with subtle grimaces of face and of body at last with the difficulty of an oil ripping open the ground -came at last the great dry sob, a wordless sob without any sound even for herself, the one she hadn't suspected, the one shed never wanted and hadn't foreseen- rattled like the strong tree that is more deeply shaken than the fragile tree- at last pipes and veins were burst, then she sat down to rest and was soon pretending that she was a blue woman because the dusk later on might be blue, pretends she's spinning sensations with threads of gold, pretends that childhood is today and silver-plated with toys, pretends that a vein hadn't opened and pretends that from it in whitest si- lence scarlet blood isn't pouring, and that she isn't pale as death but this she was pretending as if it really were true, amidst the pretending she needed to speak the truth of an opaque stone so it could contrast with the glinting green pretending, pre- tends that she loves and is loved, pretends that she doesn't need to die of longing, pretends that she's lying in the transparent palm of the hand of God, not Lóri but her secret name that for the time being she still can't enjoy, pretends she's alive and not dying since in the end living was no more chan getting ever closer to death, pretends she doesn't drop her arms in confu- sion when the threads of gold she's been spinning get tangled.”

“the knowledge that everything that exists, exists with absolute exactness and ultimately whatever she ended up doing or not doing would not escape that exactness; something the size of a pinhead would not extend by a fraction of a millimeter beyond the size of a pinhead: everything that existed was of a great per- fection. Except most of what existed with such perfection was, technically, invisible: the truth, clear and exact in itself, was vague and almost imperceptible upon reaching the woman. Well, she sighed, even if it wasn't reaching me clearly, at least she knew that there was a secret meaning to the things of life. So it was she knew that she occasionally, even if somewhat confusedly, ended up sensing perfection”

“Having glimpsed her whole body in the mirror, she thought that protection would also mean no longer being one single body: being one single body would give her, as it did now, the impression of being cut off from herself. Having a single body surrounded by isolation, made that body so circumscribed, she felt, that she'd then fear being a person on her own, she looked greedily at herself in the mirror and said amazed: how mysterious I am, I'm so delicate and strong, and the lips' curve maintained its innocence. It then seemed to her, mulling things over, that there wasn't a man or woman who hadn't chanced to look in the mirror and been taken aback. For a fraction of a second the person saw herself as an object to be looked at, which could be called narcissism but, already influenced by Ulisses, shed call: plea- sure in being. To find in the external figure the echoes of the internal figure: ah, so it's true I wasn't just imagining it: I exist. And because of that very fact of having seen herself in the mirror, she felt how small her condition was because a body is smaller than the thought-- to the point that it would be use- less to have more freedom: her small condition wouldn't allow her to make use of freedom. Whereas the condition of the Universe was so great that it wasn't called a condition.”

“What she was doing to herself was cruel: taking advantage of her raw living flesh in order to get to know herself better, since the wound was open. But it hurt too much to head in that direction. So she preferred to calm down and decided that, in the taxi, she'd think about Ulisses's straight nose, his face marked by the slow apprenticeship of life, his lips that she'd never kissed. Except she didn't want to go empty-handed. And as if she were bringing him a flower, she wrote on a piece of paper some words that would give him pleasure: "Theres a being who lives inside me as if it were his house, and it is. It's a black and shiny horse that despite being completely wild -for it never lived in anyone before nor has anyone ever bridled and saddled it- despite being completely wild it has for precisely that reason the primal sweetness of someone who is not afraid: sometimes it eats from my hand. Its muzzle is moist and fresh. I kiss its muzzle. When I die, the black horse will lose its home and suffer a lot. Unless he chooses another house and that other house isn't afraid of something at the same time wild and ten- der. I should mention that he has no name: just call him and You'll get his name right.”

“More than anything she'd now learned to approach things without linking them to their function. It now seemed she could see how things and people would be before we gave them the meaning of our human hope or our pain. If there were no humans on earth, it would be like this: it would rain, things would get drenched, alone, and would dry and then burn drily under the sun and get toasted in the dust. Without giving the world our meaning, how frightened Lori was! She was scared of the rain when she separated it from the city and the open um- brellas and the fields soaking up the water. Then the thing she called death would attract her so strongly that she could only call bravery the way in which, out of solidarity and pity for oth- ers, she was still bound to what she called life. It would be pro- foundly amoral not to wait for death as all others wait for that final hour. It would have been sneaky of her to leap ahead in time, and unforgivable to be cleverer than others. For that rea- son, despite her intense curiosity about death, Lóri was waiting. Morning broke, Whatever had happened in Lóri's thought in that dawn was as inexpressible and incommunicable as the voice of a hushed human being. Only the silence of a mountain was compara- ble. The silence of Switzerland, for example.”

“As intransmissible as humans were, they were always trying to communicate with gestures, with stutters, with badly said words and bad words. Morning was already well underway when she made strong coffee, drank it and got ready to com- municate with Ulisses, since Ulisses was her man. She wrote: "Night is so vast in the mountains. So uninhabited. The Spanish night has the scent and the hard echo of the rap dance, the Italian night has the warm sea even in its absence. But the night of Bern has the silence. We can try in vain to read so as not to hear it, to chink flickly so as to disguise it, to invent a plan, a fragile bridge That barely connects us to the suddenly improbable next day. How to get beyond the peace char lies in wait for us. Moun his so high thar despair becomes bashful. The ears prick the head bends, the whole body listens: not a sound”

“Enter. Don't wait out the rest of the darkness before it, just the silence itself. It will be as if we were in a ship so uncommonly enormous that we didn't realize we were in a ship. And as if it were sailing so slowly that we didnt realize we were moving. A man can't do more than this. Living on the edge of death and of the stars is a tenser vibration than the veins can stand. There's not even a son of a star and a woman as a merciful in- termediary. The heart must present itself alone to the Nothing and alone beat out in silence its palpitations in the shadows. You only sense your own heart in your ears. When it presents itself completely naked, it's not even communication, it's sub- mission. For we were only made for the litle silence, nor for the silence of the stars.”

“Sometimes shed regress and succumb to a total irrespon- sibility: the desire to be possessed by Ulisses without binding herself to him, as she'd done with the others. But therein too she might fail; she was now a big-city woman but the danger was the strong rural heritage in her blood from way back. And she knew that this heritage could make her suddenly want more, telling herself: no, I don't want to be just me, because I have my own I, what I want is the extreme connection between me and the sandy and perfumed earth. What she called earth had already become the synonym for Ulises, so much did she want her ancestors' earth.”

“Her immeasurable soul. For she was the World, And yetahe was living so litle. This was one of the sources of her humiliy and forced acceptance, and also kept her weak in the face of any possibility of action. Moreover feeling overly humble was paradoxically whete her haughtiness came from. For her haughtiness--which was reflected in her supple and calm way of walking--her haugh- tiness came from the obscure certainty that her roots were strong, and that her humility was not just human humility: for every root is strong, and her humility came from the obscure certainty that all roots are humble, earthy and full of a moist vigor in their gnarled rooted modesty. Of course none of this was thought: it was lived, with the odd rapid sweeping beam in the night illuminating the sky for a fraction of a second of thought in the dark. What had also saved Lóri was that she was feeling that if her own world weren't human, there would still be room for her, and with great beauty; shed be a smudge of instincts, af- fections and ferocities, a shimmering irradiation of peace and struggle, the way she was humanly, but it would be permanent: because if her world weren't human shed be a creature. For an instant then she scorned whatever was human and experi- enced the silent soul of animal life. And it was good. "Not understanding" was so vast that it surpassed all understanding”

“We haven't accepted what we don't understand because we don't want to look stupid. We've hoarded things and reas- surances because we don't have each other. We don't have any joy that hasn't already been catalogued. We've built cathedrals, and stayed outside because the cathedrals we ourselves built, we're afraid they're traps. We haven't surrendered to ourselves, because that would be the start of a long life and wére afraid of that. We've avoided falling to our knees in front of the first one of us who says, out of love: you're afraid. Weve organized smiley clubs and associations where you are served with or without soda. We've tried to save ourselves but without using the word salvation in order to avoid the embarrassment of be- ing innocents. We haven't used the word love so as not to have to recognize its contexture of hate, love, jealousy and so many other contradictories. Weve kept our death a secret in order to make our life possible. Many of us make art because we dont know what the other thing is like, We've disguised our indif- ference with false love, knowing that our indifference is dis- guised anguish. We've disguised with a small fear the greatest fear of all and that's why we never speak of what really matters. Speaking about what really matters is considered a blunder. We haven't worshipped because we have the sensible pettiness to remember on time the false gods. We haven't been pure and naive in order not to laugh at ourselves and so that at each day's close we can say "at least I didn't do something stupid" and that way we don't feel confused before putting out the light. Weve smiled in public about things we wouldn't smile about alone. Wé've called our candor weakness. We have feared each other, most of all, And all this we consider our daily victory.”

“-But on your travels it's impossible that you were never among orange trees, sun, and flowers with bees. Not just the dark cold but the rest too? -No, she said gloomily. Those things are not for me. I'm a big-city woman. -First of all, Campos isn't what you'd call a big city. And anyway those things, as symbols, are for everybody. You've just never learned to have them. - And that can be learned? Orange trees, sun, and bees on fowers? -It can when you no longer have your own nature as 2 powerful guide. Léri, Lóri, listen: you can learn anything, even how to lovel And the strangest thing, Lori, is that you can lear to have joy!”

“-Lóri, can't you at least feel what there is of profound and risky adventure in this thing we're attempting? Lóri, Lóri! Wére attempting joy! Do you at least feel that? And feel how wére venturing into danger? Do you feel that there's more safety in dull pain? Ah Lóri, Lóri, can't you recover, at least hazily, in your flesh's memory, the pleasure that at least in the cradle you must have felt at being alive? At being? Or at least some other time in life, no matter when, nor why? Lóri didn't reply, knowing that he could sense that the an- swer was negative. -Do you prefer pain? She didn't reply to that either, knowing he could sense that the answer would once again be: no. - What is it? To learn joy, do you need every guarantee? She remained silent, because Ulisses's tone had changed and instead of passionate had become sardonic and meant to wound her. He leaned back in his chair a bit tired and said: -You're the type who needs guarantees. Do you want to know what I'm like in order to accept me? I'll let you get to know me better; he said with irony. Look, I've got a verbose soul and use few words. I'm irritable and easily hurt people- Him also very calm and forgive immediately I never forget”

“My love for the world is like this: I forgive people for having a misshapen nose or lips that are too thin or for being ugly- every flaw or error in others is an opportunity for me to love. You see, I don't let anyone order me around, yet I dont mind for example simply following the teaching plan the uni- versity sets out for each class.”

“An hour and a half later- the time needed to buy a new swimsuit--she was changed in a cubicle, and without the courage to go out. She wrapped herself in the barhrobe and went out to find him sitting on the edge of the pool. She tried to hide her deep reluctance to appear practically naked, finally took off the robe, she wasn't even looking at him. They sat without speaking, he was drinking a gin and tonic. A lot of time had passed or maybe not much but for her the silence was becoming intolerable, while to hide it she was swinging her feet in the green water. Until at last he spoke and without crudeness said: -Look at that girl over there, for example, the one in the red swimsuit. Look how she walks with the natural pride of someone who has a body. You, besides hiding what is called the soul, are ashamed to have a body. She didn't reply, but, struck, became imperceptibly stiffer. Afterward, sensing he wasn't going to say anything else, she slowly managed to relax her muscles. She thought-inasmuch as she could think while wearing a swimsuit in front of him- she thought: how could I explain to him, even if I wanted to, and she didn't want to, the long journey shed taken to reach that possible moment in which her legs were swinging in the Pool. And he didn't think it was a big deal. How to explain that, coming from as far away inside herself as she had, being half alive was already a victory, Because finally, once the fright of being naked in front of him was broken, she was breathing calmly, already half-alive.”

