#the man with the midas touch who turned his yellow to gold

[izel-scribbles]

listening to part 28 at school got me shellshocked soldier meme-ing again.

[where-the-flash]

"The Golden Touch": Walt Disney's Actual Folly

Have you ever been tempted to own DVD sets, not strictly for their contents, but for the appeal of their packaging and presentation? Have you ever been tempted to own DVDs that were enclosed in a sturdy aluminum tin case, like they emerged from a cold vault buried thousands of feet beneath the earth's crust? Have you ever been tempted to fool your fellow schoolyard chums by placing these tin jalopies in a mini fridge and handling them with sterilized tongs like they were ancient jade necklaces that you sold on the black market? Have you ever been tempted to wave the DVD's 'certificate of authenticity' in some stupid nerd's face and tell them this is only one out of a limited 150,000 copies?

These hypothetical queries were directed toward myself and I answer all of them with an emphatic "Yes"!

These DVDs that I am belaboring-ly alluding to are the Walt Disney Treasures. The brainchild of film critic/perpetually well-groomed beard-man Leonard Maltin, the Walt Disney Treasures were a collection of historic (and even rarely seen) Disney content. It covered pretty much all the bases: old Mickey Mouse cartoons, World War II propaganda, and TV shows like The Mickey Mouse Club, Walt Disney Presents, and Davy Crockett.

One of these Walt Disney Treasures DVD sets that I owned and (I suppose) cherished were the Silly Symphonies, the musical-oriented Disney shorts that were made between 1928 to 1939. Beside the fact that these shorts were delightfully frothy bon-bons made for quick consumption, they were a sort of experimental testing ground for future Disney productions (Disney's ground-breaking work with the multi-plane camera would prove useful in their first full-length animated feature Snow White and the Seven Dwarves). They also provided a refreshing diversity of form and style. Audiences in the 1930's probably wanted a change of pace from the Mickey Mouse content they were subjected to monthly at the local movie station house.

(This is my copy of the Silly Symphonies DVD set, though I seem to have inexplicably lost the tin case, unfortunately exposing its contents to all manner of elements, including that red pepper flake lodged between the doubles L's in SILLY.)

I'd spent many hours watching Silly Symphonies as a young child and I've been revisiting them recently just to see if they still retain their, shall we say, symphonic silliness. And as I was watching old King Cole prattle on about how he was, indeed, a merry old soul and how a merry old soul he verily was, I reflected on how I use to frequently spin the Silly Symphony disk on the DVD turn-table and I suddenly remembered the first short I would watch as the needle dropped onto the disk, and that short was The Golden Touch. And, frankly, I'm not sure why. There were definitely better shorts than The Golden Touch, both visually and musically. But why did I gravitate toward this one, so much so that it was a first priority watch? Was it simply an aperitif before the main entrees of, say, a Music Land, or a Three Little Pigs, or a Who Killed Cock Robin? Or was it more than that?

The Golden Touch is an adaptation of the Greek myth of Phrygian monarch Midas (the son of Gordias, inventor of the most excessively over-tied rope knot in antiquity), who makes a wish, to the Greek deity Bacchus (also best known as Dionysus), that everything he touches transforms into a yellow-orange-colored soft metal with an atomic number of 79 (Midas is granted this request after he saves Dionysus' drunken satyr of an adviser, Silenus...actually, that's a lie....Midas found him passed out in his rose garden and politely drove him back to his Bacchic abode; no harm, no foul....at worst, a speck of vomit on the rose petals). Midas revels in his new gift, but later has the harrowing, if not unsurprising, revelation that comestibles of any kind can turn into gold as well. Unless his stomach doubles as a foundry furnace, he can't very well pass gold through his digestive tract and get any meaningful nutrients out of it. Fed up with this inconvenience, Midas decides to wash his hands of the whole thing...literally washes his hands in the Pactolus River and that's it.

That's the original version recounted by Ovid, author of the Metamorphoses (according to Edith Hamilton in her landmark 1942 text Mythology). It wasn't until Nathaniel Hawthorne came along that the fable developed a tragic angle by giving Midas a daughter that he accidentally turns to gold (from his 1852 children's book A Wonder-Book for Girls and Boys). For the purposes of brevity and a desire to not be a harsh vibe-killer for ten minutes, Walt Disney chose to stick to the safer self-preservation angle of the original.

The myth is iconic in its own right. The name "Midas" is synonymous with irresponsible, unchecked greed and its consequences....wait, is it? "Having the Midas Touch", is a common phrase that, ironically, obfuscates the tale's cautionary moral with a more generic definition of easy success. There's even a company named after that greedy bastard that installs car mufflers and they tell us to "trust the Midas touch."

I guess we haven't learned anything from this myth, have we? My guess (I almost said "theory" but that would imply that I'm smart) as to why there's still so much greed in this world is that there haven't been any real substantial King Midas adaptations in popular culture. How can we learn when the masses have not been exposed to this important myth by way of a giant, money-making blockbuster? Timothée Chalamet in a fat suit laying waste to nature and his fellow humans with garish CGI effects, throw in a couple of songs, and pad out the running time with a giant battle at the end with a golden terraforming laser shooting out of the sky and you have yourself a flop...I mean, a hit!

As much as movies, television, and pop culture in general have confronted the myth's themes of greed and isolation, direct wholesale adaptations of the myth itself are few and far between. The only half-way substantial adaptations I could find on YouTube (ones that were not cheap educational kid videos) was an episode of Mythic Warriors, an aggressively mediocre late-nineties Saturday morning cartoon show that retold Greek myths, and a fairly impressive stop-motion short film from the fifties (produced by none other than stop-motion animation pioneer Ray Harryhausen). TVTropes.org lists some animated series that have dedicated episodes to the Midas concept (Hercules: The Animated Series had an episode that depicted Midas as a Bond villian and there's an episode of Yogi Bear that has Yogi blessed with "The Pik-a-Nik Basket Touch"). And if you've ever frequented a elementary school library (assuming you were, at one point, a child), you'll probably remember seeing that horrifying book cover for The Chocolate Touch, where a young boy pecks his mother on the cheek and her upper torso turns a shade of cocoa-brown. Let's also not forget the middle school play that I co-starred in called "King Midas and the Touch of Gold" (written by Vera Morris, published by Pioneer Drama Service, the leading name in easy-bake, royalty-free community theater/primary school theatrical productions since time immemorial) where I played the pivotal role (or at least that's how I delude myself into thinking it was) of Prince Ajax, Midas' future son-in-law.

Disney's The Golden Touch, as far as I can tell, is the most well-known adaptation of the Greek myth (or at least the only one with a Wikipedia article, which is its own form of legitimacy), despite it also being one of the lesser known Silly Symphonies, one that was willfully obscured by its creator and director, Walt Disney. Snow White and the Seven Dwarves is often given the ironic moniker of "Disney's Folly" due to the fact it was a risky venture that was predicted to fail, but ended up being the highest grossing film of 1937. That's all fine and good and hopefully you get pats on the back for relating that anecdote at a future cocktail party, but if there is a project that could rightfully be deemed Disney's actual folly, it was The Golden Touch.

It was the first cartoon that Disney directed in five years (his last being 1930's The Cactus Kid, though he technically directed a couple of little things here and there, like Parade of the Award Nominees, a tiny short specifically made for the 1932 Academy Awards). There are varying interpretations as to why exactly Walt Disney returned to the director's chair. One of them was that he wasn't satisfied with his animators' work so he felt the need to show them a lesson on how it's really done. Another was that one of his head animators left and decided to