“Why do you look at each person so carefully? She blushed: -I didn't know you were observing me. It's not for nothing that I look: it's because I like to see people being, So saying she surprised herself and that seemed to bring her to vertigo. Because she, by surprising herself, was being. Even taking the chance that Ulisses wouldn't notice, she said very quietly to him: -I am being ... What? he asked when hearing that whispered voice of Lóris. Nothing, it doesn't matter. Of course it does. Would you mind saying it againt She grew more humble, because shed already lost the strange and enchanted moment in which she'd been being: - I said to you -Ulisses, I am being. He looked closely at her and for a moment it was strange”

“that familiar woman's face. He found himself strange, and un- derstood Lóri: he was being. They didn't say a word as if they'd just met for the first time. They were being. -Me too, Ulisses said quietly. Both knew that a great step had been taken in the appren- ticeship. And there was no danger of wasting this feeling out of fear of losing it, because being was infinite, infinite like the waves of the sea. I am being, the tree in the garden was say- ing: I am being, said the approaching waiter. I am being, said the green water in the pool. I am being, said the blue sea of the Mediterranean. I am being, said our green and treacher Pus sea. I am being, said the spider and stunned its prey with is venom. I am being said a child whod slipped on the tiles and cried out in fear: Mama! I am being, said the mother who had a son who was slipping on the tiles around the pool-But the light was going quier for the night and they were surprised -Bain, the dusky light, Lori was fascinared by this meeting with herself, she fascinated herself and almost hypnotized herself, There they were.”

“She thought about people she knew: they were sleeping or having fun. Some were drinking whiskey. Her cof fee then became even sweeter, even more impossible. And the darkness of loners grew so much greater. She was falling into a sadness without pain. It wasn't bad. It was part of life, certainly. The next day she would probably have some joy, also without great ecstasies, just a little joy, and that wasn't bad either. That's how she tried to make peace with the mediocrity of living But it was late: she was already yearning for new ecstasies of joy or of pain. What she needed was everything the most hu- man of humans had. Even if it was pain, shed bear it, unafraid of again wanting to die. Shed bear everyching. Provided she was given everything. No. No one would give it to her. She herself would have to be the one to try to get it.”

“There was the sea, the most unintelligible of nonhuman ex- istences. And there was the woman, standing, the most un- intelligible of living beings. Since the human being had one day asked a question about itself, it had become the most unintelligible of the beings in whom blood circulates. She and the sea.”

“With the conch of her hands and the haughtiness of people who never will offer explanations even to themselves: with the conch of her hands full of water, she drinks it in great gulps, good for a body's health, And that's what she's been missing: the sea inside like the thick liquid of a man. Now she's entirely like herself. Her nourished throat tight- ens with salt, her eyes go red from the drying salt, the waves crash against her and retreat, crash and retreat since she's a compact barrier.”

“I write poetry not because I'm a poet but to exercise my soul, it's man's most profound exercise. In general what comes out is incongruous, and it rarely has a theme: it's more like research into how to think.”

“she'd teach secure in the knowledge that the boys and girls would retain what she was teaching them for later, when they could understand it. So she told them that arithmetic came from"arithmos" which means thythm, that number came from" nomos" which means"law of "norm'" norm from the child's universal flow. It was too early to tel them all that, bur she took pleasure in saying it, she wanted them to know, through their Portuguese class, that the taste of a fruit is in the contact of the fruit with the palate and not in the fruit itself. There was no apprenticeship for new things: it was only rediscovery.”

“They ate and drank in silence, unhurried. It was nice. Then they returned to the lounge, which was empty, and sat on the sofa in front of the hearth. There he smoked. When she thought about how, besides the cold, the rain was falling as if onto the whole world, she couldn't believe shed been given so much good. It was the pact between the Earth and something shed never realized she needed with so much hunger in her soul. It was raining, raining. The flames were blinking.”

“She clenched her jaw, looked at the frozen moon, looked at the zenith of the heavenly sphere. He was crushing a leaf that had fallen from the tree above the bar table. And as if to give her a present of something, he said: - Do you know what mesophyll means? - I've never heard the word, she replied. - Mesophyll is the fleshy part of the leaf. Hold this one and feel it. He held out the leaf to her, Lóri tapped it wich sensitive fingers and crushed its mesophyll. She smiled. It was lovely to say and touch: mesophyll.”

“she knew that if she showed him in any way that she already de sired him too much, hed see it was just desire and refuse. And for now she had nothing to give him, except her own body. No, maybe not even her body: for when shed had lovers it was asif she were only loaning her body to herself for the pleasure, just that, and nothing more. She was drinking her coffee and thinking without words: my God, and to say that the night is full and that I'm full of the thick night that is dripping with the perfume of sweet al monds. And to think that the world is all thick with so much almond scent, and that I love Thee, God, with a love made of darkness and flashes. And to think that the children of the world grow up and become men and women, and that the night will be full and thick for them too, while I shall be dead, full too. I love Thee, God, without expecting anything bur pain from Thou. Pain is the mystery. One of my former pupils who is fifteen by now had bought a carnation to put it in his bur tonhole and go to a party. À party, my God, the world is a party that ends in death and in the scent of a wilted carnation ind buttonhole. I love you, God, precisely because I dont know if you exist. I wan a sign that you exist. I knew an ordinary woman who didn’t ask herself questions about God-she loved beyond the question about God. So God existed.”

“But she did possess a miracle, The miracle of the leaves, Shed be walking down the street and the wind would drop one right on her hair: that line of incidence of millions of leaves transformed into the one that was falling, and of millions of people it would happen to her. This would happen so often that she modestly started to consider herself the leaves' cho- sen one. With fleeting gestures, she'd pluck the leaf from her hair and stow it in her purse, like the tiniest diamond. Until one day, opening her purse, shed found among the thousands of things she always carried the dry, curled, dead leaf. Shed thrown it away: she wasn't interested in keeping the dead fe- tish as a souvenir. And also because she knew that new leaves would coincide with her. One day a falling leaf landed on her eyelashes. Right then she saw God as immensely tactful.”

“-What am I doing, it's night and I'm alive. Being alive is killing me slowly, and I'm wide awake in the dark. There followed a pause, she started to think Ulisses hadn't heard her. Then he said in a calm and soothing voice: - Stand firm. When she hung up, the night was humid and the darkness soft, and living meant having a veil covering your hair. So with tenderness she accepted that she was within the mystery of living. Before going to bed she went onto the balcony: a full moon was sinister in the sky. So she bathed all over in the lunar rays and felt profoundly clean and calm. She slowly started falling asleep in gentleness, and the night was deep inside. When the night matured the fuller veil of the dawn breeze would come. For the time being, she was deli- cately alive, sleeping.”

“A year had gone by. The first heat of spring, ancient as a first breath. And which made her smile all the time. Without look- ing at herself in the mirror, it was a smile that had the idiocy of angels. Long before the arrival of the new season came its harbin- ger: unexpectedly a mildness in the wind, the first softness in the air, Impossible! Impossible that this softness in the air wouldn't bring more! says the heart, breaking. Impossible, echoes the still nippy and fresh warmth of spring. Impossible that this air won't bring the love of the world! Repeats the heart that cracks its singed dryness into a smile. And doesn't even recognize that it's already brought it, that that is a love. This still-fresh first heat was bringing: ev- erything. Just that, and indivisibly: everything. And everything was a lot for a suddenly weakened heart that could only bear the less, could only want the bit by bit. Today she was feeling, and there was a keen nip to it, a kind of future memory of today. And to say that she’d never, never given what she was feeling to anyone or to anything. Had she given it to herself?”

“Only to the extent that the poignancy of whatever was good could fit inside such fragile nerves, in such gentle deaths. Ah how she wanted to die. She'd never yet experienced dying. what a path was still open before her. Dying would have the same indivisible poignancy as goodness. To whom would she give her death? Which would be like the first fresh warmth of a new season. Ah how much easier to bear and understand pain than that promise of spring's frigid and liquid joy. And with such mod- esty she was awaiting it: the poignancy of goodness. But never die before really dying: because it was so good to prolong the promise. She wanted to prolong it with such finesse. Lóri reveled in that finesse, feeding off the better and finer life, since nothing was too good to prepare her for the instant of that new season. She wanted the best oils and perfumes, wanted the best kind of life, wanted the most tender hopes, wanted the best delicate meats and also the heaviest ones to eat, wanted her flesh to break into spirit and her spirit ro break into flesh, wanted those fine mixtures-~-everyching that would secretly ready her for those first moments that would come.”

“How she would worry that someone might not understand that she’d die on the way to spring's giddy bliss. But she wouldn't rush the arrival of that happiness by one instant- because waiting for it while living was her chaste vigil. Day and night she wouldn't let the candle go our--prolong- ing it in the best of kind of holding out. The first fresh heat of spring ... but that was love! Happi- ness gave her a daughter's smile. She'd cut her hair and was out and about looking good. Except the waiting almost no longer fit inside her. It was so nice that Lóri was running the risk of overdoing it, of losing her first springtime death, and, in the sweat of too much clammy waiting, dying too early. Out of cu- riosity dying too early: since she was already wanting to know what the new season was like. But shed wait. She'd wait while eating with delicacy and decorum and controlled avidity each tiniest crumb of every- thing, wanting everything since nothing was too good for her death which was her life so eternal that this very day it already existed and already was.”

“Then suddenly she'd calmed down. Never, until then, had she felt the sensation of absolute calm. She was now feeling such a great clarity that it was canceling her out as a simple, existing person: it was an empty lucidity, like a perfect math- ematical calculation that you don't need. She was clearly seeing the void,”

“"And so put out my flame, God, because it is no use to me for my days. Help me once again to consist in a more possible way, I consist, I consist' In some way shed already learned that each day was never common, was always extraordinary. And that it was up to her to suffer through or take pleasure in the day. She wanted the pleasure of the extraordinary which was so simple to find in common things: the thing didn't need to be extraordinary in order for her to feel the extraordinary in it. For days she seemed to meditate deeply but she wasn't med- itating on anything: she was only feeling the gentle pleasure, which was also physical, of well-being.”

“And now she was the one who was feeling the desire to be apart from Ulisses, for a while, to learn on her own how to be. Two weeks had already passed and Lóri would sometimes feel a longing so enormous that it was like a hunger. It would only pass when she could eat Ulisses's presence. But sometimes the longing was so deep that his presence, she figured, would seem paltry; she would want to absorb Ulisses completely. This de- sire of hers to be Ulisses's and for Ulisses to be hers for a com- plete unification was one of the most urgent feelings she'd ever had. She got a grip, didn't call, happy she could feel. But the nascent pleasure would ache so much in her chest that sometimes Lóri would have preferred to feel her usual pain instead of this unwanted pleasure, True joy had no pos- sible explanation, not even the possibility of being under- stood- and seemed like the start of an irreparable perdition.”

“And Lóri thought that might be one of the most important human and animal experiences: asking mutely for help and murely that help being given. Because, despite the words, it had been mutely that hed helped her. Lóri was feeling as if she were a dangerous tiger with an arrow buried in its flesh, and which had been circling slowly around frighrened people to see who would take away its pain. And then a man, Ulisses, had felt that a wounded riger isnt dangerous. And approaching the beast, unafraid to touch her; he had carefully pulled out the buried arrow. And the tiger? No, neither people nor animals can say thank you for certain things. So she, the riger, had paced languor- ously in front of the man, hesitated, licked one of her paws and then, since neither a word or a grunt was what mattered, gone off in silence. Löri would never forget the help shed received when she could only manage to stammer with fear”

“And Löri continued in her search for the world. She went to the fruit and vegetable and fish and flower mar. ket: you could get everything at those stalls, full of shouts, of people jostling, squeezing the produce to see if it was good- Lori went to see the abundance of the earth that was brought each week to a street near her house as an offering to the God and to men. For her survey of the nonhuman world, in or- der to make contact with the living neutrality of things that, while not thinking, were nevertheless living, she would wander through the stalls and it was hard to get close to any of them, there were so many women milling about with bags and carts. Ar last she saw: pure purple blood running from a crushed beet root on the ground. But her gaze fell on a basket of pota- toes. They had different shapes and nuanced colors. She took one of them in her two hands, and its round skin was smooth The skin of the potato was dusky, and delicate like a new- born's. Although, when she turned it this way and that, she could feel with her fingers the almost imperceptible presence of tiny buds, invisible to the naked eye. That potato was very lovely. She didn't want to buy it because she didn't want to see it shrivel at home and certainly didn't want to cook it.  The potato is born inside the earth. And this was a joy she learned right there: the potato is born inside the earth. And inside the potato, if you peel it, it is whiter than a peeled apple. The potato was unsurpassed as food. She realized this, and it was a light hallelujah. She slipped through the hundreds of people at the market and inside her she had grown. She stopped for a moment at the stall selling eggs. They were white. At the fish stand she squinted and once again inhaled the tangy smell of the fish, and the smell was their souls after death. The pears were so replete with themselves that, in that ripe- ness they were almost at their peak. Löri bought one and right there at the market bit into the flesh of the pear which yielded totally.”

“And suddenly she saw the turnips. She was seeing every. thing to the point of filling herself with a plenitude of vision and with her handling of the fruits of the earth. Each fruit was unwonted, though familiar and hers. Most had an exterior thar was meant to be seen and recognized. Which delighted Lóri. Sometimes she’d compare herself to the fruits, and despising her external appearance, she’d eat herself internally, full of liv- ing juice as she was. She was trying to leave pain, as if trying to leave another reality that had lasted her whole life up to that point.”

“She looked in vain. So she wondered, as she had for years, since she often lost the things she kept: if I were I and had to keep an important document where would I put it? Usually this would help her to find the object. But this time she felt so pressured by the phrase "if I were I" that the hunt for the paper lost importance and she started thinking without wanting to, which for her meant feeling. And she wasnt feeling comfortable."If I were I' had made her feel awkward: the lie in which shed been living so comfortably had just been shifted slightly from the spot where it had settled.”

“No, no, she wasn't lost, she was even going to make a list of things she could do! She sat with a blank page and wrote: eat-~-look at fruit in the market--see peoples faces- feel love--feel hate-_have something not known and feel an unbearable suffering--wait impatiently for the beloved-sea-go into the sea--buy a new swimsuit -make coffee--look at objects--listen to mu- sic- holding hands- irritation--be right- not be right and give in to someone who is- be forgiven for the vanity of liv- ing-be a woman- do myself credit--laugh at the absur- dity of my condition--have no choice--have a choice-fall asleep- but of bodily love I shall not speak. After the list she still didn't know who she was, but she knew a great many things she could do. And she knew that she was a fierce one among fierce hu- man beings, we, monkeys of ourselves. Wed never reach the human being inside ourselves. And whoever did was rightly called a saint. Because to relinquish ferocity was a sacrifice. Which apostle was it who’d said of us: you are gods?”

“It was the next day when coming inside that she saw the single apple on the table. It was a red apple, with a smooth tough skin. She took the apple in both hands: it was fresh and heavy. She replaced it on the table in order to see it as before. And it was as if she were seeing the photo of an apple in empty space. After examining it, turning it over, seeing as never before its roundness and its scarlet color- then slowly, she took a bite. And, oh God, as if it were the forbidden apple of paradise, but this time she knew good, and not just evil as before. Unlike Eve, when she bit the apple she entered paradise. She just took a bite and put the apple back down on the table. Because some unknown thing was gently happening: It was the start- of a state of grace. Only someone who has been in grace, could recognize what she was feeling. It wasn't an inspirarion, which was a special grace that so often happens to people who work in arl, The state of grace she was in wasn't used for anyching. If Was as if it came just to let you know you really existed.”

“Afterward she slowly came out of that situation. Not as if she'd been in a trance- there hadn't been a trance--she was emerging slowly, with a sigh of someone who had the world as it is. It was also already a sigh of longing. Because having ex- perienced gaining a body and a soul and the earth and the sky, you want more and more. But there was no point desiring it: it would only come spontaneously. Lóri couldn't explain why, but she thought that animals en- tered the grace of existing more often than humans. Except they didn't know, and humans realized it. Humans had obsta- cles that didn't get in the way of animals lives, like reason, logic, understanding. While animals had the splendor of something that is direct and moves directly. The God knew what he was doing: Lóri thought it was right that the state of grace wasn't given to us often. If it were, we might pass once and for all to the "other side" of life, which other side was real too but nobody would ever understand us: wed lose the common language. It was also good that it didn't come as much as you'd like: because she could get used to happiness. Yes, because youre very happy in a state of grace. And to get used to happiness, that would be a social danger. Wed get more selfish, because happy people are, less sensitive to human pain, we wouldnt feel the necessity to try to help those in need- all because in grace we have understanding, and the sum of life.”

“she saw a street shed never forget. She wasn't even planning to describe it: that street was hers. She could only say that it was empty and that it was ten at night. Nothing more. She had however, been germinated.”

“A few nights later she was sleeping. And though it sounds like a contradiction, softly all of a sudden the pleasure of be- ing asleep had awoken her with a gentle start. She stayed lying down for a while and was still feeling the taste in her whole body of that rural area where, underground, she had spread from the roots the tentacles of some dream. It most definitely, by the way, was a good dream that had woken her.”

“She’d never imagined that the world and she would ever reach this point of ripe wheat. The rain and Lóri were as joined as the water of the rain was to the rain. And she, Lóri, wasn't giving thanks for anything. Hadn't she, just after birth taken by chance and necessity the path she'd taken -which?-and wouldn't she have always been what she now was really being: a peasant who is in a field where it's raining. Not even thanking the God or Nature. The rain wasn't giving thanks for anything either. Without gratitude or ingratitude. Lóri was a woman, she was a person, a watchfulness, an inhabited body looking at the thick rain fall. As the rain wasn't grateful for not being hard like a rock: she was the rain. Maybe she was this, exactly this: living. And despite just living she was full of a tame joy, that of a horse that eats from your hand. Lóri was tamely happy. And suddenly, but without a fright, she felt an extreme urge to give this secret night to someone.”

“in her childhood, couldn't even look at her father when he was happy about something, because he, the strong one, the wise one, became in his joys entirely innocent and so disarmed. Oh God, her fa- ther would forget for a few moments that he was mortal. And would make her, a girl, shoulder the weight of the responsibil ity of knowing that our most naive and most animal pleasures would die too. In those instants when hed forget he was go- ing to die, he would turn her, a girl, into a Pietà, the mother of men”

“I never knew myself like now, Lóri was feeling. It was a knowledge without mercy or joy or blame, it was a realization you couldn't translate into feelings separated from each other and hence without names. It was a vast and calm knowing that "I am not I, she was feeling. And it was also the very least, because it was, at the same time, a macro- cosm and a microcosm. I know myself as the larva transmutes into a chrysalis: this is my life between vegetable and animal. She was as complete as the God: except the Latter had a wise and perfect ignorance that guided Him and the Universe. To know herself was supernatural, But the God was natural.”

“It was in this dream-glimmer state that she dreamt seeing that the fruit of the world was hers. Or if it wasn't, that she'd just touched it. It was an enormous, scarlet, and heavy fruit that was hanging in the dark space, shining with an almost golden light. And that right in the air itself she was placing her mouth on the fruit and managing to bite it, leaving it nev- ertheless whole, glistening in space. For that's how it was with Ulisses: they had possessed each other more than seemed pos- sible and permitted, and nevertheless he and she were whole. The fruit was whole, yes, though in her mouth she felt as a liv- ing thing the food of the land. It was holy land because it was the only one on which a human could say while loving: I am yours and you are mine, and we is one.”

“Lóri, you are now a super-woman in the sense that I'm a super-man, just because we have the courage to go through the open door. It's down to us whether we manage painstakingly to be what we really are. We, like all people, have the potential to be gods. I don't mean gods in the divine sense. First we must follow nature, not forgetting its low moments, since nature is cyclical, it's rhythm, it's like a beating heart. Existing is so com pletely out of the ordinary that if we were aware of existing for more than a few seconds, wed go mad. The solution to this absurdity called "I exist," the solution is to love another being who, this someone else, we understand does exist.”

[thepilgrimofwar]

Of Dirt and Gold

He waited until all the important people had quit the chambers, until the warplanning and the debates and the logistics were hammered out, until the words were chewed over in his mind. It was all the same, he’d thought-- these plannings were just shoving forces here and there, shoring up edges and pressing advantages. It was the most boring part of war; tactics and strategy that did not survive the first encounter.

Now, though, he waited outside Stenden’s office, waiting for the young Lord to return. He did not pace, instead leaning with booths shoulders to the wall, finger tapping out the tune for Goodember’s Fall on his elbows.

Vissehn did not wait long as Stenden came marching up the spiral staircase. He was exhausted and somewhat flustered from the affairs he just had to deal with. Though it had ended amicably, he felt that he was this close to insubordination if he had not come to a compromise with Lirelle. He was glad for Thanidiel’s presence and suggestion- And Vissehn’s support, the one thing he could always count on.

Seeing his friend at his door, he managed a tired smile. “Hey Viss,” he said, the shortened name he had coined on the rooftops seemed to stick. “I think that went well, all things considered.”

“Ey, Sten.” He tried out the shortening of the name, finding it worked better than he could have hoped. “It sure went.” Vissehn pushed away from the doorframe and stepped into the office first, showing his back to Stenden as he gathered… what he could of his thoughts. 

Once they were in the room, Vissehn perched himself on the edge of Stenden’s desk and levelled eyes at the youth, one brow cocked. “You and the dead woman sure have a lot of thoughts on people whomst neither of you come from. Those soldiers might be your people by law of these lands, an’ she might see their blood as just the war’s due, but unless they’re dead set to dying for one Lord over another, there’s always more there. Least the militia.”

His voice was carefully neutral, despite the words, and he bounced one leg. 

“Do you think I made the right choice?” Stenden’s tone is filled with exasperation. There was no answer to this question of course. Everyone had an answer that was right to them. “I have thoughts of them for sure, but as far as I’m concerned, they are not tools- To be used, expended, until they are of no use to me- That was Mereded’s way, and I’m trying so hard not to repeat his mistakes.”

The anger in the youth abated some at the genuine frustration and consideration Stenden put into the fate of the captured. “It’s a sight better than outright ordering their deaths.” He offered softer, and ran a hand through his golden thatch of hair. “I think yer trying, and that’s more’n I can say for most nobility I’ve come across.” He glanced sidelong, lips pulling into a tight furl. “They’re men an’ women just like us.”

He glanced to Stenden again, taking the measure of the boy once more. That red hair, the fine-boned face that was so like his lady mother’s, the set of jaw that was somewhere between father and uncle. He would grow tall-- as tall as Sederis, in all likelihood, if not taller. Intelligence lit those green eyes, and emotion that was raw and mortal.

“Sten, yer gandsire made his mistakes in thinkin’ oceans of blood would buy lasting peace. There’s no thing as lasting peace-- there’s spans of time where shit isn’t as raw a deal, but it always ends.” He sighed. “If you remember that an’ keep the price of violence low, yer ahead.”

His thoughts swam; Stenden had spent his whole life sheltered in these and the Dawnveils’ walls. He’d never been so hungry his body wasted, never know a violence so far above him he couldn’t retaliate. He wasn’t a cruel or unjust lad-- he was so used to the life of a Lord he knew nothing else.

Finally, he stood up. “After this next engagement, I want ye to set aside some time for yer pal Fish. Not much-- the span of a few days. Leave th’paperwork for yer father for a spell.” He closed the distance and laid a hand on Stenden’s shoulder, forcing his lips to pull the roguish smile that had predicated their trip to the roof. “Ye trust me?”

“I do, of course I do,” Stenden responded with a tired smile of his own, though it would never be as roguish, never be as wide. It was true of course, that he had lived a sheltered life. Never starved. Never struggled for warmth on a cold winter’s night. “It may be difficult, but I’ll make time for you.”

“And I know they are just men and women like you and me, but there are so many voices Viss, so many. From both the living and the dead,” he ran his hands over his face and through his hair, undoing his tie and letting the locks fall across his shoulders. “My father speaks about them as leverage. Mother speaks about them as means to vengeance. Lirelle speaks of tools to war. Sederis speaks- spoke- of them as children. His duty- my duty, to protect them, from the abuses of power- even- especially the ones from myself.”

“That way, I will never be like Mereded. He may have had two hundred years of peace, but the cost of that is one we are paying for now. Because you’re right. Peace never lasts. Nothing ever lasts.” Vissehn didn’t know what the boy was referring to exactly. But neither did Stenden. In a span of two weeks, which felt like an eternity, everything for the boy had changed. He had changed.

The cascade of red hair was so familiar it ached in Vissehn’s throat. If he could have prevented the death of Sederis, he would have-- his regret, as it was for many, from the Phoenix Wars. He could have saved a friend, and saved a youth from a weight far too much for one to carry so young.

“It’s hard, to just see people as people. That’s all they are, though.” He shrugged. “Sederis was a good man but he was blinded by his guilt an’ what his father tried to make of him. Yer mother’s been a pawn in so many politics… I figure, she’s burnin’ herself up to reclaim somethin’ robbed from her and she’d take all of the Emberglades down wiv her if it means getting her pound of flesh. Women don’t get it easy, no matter their place in the world.” His voice is soft on that, something almost bitter and longing in the words. “Yer father sees numbers an’ can’t tell a man from a scarecrow.” His voice becomes a sneer, and his lips curl away from his teeth. “Thinks yer lineage is what sets a man apart. Huh.”He suppressed the urge to spit. 

Taking a breath, he closed the distance and placed a hand on Stenden’s shoulder. “Hey.” Again his voice went low with an urgent earnestness. “Yer doing what you can, right? Just keep trying. Keep making th’choices that no one wants to hear, for the sake of people who may not like or respect ye. You’re more than decent, Sten. I got faith in your choices. I’m here fer advising and helping where I can, but the reason I’m here is ‘cause I got faith in you. I wouldn’t have signed on wiv Solendis, an’ I didn’t become Sederis’ anything but friend, yeah? Ye said you were the Lord of the Emberglades, an’ it weren’t a title-- well, I ain’t signing on with a title, I’m signing on wiv you.”

He speaks with a conviction that he wills to fill his friend, to flow from the place his hand connects. His thumb brushes the place where collar meets skin and he grins roguishly. “I’m here to listen if ye got summat else to tussle with. Or if ye just need some sense beat into yer arse.”

Stenden makes a chuckle, the first today. “I appreciate it, I really do,” he looks up at his friend. “You have to believe me Viss, when I say that I’m trying my best. That if I make a bad choice, it isn’t out of callousness, or that I’ve forgotten that people like you are just that: People.” And at the same moment of confession and a promise not to be callous, he mentioned that very line that got under his skin. Not so much that he said it, but the manner in which it was said. Like it was a matter of fact that there was something that set them apart at the core- and that it was normal

The hand drops. He wants to say it; wants to remind Stenden that they both bleed red, that their bones both bleach white in the sun, that their graves will be no more than stone and earth encompassing decay. Vissehn works the words over like tough hide in the jaws of his thoughts, and no matter how he grinds against it he finds no blood in the meat.

“So long as I have yer trust, we’ll be just fine, won’t we?” His voice is light, grin wide as he throws himself over the chair that faces Stenden’s desk. Words will not make a concept into a man; he cannot break a lifetime of Soldenis lectures with anger or debate or fighting until they’re bleeding, even if his belly screams for it, even if he would feel better by slamming someone with that noble blood hard enough against the stone to see it wash over his hands. 

Lying to survive was given to him in the cradle with milk; lies are the currency of the Unwelcomed, and Vissehn was wealthy beyond measure.

Swinging his long, lean legs, Vissehn whistled. “So! Got an uprising to settle, an’ then those… men in the ground who think we’re still fightin’ the Big Blue Lion, huh?”

“Yes,” he was glad for the redirection to the company of Men of the Black Banner who were somehow still operational in the troll tunnels that line the borders of the Emberglades. “I hear they’ve been stealing from peasants all along the mountain range, occasionally burning crops. Must think that the Alliance won and we’re all just sympathizers providing for the enemy now.”

Stenden wondered if the Civil War breaking out had anything to do with their sudden resurgence, or if they had always been there since the end of the war and Zarannis had been observant enough to pick them out.

Vissehn snorted. “Well, it’s a good thing I ain’t goin’ to that lil shindig.” He drew his hands under his eyes and batted his lashes at Stenden prettily. “These lookers would make ‘em shit bricks an’ shoot first, ask questions later.” His blue-gray eyes were certainly not the common Sin’dorei fare, shiny like metal and without the glow most considered inherent in the elves of the north. 

“Seems a real shite deal, though. Best of luck to them that are gonna try an’ pry them from their foxholes. Must be hard thinkin’ the world ended.” He whistled softly, but there’s no sympathy in his words; his fey mood has returned, masking the bubbling rage that boiled in his center.

Stenden laughed when his friend batted his eyelashes at him. “I’m sure they would. Hopefully father giving Zarannis their banner would at least make them pause for thought,” he said, shaking his head for his own benefit. “Just like the Shalemarchers. We’ll deal with them the best we can, and if we can get them home- All the better.” The boy failed to appreciate that if they had a home, it was likely gone in Lord Tar’saren’s scorched earth policy he employed against Everliegh. Stopping her advance dead in its tracks. The Bulwark functioning as its namesake.

Still sprawled like a kitten, Vissehn laughed, raking a hand through his hair. “I’ll wish ‘em well an be glad I ain’t joinin’. I’ll take a revolt over men who think it’s all over, anyday. A man whose got kin an’ babes an’ land can be reasoned with. A man without shite? Hoo.” He mimed wiping sweat from his brow.

Propping himself up on elbows, he let his grin reach his eyes. “Speakin’ of…” His tongue passed over his teeth as he weighed the capricious desire in him with the anger he struggled to hold at bay. In the end, he was no match for his own baser thoughts.

“Hows about we don some cloaks an’ slip off to somewhere they’re singin’ the good songs, all bawdy and blue.” He lifted his brows invitingly. “Or we can see if’n there’s some trouble to suss up with yon merchants in town. Somethin’ to get us out of this prison of a castle! Tel’dorei don’t do well in stone walls.” He drawled the last, a helpless and teasing whine.

“I really shouldn’t,” Stenden replied, and felt the weight of his station bear down upon him. But, he had already done his duty had he not? Put his foot down on what he could not accept, and what would be damaging to the realm that he had to put back together. The war meetings were over and it was all he was good for. Tomorrow’s reports could wait. His father was handling the amnesty proclamations. Drafting reconciliation clauses had a deadline that lay far into the future for now. All he would be losing was sleep, and with the war no longer in such a precarious state, he reckoned he could afford it.

“But yeah, why not?” He said with a grin. 

Vissehn’s grin was slow and languid, and he pushed up on the chair to rise, slinging his arm over Stenden’s shoulders as she all but pushed the youth out the door to the office and towards the guest wing. “I got a few spare cloaks an’ a ratty tunic that’d suit ye, let’s get gussed down an’ have ourselves a night.” This he whispered into Stenden’s ear, the anger metamorphizing into something capricious and fey; he couldn’t fight Stenden, not right now, so he’d do the damage his father had warned Vissehn against.

He’d make a mortal of the Lord, if it killed the both of them.

--

They made their way through the mostly-empty halls to Vissehn’s suite, and the youth threw the lock as soon as they were inside. “Now, come on, off with that fancy embroidered doily you got on an’ we’ll be out th’window an’ in a tavern afore the maids can gossip to yer father that you were seen walkin’ to my rooms.”

Led by the impeteous youth, Stenden tries his best to be silent as he makes his way to the guest wing. The beating of his heart rises, for the thrill and fears of being caught. Either by his father or the House Guards who would no doubt repeat what they saw to him. “Right then,” he says taking off his shirt of blues and golds and looking to Vissehn to provide him with something… Less telling of his station. “I doubt the patrons at the tavern would recognize me. I’ve hardly shown my face to the people until the last few months.”

“They’ll not think yer anything but maybe a byblow once I’m done wiv ye.” Vissehn’s brows arched high as he dug in his wardrobe, pulling and discarding clothing like mad. He’d earned hazard pay from his stint spying, and a sizable portion must have been blown on the clothing he now tossed wildly-- it was a flurry of linen and cotton. Finally, he found what he sought, and wadded it up before chucking it straight at Stenden’s head.

The tunic proved to be well made, if simple; geometric embroidery around the collar and hems were all it sported by way of ornament, the natural colors of the fibers making it seem of poorer make than it was. “I got that in… I think it was th’humans camp?” He whistled. “Smuggled it on’ to look th’part, but it was Eversong made, the man musta taken it off someones washline.” He snorted. “It’s too big for my scrawny bones but mayhap it’ll fit those growin’ young shoulders of yours.”

For his part, he simply pulled on a tight ocher vest, lacing it over his chest with a skill and speed that seemed uncanny. “Now, out the window we go!” His laughter was wild and bright as he flung himself to the sil and tossed the shutters wide. Without waiting, he was hopping onto the tiles, thoughts already halfway drowning in a bottle.

Stenden caught the wadded shirt as it rushed towards his face and chuckled. Then he gestured at the mess of clothes that had seemed to fountain out of Vissehn’s wardrobe. “I should have expected it but I’m really amazed at all this. You must have an outfit for every occasion.” The boy of the Emberglades pulled the tunic over his head, checked if it fit but tugging on the shoulder edges.

Then, as his friend pulled himself out the window, Stenden smiled inwardly and followed him out. “So do you know where we’re going?” He asked as he pulled himself onto the tiles after Vissehn.

“It’s all part of bein’ a spy, a soldier AND the best damn singer in Eversong.” He grinned as his friend caught up, footing sure on this part of the roof. He’d explored it the first day he’d arrived-- he knew its cracks and shifts better than he knew the path to the front door. “I have to look the part!”

Unsaid was that he’d grown up in the same tunic for a decade, rehemmed and patched until almost nothing remained of the original fabric. When he got his first payment from the Sunguard, he’d been so stunned that the cheque had nearly been caught by a breeze. When the gold was in his hands, he’d spent it all on nothing-- pastries he’d never eaten, amusement and novelties, clothing. His innate vanity had overcome him and he’d been so pleased with the purchases.

It took him longer to realize how he was going to earn the coin; now he kept it out of vanity but the gilt had flaked from the lily. 

When their boots hit the cobbles, Vissehn jerked his chin towards the common parts of the expanse. “There’s a spot what I was told about by the cook, I think-- no one will much care who you are so long as you aren’t an Emberheart, so we’ll just have to pass you off as a bastard if someone gets too nosey.” He flicks Stenden’s nose as they walk, his arm finding its way around the young lord’s shoulders once more.

“A bastard huh?” Stenden folded his arms as they made their way down the cobbled streets towards the nearby township. “Shall we pick an emergency name? Reddy Redwheat?” He gives Vissehn a grin and a terrible, terrible suggestion that he thought- for whatever reason- was a good one.

“Oh, and should I put on an accent as well? I doubt I speak like a peasant.” Stenden cleared his throat to attempt a voice, but realized he had no idea what they sounded like. It humbled him somewhat, and his smile faded into thoughtfulness. “Why are we really going to the tavern Viss?”

Vissehn laughed at the assumed name. “Just say yer name is…” He tapped a finger to his chin. “Ah! Say yer Alya.” He snickered. “Her get won’t be round here, the Bears aren’t fond of anyplace without trolls.” he let the words hang enigmatically, still drawing on Stenden’s arm.

“We’re gonna get piss drunk.” His response was easy. “I’m gonna learn you a bit, after the next fight, but I want you to remember how good it is to drink somewhere where noone cares who yer father or mother are, where yer just another nameless cock amongst the roost. Yer accents fine, plenty of lads from the south get good educations, an’ tonight, yer my friend from the south!” He clapped Stenden’s back.

“Alya,” he raised an eyebrow at his friend. “A girl's name?” He brushes off the engenderment, it didn’t matter too much to him compared to other boys his age. Likely a side-effect of growing up around Dawnveil girls who were valued no less than the boys were.

The smile returns to his face when he gets clapped on the back. “Well no worries then, it even sounds like a spot of fun!” An anxiety spread up from the pits of his stomach but he ignored it. It was likely the first time he’d be regarded without his title hanging above his head. Would people hate him, not knowing who he was? Would he truly be just like everyone else? Only time would tell.

“Alya is a boy’s name where I’m from! Right up there with Ilya, Ivan an’ Ares.” He repeated his cousins names by rote. It was strange; he hadn’t seen them in most of his life, but he remembered their names and their faces and how they’d died. “Now, Alyashun, that’s a Matriarch’s name, an’ so I gave you the name of one of her sons. He’s got red hair an’ long ears cause she got him with a nobleman.” His brows wriggled. “Some of the southern lords got Deals with the Mama’s of the clans.”

It didn’t take long, even on foot, to reach the bar. It was less a tavern than most-- meant to service the soldiers passing through and not the locals. So, when Stenden and Vissehn entered, nobody looked up from their tables or glasses. It was all loud voices and laughter-- they were winning, afterall. The atmosphere was light without being riotous, and it seemed the perfect place for a pair of young roustabouts to get a drink.

Vissehn guides them towards the bar itself, and one of the bartenders behind the wood calls out above the din. “What’ll it be?”

“Two of whatevers cheap, my friend!” He slaps his silver down, turning to listen to the motley men and woman having their grand times. The conversations are as expected; the front, the pay, what came next. However, a small group of men next to the pair of youths were speaking of other things-- the camp followers, and their lovers back home.

Stenden listens in on the men. Though most of their conversation continues about lust and desire there are subtle and occasional reaffirmations of fidelity. So despite Mereded’s best efforts to forge perfect soldiers from his people: Drilling children into trained men and women, praising a warrior ethos that found value in being expendable. The people continued to live, continued to love, and outside the laws they lived under- life continued as normal. It made him wonder if he had it in him to change things. Because if this was proof that was all a tyrant like his grandfather could do, what chance did he have?

But he pushes that away as two mugs of the cheapest ale slide across the table to them. “Victory is on everyone’s lips- Victory and what to do with it,” Stenden says with a smile. From Solendis’ propaganda papers that were being published out of a converted farmstead, winning was only a matter of time now.

They outnumbered their enemies three to one. Between House Swiftquiver’s new orders against a new enemy, and Amnesty Offers forging new companies of men. All they needed to do was march up to the last stand of Westheath at the Illithian fortress-home. But of course, the papers did not speak of the sheer disorganization of it all. Army units were spread throughout the Emberglades, some marching towards Kearn, others assisting with law and order in Shalemarch. Worse still, it did not mention that it could be over- Right now- if the Illithians that remained weren’t prepared to fight to the death.

The boy listened to the men nearby them for a moment longer before asking his friend a question. “No one special, no camp followers that struck your fancy or girls where you’re from?” Stenden did not know of course, of his friend’s people. Only that they were different.

“Well, the best of the Sunguard, this war weren’t gonna last long.” He takes a glug of the ale and his brows shoot up. “Cor, even yer piss ale is better out here. I don’t regret slowin’ myself down here for a space.” His gaze slides over the room, but it keeps latching onto the youth next to him. The warm glow of the candlelight seemed to make him older, show the man he would become.

These men and women would serve Stenden; they would live their lives in service, but at least they lived. It was a comfort, that the nature of living never changed. If there were no lords tomorrow, if the whole system was gone, people would still drink. They would still laugh, and fuck, and cry and die. No matter what, people could thrive. If he could, he’d make it easier on them-- use his place and words to pave a path forwards for the people.

No one should have to starve; no one should fight for their right to live. He’d born it, but he remembered the whispered truths from his mothers lips. He knew the promise of the Tel’dorei.

Freedom.

The question startles him out of the reverie, and he looks to Stenden with a half choked laugh. “Me?!” He snorted and shook his head. “Ha! I’m not th’kind to take a long shine. A pretty girl-- or handsome lad-- for a summer’s hour, lips locked with mine and hands a-wandering-- that’s certainly a pleasant waste of time. But I got too many places to rove for more’n that.” He chuckles. “A tumble, sweet parting words, that’s all it’s gotta be for a lad like me.”

The lies flow easily. It’s not hard; it’s not as if the relationships between individuals were kept from him. He knows the mechanics of intimacy-- has given others pleasure. But the charm he summons is as much armor as it is invitation, and when he leaves he knows his paramores sing his praises without knowing the secret of his frame.

“They got a pretty Lady on the line for ye? Kissed an’ cuddled a gal from the Dawnveil’s lands?” He adds, willing to court danger for awhile with the conversation. He leans forward, so their noses nearly brush. “Don’t tell me my friend hasn’t had such a pleasant diversion.” His words come out low, teasing, those pretty blue eyes lidded with mischief. 

Stenden takes a big swig of ale before continuing, hoping to dull the heavier thoughts that seemed to be dampening the evening. “Of course I’ve had… Pleasant diversions,” he paused and stressed the last words taken from his friend. “There’s a girl from Dawnveil, niece of one of the maidservants who was staying with the Dawnbrooks for the summer- Least, what passes for summers on the Isle.” A blush seems to rise on the boy’s cheeks. It was nothing serious of course, just a kiss and bit of clumsy exploration before their time was interrupted by a dinner bell. But the thoughts still fired up something within him when he thought of it.

“Sheri,” he said wistfully. “But she isn’t on the line no- Lowborn- and all that,” Stenden waved his hand as if chasing something off in mock annoyance. “In either case, I didn't see her the following year, or this one. So I doubt anything will come of it: To my father’s relief if he ever knew about it.”

Then as the ale started to sink in he narrowed his eyes at his friend, “or handsome lads?” That seemed to resound in his memory.

Vissehn snorts. “Yer father likely had somethin’ to do with her not bein’ there the followin’ year, friend.” He shakes his head, the memory of his conversation with the steward not one he would forget, despite the liquor and attempts to drown out the derision and disdain the man had for the people he considered his lessers. “But that’s a start, my friend!” He pats Stenden’s shoulder, in the way the wise do for the uninitiated; congratulatory and yet condescending.

He does not let his thoughts linger on how ephemeral Stenden’s attentions are; his own are flighty as well, save that he sees the common and the noble with the same lack of permanence. 

When his friends eyes narrow, Vissehn giggles wickedly. “C’mon now, you have a good education an’ spent time wiv the Dawnbrooks. You can’t be so sheltered as all that!” He leans in, the ale thick in his breath, and drags a finger under Stenden’s chin-- from throat to the very tip, where he catches the boy quick, thumb at the point of his face. 

“I’ve kissed the Jessamine of th’ Rosewinds an’ made her flush so prettily ye could say I placed the flowers in her cheeks; I courted th’lord of Voidsunder so well he gave me a blade fit for a king... all for the price of my lips.” He runs his tongue over those selfsame lips, slow and deliberate. “Had plenty of pretty lordlings an’ handsome lasses. May be a Fish outa water, but they know me by my honeyed tongue, and aren’t liable to forget what I can do with it, either.” His grin widens and he lets a brow rise, conspiratorial and mocking all at once.

Stenden turns red, half from the alcohol, and half from the embarrassment before pulling away from Vissehn’s hand. “I know! I’m not sheltered it’s just that-” he leaned back and gestured at his friend from head to toe. “You’re Vissehn! I wouldn’t have figured-” the boy quickly went back to his drink to shut himself up. His friend was a man’s man. Loud, boisterous, boastful. But he supposed he was pretty enough to draw the turn the heads of many-a-Lord.

Then, after a moment of alcohol mired thought, he gave Vissehn a look. “Were these courting of the Lords and Ladies intentional or incidental?” He asked a not so subtle loaded question.

Vissehn’s laugh is uproarious, and he grips the bar to catch himself from falling off his seat. “Cor, the look on you!” He slaps the counter and takes a long drink, finishing his flagon. Dropping more silver, he chuckles even after the moment of pure, chaotic mirth is spent. “Ahhh… I forget how young you are sometimes, friend!” He reaches up to ruffle Stenden’s hair. “Hoo. I should be kinder,” though his tone is not promising.

At the pointed question, Vissehn snorts, eyes flicking from Stenden to the barkeep who was pouring him more. “People get drawn in by someone who smiles and has a good time. Half th’time I just grin an’ giggle and they line themselves up neat like-- common an’ not.” He pauses. “I tell you this; I’ve taken a gift or so for my charm, but I’m no whore.” He says it without rancor or shame. “I don’t seek coin, or power, or nothin’. I’d be a mighty fool of a strumpet if’n I turned down your offer back when you asked if I’d join on.” He lifted his brow meaningfully. 

When the mug was filled, Vissehn nodded to the man behind the counter; he knew the kind, and he knew that the fellow was not a fool. Stenden would be known here, for all Vissehn’s posturing, and that he had come to drink-- and not cause trouble-- would be known as well. What happened with the information, well… he knew an ear or three to whisper in. He’d make this a good thing for the boy-lord, and not one for ill.

Solendis might think making a man of an idea made it lose value; Vissehn knew better. Heroes were made from people, lifted high. You weren’t born a god; the best heroes had a little of the godliness in the blood, and fought-- bled-- wept for the rest. 

He shrugged then. “When I was just a sprout, I was popular with my set. Got myself good at talking, and listening, and it did me well. When I joined up with the Sunguard, well-- the good folks there were more noble than not. Myself, Captain Sunshard, The Oracle… who else.” He taps his chin. “Dawnstalker, yeah. He’s common. Highdawn is akin to it. You see how hard it is to name even two hands worth of commborn?” He lifted his newly filled mug for a drink, and then clinked it against Stenden’s. “I’m a simple man; I like diversions. New things, fun things, fun people. I’ll make friends with those around me, easy, and if they want more, well-- if they’re interesting, I don’t see the harm.”

Stenden got a refill for himself as he listened to his friend. “Power flows upwards,” he made the shape of a pyramid with his hands. “Peasants & commonfolk to landowners & merchants, landowners & merchants to their barons, barons to dukes, then dukes to the king- Well Lord Regent in our case.” The boy tried to explain what he knew of the system he was in. 

“Commonfolk are good folks, but in the places that make the world, they rarely have the power to stand the others.” He gave a thoughtful pause. “The Glades, we value merit as much as we do birthright. Take Lady Swiftquiver or Lord Tar’saren for instance. Raised to their stations from action- Not whose loins they sprung forth from!”

The boy had forgotten his cover, and began speaking all Lord-like. Not drawing that much attention in the lively tavern but enough for the man behind the counter and some nearby to really take notice. But to Vissehn’s relief, they liked what they heard and made no mention of it.

“I don’t give a lick about power.” Vissehn offered back with a laugh. “I’ve been poor as they come an’ I’ve lead troops, all the same, and power is just another thing they try’n sell ye. I’d rather be fightin’ on my own. Now, I’ll take it-- when needs must, or when it suits-- but that’s not for me.” He waves a hand, noting that the shift in conversation is far easier for his friend to stomach. Well, that was fair-- he was a sheltered lad, and hadn’t lived the kind of life Vissehn had. And well. Vissehn was luckier than his aunties and girl-cousins; he’d at least had the veneer of protection, and choice with his pursuits, brief and limited as they were. He’d never been faced with the ultimatums or the pressure. He’d been a boy long enough for it to benefit him.

“I got a passel of thoughts on things here but this ain’t my home, so I’m gonna listen more than I talk.” He shrugs. “All I know is, pretty face an’ a way with words-- that gets me in a lot of doors. Noble, merchant, common-- we all wanna feel special an’ get that attention from someone who seems interested. When that don’t work, Hawkin’ mail, or th’Sunguard sign would do the rest. Now, I’ma have to find me other sure ways of finding mischief.” He wiggled both his brows. 

The boy nods, it was never about power for Vissehn. Stenden remembered their first meeting, how he had casually turned down his offer for power. As meager as something as a cottage and a small stint of land. But perhaps, he thought, it was more about freedom than any particular distaste for power.

He chuckles and raises his mug for his friend, “to mischief then!” Stenden cheers and slips deeper into inhibition. But through his ale muddled thoughts he finds a thread that he picked up earlier but discarded at the time. His smile mellows somewhat as he stares into his mug. “Speaking of mischief- What did you mean my father had something to do with her not being there? Sheri, I mean.”

The pair raise their glasses in the call for mischief, and it's as good an oath as Vissehn has ever given. He drains the flagon again, the quality of the ale just beginning to affect him. Everything has a gloss to it that he associates with the edge of inebriation, and it's a pleasant one-- with pleasant company to boot, even if Stenden is just a lad with more nobility than sense. 

The other youth snorts as he puts down the empty mug. "Yee father got some notions about how you ought to spending your time. Which include less of me altogether." He twirls a finger in the air dismissively. "Not the first fucker to tell me I'm a bad influence, first one to say it was cause he'd set his--" Vissehn cuts off, and scowls. "Well, he had his ideas and I got mine. I got the feeling though weren't the first time he's warned someone off of ye, he had the words ready to cut to the quick; we're all just lucky I'm a bastard with no honor to protect from, yeah?" He rubs at the back of his neck. "If he got wind of somethin as sordid as a lordling pawing at a servants girl, well. Seems he's the type to tuck that away and get it gone afore anyone else is the wiser. Hope he just sent her and her auntie packin, an' no worse."

Emotions churn through him, they cut, wash away, and swirl. Like a storm on the alabester wall that was Stenden. He did not know what to do with any of it. "I had my suspicions," his voice hardens, swinging away from the mirth it held just moments ago. "And he must have said the same to you." He gestures for the barkeep to give him a refill.

"To protect me? Did he say what from? From you?"

"Fuck, Sten, I was piss drunk. I'm proud I didn't hit him in the jaw, cause I was that mad but I don't recall all he slung at me. Just that I'd be ruinin' yer future, and he was protectin' your credibility." He will not say he has a much better memory than he lets on; that Solendis knows he is Unwelcomed and Tel'dorei and a lower form of low than even the commoners at this bar, in these lands. Stenden can wring that from his father if he wishes; he can fight the power of his ancestry on his own, without the need to defend the honor of his friend who has none.

There is a quality to the hardness in Stenden that reminds Vissehn of the last days of Sederis rule as Lord in these lands, and it more than the reminder of his own fractured history that sobers the lad. Here was another who would not care to be controlled; sees his father's warning as protection, unnecessary for him, rather than protection of the way of life. He drops silver as a tip, and slings an arm around Stendens shoulders.

"Let's get th'fuck out of here, howl in the hills for a spell. Yer father can't rid you of me; yer the only one who can send my ass to pasture." He offers it consolingly, guiding Stenden to the door.

“Part of me wishes you punched him- But consequ- conse- That’d have been bad,” Stenden slurred minorly.

But as Vissehn slung his arm around his shoulder, the boy rises to his feet and gets guided to the door. “That’s good,” he says, “because I never will.” With one final gesture to the barkeep, he swallowed both his ale and his anger down in one go.

He did not say it, but there was a tension in his heart. Being treated like a houseplant. Put in a box as his father did the gatekeeping. With that information now in the open, he began to wonder how many friends he had lost. Or if that girl from Dawnveil actually did feel the same way he did for her- he had assumed she never came back because he hadn’t mattered that much to her. He had been Solendis’ offering to the Emberglades, except Solendis had never asked if he was willing or not- because the offering was finally beginning to think for himself. Like mother, like son.

-

Image by Jason Manley.

@retributionpriest​ @stormandozone​ @thanidiel​

[ansgar-martinsson]

The Best Intentions - Part 6

Ansgar clicked the button on the car-shaped keyfob, and his cherry red car chirped and the boot schussed open in response.

“Ooh, a Tesla,” Joline intoned. “Nice car.”

“I know,” Ansgar quipped. “Ever been in one?”

She shook her head. “Nuh uh. Heard a lot about them, though.”

He strode to the rear of the car, and bent over the boot. He took out his helmet, a matte-carbon and mirrored AGV, and laid that on the tarmac beside him. “Well,” he said, smiling to himself, “maybe after we take your ride for a spin, we can take mine.” He straightened up, and dangled the fob in front of her, just as she did him. “You can even drive it.”

Her eyes blew wide and she clasped her hands together close to her heart, like a child waiting for a bag of candy from her grandmama. She fist pumped, her face squinching with unabashed glee. “Yes!”

The sight of her, earnest as she was, lifted Ansgar’s spirit, just that little bit.

He laughed and turned his attention back to the boot of his car. He retrieved and shook out a black leather motorcycle jacket - a Switchback jacket, emblazoned with “Harley Davidson” in shades of grey across the back. Various patches decorated the sleeves and the breast – a Swedish flag, an American flag, a massive roaring lion’s head, a Sturgis patch with crossed pistols, an ascending eagle, and a straight razor that read simply, “Revenge”.

“Where’d you get that?” Jo stepped forward and reached her hand toward the jacket. “May I? Is this yours?”

“Of course it’s mine.” He chucked it to her, and she caught it deftly. “I bought it in Sturgis, South Dakota. In America.”

“I know where Sturgis is. What were you doing there?”

He chuckled as he continued to rummage through the trunk. “I went there for the rally, of course.”

“You… you ride?” she blinked and clutched the jacket to her breast.

“Why do you think I keep my gear in my car? I didn’t just pack this up this morning, you know.” He winked.

“I… I can’t believe you ride.”

“What’s so hard to believe?” He laughed as he toed off his loafers and stepped into a low slung pair of black Ariat boots, talking as he set his shoes in the trunk, as he took his jacket back from her and shimmied into it, as he fitted a pair of black leather gloves over his hands. “I have a Triumph of my own. A 1972 TR6. Not to mention I spent quite a bit of time on the back of a 2015 Harley Softail in the US a while ago.”

“I’ve always wanted to go to Sturgis,” she whispered.

“Perhaps some day you can.” He bent and picked up his helmet, tucking it under his arm. “It’s that dream thing again, Joline. You can do whatever you set your mind to.” He smiled and held up his hand. “And don’t worry. I’m not going to go lecturing you or flapping my gums again.”

She cringed. “Er…maybe I shouldn’t have said –”

“No! I’m glad you did,” he smiled, gesturing for her to walk before him. “Few people would dare speak to me like that. I don’t believe I’ve had anyone tell me that I’m flapping my gums, with the distinct exceptions of my twin brother and my wi–” He stopped and swallowed hard. He looked away, feigning a check of the crossing traffic as he brought his facial features back under control. “Well, just know that I appreciate your candor, and I expect more of it from you from here on out.”

He shifted his helmet from one arm to the other as they approached the bike. He narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the piece of machinery before him from top to tail. He rest his gloved hand on the gas tank and glided it back over the seat. He whistled appreciatively. “She’s a beauty, Joline,” he said. “Great condition. Absolutely cherry. You must take meticulous care of her.” He crouched down and set his hand on the rear tire. “She has Marchesini wheels as well. Impressive.” Looking up at her, he asked, “Did you put those on yourself?”

“Joline?”

The portrait of a man in leather beside her bike was nearly her undoing. When she offered Ansgar her ride, she assumed a quick spin around the city center. But the man, as he proved from the first moment they met, didn’t do anything by half. Go big, go strong or fuck right off. The smell of leather, male pheromone and wheat rolled off him in a steady current making her lightheaded and woozy with attraction.

Ansgar tried again when she didn’t respond, “Joline?”

“Hmm…” she hummed, her head in a cloud of lust.

“The Marchesini wheels? Did you put those on?”

Joline snapped to, rejoining the conversation, “Oh, I-I-I did,” she bragged over her most prized possession. Looking chuffed to bits that he noticed, she pressed on, “My… uh, my, my dad was a J&P man- all the way, but those were rough as fuck. The handling felt as smooth as rocks in a blender. Riding from Stockholm to Vaxholm was an exercise in masochism. I swiped ‘em out, replaced the spring forks,” she pointed to the part near the front wheel, “and the rear shock absorber. Now Nightingale, she flies.”

He didn’t fully commit to a grin, but admired her work. He picked up on the nickname for her ride. “Nightingale?”

Jo beamed, affectionately patting the leather seat with a flat slap. “Nightingale. Dad named her, and it stuck.”

“Matches your art,” he nodded at the inside of her arm where he spotted her tattoo.

She dropped her gaze to the sidewalk, a lump of sadness forming in her throat. She swallowed it, pushed it aside for the sake of conversation. She took a breath and shed her leather jacket off her left shoulder. “I got it on the one year anniversary of dad’s death.”

A small blue outline of a nightingale bird sat on the inside of her arm, under the bend of her elbow, wings in flight, no more than three inches long. Underneath a Florence Nightingale quote graced her flesh: Live life when you have it.

“Dad used to tell me that all the time.” She nodded at the text. “I honored him that way, I missed his reminders.” Tears filled her eyes, but she managed to blink them away. A weak smile broke the moment and she recovered smoothly with a shrug. “Still raw from it, I guess.”

Ansgar softened his gaze and gave a sympathetic apology, “A touching tribute. I’m sure he’d be proud.”

“Thank you. Now… uh…” she threw her jacket back on her shoulder, “let’s ride!” She replied with a bit more gusto than completely genuine.

He seated his helmet it place upon his head, adjusting the visor in place and nodded for her to do the same. One long leg swung over the top of her bike, and his hips settled into the seat, hand poised on the clutch.

Jo’s eyes went a little wonky witnessing his mount, but she reeled in the hormone show before he noticed. She watched in further appreciation as he righted the bike and started it like the expert rider he claimed to be.

“Get on! Hold onto me!” he ordered through the helmet.

She jumped perhaps a bit too enthusiastically, her waist in line with his, her legs outlining his, her hands gripping the leather of his belt. He was solid and firm and so warm, she felt another rush of blood to her head.

Ansgar eased into traffic fully in control of the bike beneath him, and possibly the woman clutching at his waist. Her grip tightened at intervals depending on the speed they traveled or how close other vehicles got to them. But there was underlying trust in the hold on him, she didn’t fear for her safety, it was more a show of confidence in his skill.

He drove out onto Strombron, past the ships on the water on Skeppsbron, passing by Fotografiska, another Martinsson Construction account. He navigated his way through traffic, the odometer pushing the legal limit just enough for the thrill of riding, but under the traffic camera radar. He signaled where appropriate, but also maintained this air of wild freedom, a flirt of recklessness, but never too much.

Jo didn’t know where he was headed, but she couldn’t find it in her to care.  

*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Did you… did you say twin brother?” Joline wasn’t sure she’d heard right. Her blood soared and her ears rang on the riding high. It had also been the better part of an hour ago. Ansgar pulled off and parked in one of the famed observatory parks that he’d had his hand in at the beginning. He sat in a bench along the edge watching with little interest as joggers, parents and tourists go about their way. But he lorded over the place as if he owned it. His legs sprawled to the width of his elbows hiked upon the wooden slats of the bench back. Joline restrained herself from hopping in the middle of those impressively muscled legs by forcing herself to sit on her own hands.  She hadn’t the first inkling how she’d held onto to him while they rode without embarrassing herself. She’d the opportunity to take advantage and yet, somehow, maintained her dignity. Ansgar only seemed to be testing the boundaries of her restraint. You can’t have him, Jo. Pull yourself together! Ansgar laughed at her very delayed question, turning an eye to her. “Yes. Twin. I have a twin.” There are two of you sexy motherfuckers walking around?! “Congrats!” She said outloud. “For what?” She suddenly blurted a tiny snippet of some of the cleaner ideas running about her head at the speed of light. “The genes… impressive fucking genes in your family.” And that was the clean version. “Your family’s been blessed, with not one, but two sexy men.” He delighted in the freedom of her tongue and the way she said it, without a trace of embarrassment or terror; she owned it. “Do you find me sexy, Joline?” She propped her elbow on the park bench’s back, rotated in his direction and stared at him. “You don’t need me to stroke your ego. You know that everyone finds you sexy. Even that guy,” she jutted her chin at the runner that gave Ansgar a full model survey… three times on his way past.

[reylo-solo]

au where rey is snoke's apprentice and ben is luke's padawan

Oof, I live for these AU’s. I had fun writing this one! I hope you like it too :) Thanks for the prompt!

Note to readers: I am not currently accepting fic prompts, but rather filling the ones I have. Thanks for all your support!

You…I Know You

Read it on AO3.

               Go.

               The voice entered her mind assilently as a snowfall, and yet she found herself jumping at its whisperedcommand.

               Kill them all.

               It was easier now than it hadbeen at the start. Taking lives had always made her feel sick before. She wouldfeel cruel and unjust; awaiting the day when the universe paid her back in fullfor her crimes. But now, she knew the difference between naivety and truth.There was power in death, and strength. She reaped what she sowed, and as eachbody fell around her feet she could feel the Force swarm like a thundercloudall around her, charged with electric energy.

               It made no difference to her,who these people were, or what they did. The Supreme Leader had told her tokill them all, and so she would. Their backstories meant nothing to her, andneither did their names. All that mattered to Rey was the kill, and fulfillingSnoke’s orders to destroy Skywalker’s Jedi Temple.

               The screams and the pleas formercy almost started to sound like a beautiful symphony to her ears. It rosegoosebumps along her arms. Louder, shecried. Sing for me louder!

               The red, erratic glow of herdouble-ended saber reflected in the depths of her pupils and made her lookhalf-crazed, which maybe she was. She enjoyed the look of complete fear on hervictim’s helpless faces as they looked into the eyes of their killer and sawsuch evil. So much hatred and emptiness lingered in her eyes; shattered bydarkness as they were, like a broken looking glass, smudged by the black smokeof angry flames.

               There was such a thrill in thehunt. It made her feel like she was floating. She could ride this high forever.

               But then, there was something different. Something that was hiding,not too far away. She could taste its horror; she could feel the sweat drippingdown the back of its cold neck. But this particular something called to her; ithad a certain grounding in the Force unlike any other Padawan she’d taken downyet, in all her years. It was a power that she recognized; a power she toopossessed. Strength, agility, and mastery, with a wild, unhinged streak of chaosthat could shift the galaxy. It spoke to her like a whisper on a warm breezeand she followed its call, focused only on finding its source.

               She followed her hunch to ahalf-collapsed hut which was quite well-sheltered behind a grove of half-burnttrees. Her feet made no sound on the grass as she stepped closer. She pausedjust a few feet away and reached out once more. A heartbeat separate from herown raced in her ears, pumping double-time. Of course, whatever was in therehad to have sensed her getting close, but it was too late to escape now. If itwanted to run away, it was going to have to face her first. Her fist tightenedaround her weapon. It wasn’t going to win if it tried.

               It was dark inside the hut, andthe coppery smell of blood tinged the air. Rey’s nose wrinkled as it hit her;that solid wall of death’s stench in tight quarters, inescapable andpenetrating. And yet, despite that, she knew she was not alone in that hut. Shecould hear the shaky, restrained breathing of someone trying to keep quiet. Shecould feel their mounting panic, their deliriousness, and she grinned. Come out and play with me…

               Her saber ignited, bathing thehut in its red light, which flickered like flames against the mud walls andthatched roof. What she found, however, was not what she had been expecting.

               Two of her comrades lay dead,stacked on top of one another, the vicious gaping wounds in their torsos stilllightly smouldering. And there, huddled as close to the farthest, crumbled wallas he could possibly be, was their killer.

               He was a human male, not muchyounger than Rey, with a mess of dark hair that fell across his damp foreheadand hung over his large, scared eyes. Rey knew this boy, though. She’d nevermet him, and yet she knew him, or rather, she knew of him. It was hard not to recognize his mother’s deep brown eyes,or his father’s sharp jawline. Ben Solo.The prodigal son, and Luke Skywalker’s prized Padawan.

               The two locked eyes andsomething sparked between them; some deep connection that neither of themunderstood but both of them felt. The tiny hut filled with intensely palpable energythat raised every hair on their bodies and for a moment, for just a moment, Rey faltered. The hand whichheld her weapon hung limply at her side, useless. When she realized this she wieldedit above her head, eyes narrowing and teeth bared as her muscles tensed,prepared to bring it crashing down on the boy’s head.

               “Stop!” he cried, holding hishands up above his head although his own saber was on the ground by his thigh.He made no move to grab it. “Please…”

               She stalled. Come on! She screamed to herself, tryinganything to make herself move, to end this boy’s life. This is what we’re here for! Kill them all! But her arms wouldn’tbudge. She nearly screamed out of frustration, but he was looking at her, andit wasn’t a look of malice, nor was it a look of fear, as it had been just amoment ago. It was searching, questioning, and intrigued. Rey had never beenlooked at like that before. A surge of anger made her blood boil.

               “Why are you looking at me likethat?” she snapped. “Stop it!”

               “Why aren’t you killing me?” heasked, his deep voice echoing off the thick walls of the hut.

               “I…I don’t—” Rey stammered,growing even more annoyed at herself. He had done nothing to disarm her and yetshe felt incapable of movement. He can’thave that much power, it’s impossible…

               “I know you,” he interrupted.Those eyes searched her again, appearing to look straight into her soul, orwhatever remained of it. “I’ve seen you in my dreams.”

               He stood slowly, making sure shesaw that he left his saber on the ground. Rey, against her better judgement,sheathed her saber and stared up, eyes narrowed, into the face of Ben Solo. Hewas handsome, for a Jedi. He had blood on his robes that certainly wasn’t hisown. And there was something in his gaze…something dark and repressed that Reyalso recognized in herself. It spoke to her very core and for a long moment shecouldn’t look away, not even if she wanted to.

               A blaster shot came from behind,jolting them both out of the strange trance they’d been in. It felt likesomething had jumped up and bit Rey in the calf. She yelped and staggered,falling to one knee. When she looked over her shoulder to see her attacker, allshe caught sight of was the barrel of a gun.

               “No!”

               The shout came from Ben. Therewas an electric whirr and a hum, andsuddenly the room was flooded in a sharp blue light. Orange and yellow sparkscascaded from the spot where the blade of his saber had expertly blocked thesecond blaster shot. There was a wide flash of blue as Ben swung the bladearound and up to point it at the shooter, who stared back at him in alarm.

               “What are you doing?!” the mandemanded. “That’s Snoke’s apprentice! Kill her!”

Reycould tell by the man’s voice that he was afraid of Ben. Wary, now that Solohad a saber in his hand. Why? Whathad Ben done to give this man a reason to fear him?

“Iknow who she is,” Ben replied shortly. “I will take care of it. Now go, beforeI kill you.”

Theman vanished in an instant.

Bensheathed his weapon and knelt down beside Rey, who was now looking at himthrough fresh new eyes. Who is this boy,who looks so meek and quiet yet has such dark potential? He could be quiteuseful to the Supreme Leader, but Snoke would never allow Rey to keep a pet. Surely Skywalker knows of his Padawan’stalents…

“You’rehurt,” he observed, pointing to the wound on her leg. The flesh there was raw,and it burned as though on fire.

“Iam,” Rey answered, puzzled by his comment. “Are you not going to take advantageof my weakness and strike me down?”

Thecorner of his mouth twitched.

“Whywould I do that? I can help you, if you’ll let me.”

Hestood, and offered her his hand. She stared at his palm quizzically, wonderingwhat his trick would be. If she took his hand, would he pull her up and spither like a chunk of roasting meat? Or would he break her wrist to destabilizeher and then snap her neck? Her eyes wandered up to his, looking for heranswer. She found no such thing.

“Whywould you help me?” Her eyes narrowed in speculation.

“BecauseI know you somehow,” he answered, “and I need to know why.”

Slowly,with more curiosity than wariness, Rey took his hand.

[imyourliquor-youremypoison]

Marvel fic rec - Loki x OC, Bucky x OC (1)

You guys I have such good ones for this rec.

After Class, by Team Damon (68k)

She's a clumsy but intelligent student who's a little late getting her degree, and he's a young but grumpy professor with a past he's doing his best to move on from. Neither of them expected college to be quite this interesting, but nothing ever goes exactly according to plan.

We’re starting with the good stuff, people, the real good stuff. You know how many shitty Student x Teacher fanfictions there are out there in the vasteness of the internet? A lot. I have seen things I wish I could unsee. But this one is not one of those. This one is the best, the single most beautifully written piece of fanfiction with this trope. I cannot stress this enough, I am in LOVE with this story. It’s just long enough to be in-depth and have flesh, but it’s short enough to read in one sitting. It’s my go-to sotry that I read whenever I feel down, when I’m sick and bed-ridden, when I’m stressed out because of my exams and can’t sleep. It heals my soul to read such work of art.

Team Damon is an absolute sweetheart too, a true wordsmith, and there are more of her stories that will make it into this fic rec.

Blasphemy, by SheWritesThings (76k)

For Sam and Steve, finding Bucky was the easy part. But now two distinct personalities reside within him: Bucky Barnes and the Winter Soldier. Sam decides to call in an old friend: Sgt. Fox, a young war veteran and amputee, having suffered PTSD herself. Dodging SHIELD and Hydra agents alike, the trio struggles to bring Bucky back and eliminate the Soldier before time runs out.

Another masterpiece, not the last one of this list. It’s the first installment of a series (ongoing sequel is here) but I honestly don’t think it needs a sequel, it can be read on its own. It has a prologue-y feel to it, but I love it. It’s the first fanfiction I read that deals so seriously and thoroughly with Bucky’s PTSD, and it doesn’t shove a romantic relationship in our face. The author must have sent HOURS researching about PTSD to write this, I cannot fathom how much work it represents.

It’s so good, so raw, it really stirs something in you. Also if ableism is an issue you take to heart, this story is a goode example on how to write disabled characters, it’s just perfect.

Fate's Children, by theatrewraith (109k)

The Norns, fates of the Nine Realms, long ago chose a protector for each realm bound to keep order in their universe. Roska is the latest guardian of Asgard. When Odin asks her to bring Loki back from Midgard at any cost, she is set on a path of even greater importance. To assure Asgard's stable future, she must set the Jotun Prince on its throne.

One of those stories where you wonder how the hell this isn’t a published work. I can barely imagine the amount of research that went into the writing of this fanfiction, the world-building and attention to details is amazing. I have no idea just how much of what I read is inspired by true mythology and folklore, but it’s impressive still. More plot-driven than character driven. To my absolute sadness, it’s not very centred on the pairing HOWEVER it is one of the best Loki characterization I’ve even seen with my own two eyeballs (honestly Taika Waititi should take example).

Friends to Lovers to Complete and Utter Idiots, by Team Damon (39k)

They're just friends. The best of friends, really. But when she's secretly head over heels in love with him and he gets the bright idea to take their friendship to an entirely new and unexpected level, she knows she's playing with fire. She's already burning, though, so why not make it count?. Modern AU 

Listen, I’ve rarely come so close to ripping out all of my hair, and I love my hair. The pairng drove me crazy. Team Damon just knows how to play with my feelings like nobody’s business. The title really says it all, but if you think it’s just another of the usual fwb story, you, my friend, are gravely mistaken. Because it’s more than that, it’s a jewel among jewels. It’s a diamond, alright? Read it, I swear to god, read it.

Stray, by MissMorwen (32k)

“Why did you come here?” “I needed to hide, needed to think.” There was a slight furrow in his brow again. “Think about what?” She tilted her head, trying to catch his eyes. He looked in her direction, but with an unfocused gaze. “The man, he – he knew me. And I knew him.” The knuckles on his right hand were turning white.

******** You know how the story goes: Fucked-up former assassin meets girl. Girl is a cliché vet with a tendency to help birds with broken wings.

I think the author says it all in the synopsis honestly. It’s just a fun, light-hearted Bucky fanfic. It’s a nice change from the more serious stuff, and it’s not too long so it’s a quick read, and it’s worth your time.

Illusion, by likeatumbleweed (155k)

Sigyn has an overprotective brother, an overbearing mother, and an overarching duty to Queen Frigga as her handmaiden. She begins a relationship with Loki, Prince of Asgard and second in line to the throne. It seems easy, but fate has so much more in store for them than they planned. AU. Pre-Thor through Post-Avengers. 

Listen, this is the one of the best fanfictions I’ve even had the pleasure to read. All fandoms mixed together, it’s a fav. I will defend this fanfiction to the death, I’ve scarcely seen anything so beautiful. The prose is amazing, the pace is perfect, there is a balance between plot relevant scenes and self-indulgent fluff, the characterization is on point (Tony Stark, however short his appearance in the story is, has one of the best characterization ever).

It’s 155k long but I find it too short still. There is nothing I disliked about this story, I could write a eulogy about how much I adore it, I could write poems and songs about it, I- well you get my drift. AND because the author knows how much her readership loved the story, we got a bunch of additional oneshots to quench our insatiable thirst. I’m not going to review each of them individually but they are all great, and you will cry actual salty tears, trust me.

Interlude:

Chapter "10.5" of Illusion - Loki spends the night with Sigyn at her apartment, and things get a bit uncomfortable for her brother Edmund.

Unburdened:

Sigyn has had a stressful day; when she threatens to never return to the palace library again, Loki uses his considerable skills to change her mind.

Celebration:

Loki arranges for a private celebration of Sigyn's birthday.

The Better Part of Valor:

One morning not long after beginning her relationship with Loki, Sigyn is late reporting for her duties with the queen. When Loki (who has everything to do with her tardiness) shows up to take advantage of her embarrassment, Sigyn is less than cooperative.

Best Laid Plans:

Loki and Sigyn attempt to celebrate their anniversary, only to be hindered at every turn by extenuating circumstances (especially their precocious six-year-old daughter, Unna, who has a terrible grasp of the appropriate time to show off newly acquired magic skills).

Threnody for a Sparrow:

It's a lesson Loki has never wanted to learn...there are some broken things that cannot be fixed, no matter how badly you wish otherwise.

Monster, by IndigoUmbrella (70k)

“Have you ever asked yourself, do monsters make war, or does war make monsters?” -Laini Taylor 

Probably the vaguest, least helpful synopsis in the history of synopsis, but hey, I’m here to tell you that it’s fucking fabulous, and you won’t regret reading this fanfiction. It’s not you usual girl meets boy story at all - this time the meeting is not accidental at all, all of their interractions have one sole purpose: help Bucky become himself again. And it gives a lot of weight to their interractions, the story is very serious, but not so much as to give you a headache either. I love it because it’s different, and it takes things slowly, there’s a lot of attention to details too.

Hell Bound (Sequel to Monster) (82k)

Start by pulling him out of the fire and hoping that he will forget the smell. He was supposed to be an angel but they took him from that light and turned him into something hungry, something that forgets what his hands are for when they aren't shaking. When is a monster not a monster? Oh, when you love it. 

Second vaguest synopsis of all time, but trust me when I say that the sequel is even better than the first installement of this trilogy. I can’t really say anything about the sequel without revealing what happens in the first part, so just read it for heaven’s sake. I’m telling you, it’s good.

From Darkness (Third and last part of Monster) - Ongoing

When did we lose our way? Consumed by the shadows Swallowed whole by the darkness Does this darkness have a name? Is it your name?

And last but not least, the third part. Equally vague synopsis. We officially have a top three guys. Haven’t read this one yet, but I wanted to post all three parts together. 

Light & Sweet, by LooneyLockhart (182k)

Bucky didn't understand the concept of a coffee house giving away free coffee. From what he remembered, hardly anything in Brooklyn was given away for free when he lived there. And why wasn't the coffee house girl frightened by him when he struck fear in some of the most competent SHIELD agents? Learning to be Bucky Barnes again, he wasn't prepared for the curious coffee girl.

How the hell am I going to sell you this story?

It’s... a coffee shop AU. Except it’s not really an AU. It’s entirely set in the MCU as we know it, superheroes are totally a thing, everything is like the canon, but Bucky and the OC still meet in a coffee shop. It’s serious, but it doesn’t take itself too seriously either. It’s well written, like really. The OC is endearing, the pace is perfect for the story, the characters have a lot of depth, even the secondary ones get a bit of characterization. It’s a beautiful work all in all.

Honesty, by thearrowsoflegolas (91k)

The Winter Soldier has a new mission. Erin Jefferson is a young SHIELD biochemist who has just synthesised a serum that can make anyone tell the truth, and HYDRA wants it. The Winter Soldier is expecting it to be an easy job, and Erin is expecting to die there. What she's not expecting is to meet a man with light eyes and a dark past who needs her help.

This is the funniest Bucky fanfic I’ve read, and it’s awesome. I’ve never seen such balance between light-hearted moments and serious, down-to-business ones. It doesn’t take anything away from Bucky’s gravitas, but it rather offers a stark contrast with the OC’s bubbly personality, it’s refreshing and beautiful. And it’s fucking funny, you guys, it’s hilarious. Additionally it’s one of the only fanfictions I’ve read as the chapters got published, instead of waiting until it was completed.

[andieforrester]

dead rabbit hopes - self para

maybe my beauty was only meant to be seen by the men a crow beside me, scavenger king, my body: a savaged thing.

She doesn’t check the mirror much– nothing good ever comes to greet her. It just makes the pain worse, more tangible. Dark purple on her neck, her cheek, her jaw reminds her of a closed fist because she talked back. Crusty dried blood on her lips and wrists reminds her of the time in solitude: darkness, cold, a sense of being lost. Chewing on her lips, eyes dripping salt into the new layers of flesh. But the undamaged parts seem the hardest to look at. Her chest is small, bony because when she does have food in front of her, it doesn’t want to go down her throat. But He still finds something there to touch. ( While she stares at the ceiling and begs for some way out. ) Her hips are sharp, too, no Kim Kardashian butt, almost-stick legs. None of that keeps Him away. When she looks at the unbattered places, she wishes they were just as ugly as everything else, in a way. Maybe if He just hit her, all over, everywhere, it’d be enough to keep Him from doing something worse. She doesn’t know why IT’s worse. IT hurts, but not like when his knuckles on her cheek almost send her to the floor and leave the room spinning. But IT’s worse. She drifts up to the ceiling with Marie and Harriet and Joan when IT’s happening. She tries not to watch, listen, know. She just leaves, takes a break from being alive. Maybe that should make IT easier, but it doesn’t. So when she sees all of it, on her body, in the mirror, she frowns. If her body was really hers, there would be no purple. Or red-brown crust. Everything would be soft tan and rosy, glowing, and her teeth would always show because her lips would not be ripped and she would smile. All day. And she would be able to look at the other parts and like them. And maybe touch them ( she’s not that oblivious, she knows people do that. ) Now, they are tainted. His being has somehow attached to them permanently and looking at them reminds her that she lives in a house with fists and a basement and a bed that is unspeakably difficult to sleep in.

maybe my beauty was only meant to be seen on death’s bed a crow beside me, scavenger king, my body: ravishing. 

There is a sudden and profound sense of loss when it finally hits her, sitting by the window when a man passes and she tries out an introduction under her breath ( hi, I’m Alexandra, ) –no you’re not: Alexandra is dead. Whoever lives in this body now is not her. Alexandra died when He took too much: December 6, 2013. She’s angry, too. Tired. Tired of hiding, submitting, staying silent and defeated and chronically uncertain. ( Will He come back before she dies? Does she even want to live? Is it over? Is she ready for it to be over? ) She’s not ready. It’s her life, and she wants it back and she wants to try, maybe she can– her voice is raising, cuss words escape, she is fighting!– silenced by the basement door slamming. Quick, easy solution. She isn’t cuffed, but He knows she’ll stay down there, and she knows it, too, and it makes her want to destroy everything in this house, including herself. There are so many memories, sharp edges that cut into her consciousness. Failed escapes, horrific consequences for minor crimes ( like looking at the phone while it was ringing, ) the bed, lying in the basement and walking in and out of a body whose organs were slowly failing, asking for advice from dead people, always taking it. She stares at the spot where the old cuffs wait. — She remembers standing over herself there. Usually, she could only leave when IT was happening, but this was different. There was a sense of urgency, like she’d been allowed to leave in order to accomplish something. She remembers watching fluttering eyelashes, dry lips, nothing else moving but her fingers. They clenched into fists sometimes, like she was trying to hold on, but then relaxed, as if letting go. Marie? – A pink dress appeared. Yes? – I’m dying, right? – Yes. – Joan? – Chain maille. Yes? – Should I just crawl back in and go to sleep? – Are you ready? She knew she wasn’t then, and knelt down. Alexandra, she pleaded. Wake up and make Him help you. Alexandra didn’t move. Alexandra. Alexandra! She screamed at her for an hour, it seemed, then dug her nails into her raw wrists. A half-hearted moan answered. She dug harder, kicked her, shook her, held her eyelids open and begged. Finally, a hoarse cry. And He brought water. And she lived. A few days later, He let her come back upstairs. — She knew then, and she knows now. It’s not time, and she’s not giving up. The next morning, she fights better. Less yelling, more action. No time for fear or caution. A knife slips into her hand and He loses His advantage, and she’s shocked by how quickly the power shifts after twelve years of the same roles, over and over. She puts the knife down and He starts to rebuild– NO! She grabs the cutting board and swings. And when she stops, looks around, sees Him at her feet, she realizes she’s won. When she stands in front of the mirror at the hotel in Dallas, she notices a change. The bruises are barely there, light green. No crusty red. She’s still small, but there’s significantly less hollowness, and not just because she’s eating. She gets closer, looks at what she always kept her eyes away from before. A breast, she can say it, see it, even touch it, maybe, some day. It’s small, but not so ugly now. Round, holds itself up against gravity, somehow. She turns, looks at her butt, too. It’s not bad, either. Not all on its own. She puts on her pajamas and turns off the light. 

i’m ready to confess i’m hungry for you.

If every person on Earth has an opposite, Sam is His. Everything He made her feel, Sam seems to turn inside out, upside down, and she destroys the evidence of its existence ( momentarily. ) Still, she isn’t quite expecting everything that starts to happen. First, there’s the feeling of a crush, an innocent early stage of love. One she never got to before He interrupted everything. She blushes a lot and wants to be around her almost constantly, even though sometimes she gets nervous when she talks. Then it’s more, like a date to homecoming or prom. Someone she’s comfortable with, laughs with, but can open up to. Someone she’s starting to trust. Which is hard, and slow. There are a billion checkpoints for things like trust. A billion pauses to ensure she deserves such a high honor. And she wants to kiss her. Even when it doesn’t even fit into the situation, like, even when they’re in the middle of a conversation, some weird mouth magnet starts pulling her close to Sam’s mouth magnet and she has to tell it to stop– this is not the time. It’s weird. And one night she wakes up from a dream and there’s a weird aching feeling, but not a bad ache like in her bed in The House. It’s deep and internal and she tries to remember her dream, but all she sees is a wisp. Of Sam. Then it transforms again. Stronger, deeper. She thinks maybe this is how it feels to be in love. Like her heart pulls a little when she sees her, tries to jump out and join Sam’s and beat there inside her chest, the two of them together. She thinks she’s the most beautiful person the world has ever known, and the smartest and funniest and kindest and best. She’s the best. She wants to hold her hand all day. And everything else gets stronger, too. She starts to remember dreams, kisses that move away from lips, hands and bedsheets and– things. Things she didn’t know she could feel. And when Sam is kissing her, the ground disappears and she floats and they’re suspended in the air, no gravity, and nothing hurts then. Sam’s eyes look at her differently than she ever looked at herself. The opposite of how He looked at her. Like she’s the most exquisite work of art in a gallery, the brightest star in the sky, the goddess Aphrodite, Venus. Like she commands all the love and beauty in the universe. And it melts into her. And when she looks in the mirror, everything is new and reborn. Pure, almost, maybe. No bruises. Old scars, ignored by Sam’s eyes because they don’t change her vision. And she smiles because she’s tan. Rosy. Glowing. Teeth showing. Her body is muscle now, not bone. Her breasts are not vulnerable and timid, they are lovely. Her butt is still not Kim Kardashian’s, but it is made of donuts and pasta and pizza and running through the park at dawn and it is beautiful. And her insides are not all smashed up and destroyed and hurting, they are clean and well-loved and protected. And she even holds a hand up, cups it over a breast, holds it, faintly feels her heartbeat. And it’s okay. It is her own damn boob and she is allowed to touch it, and think it’s pretty, and value it equally with everything else. It is not tainted or dirty or bad, and neither is she. Sam says she’s brave, not a scared, submissive bitch. And she’s smart, not a dumb cunt. And she really thinks this is how love feels. And Sam’s hands, unlike His, heal a wound with every touch.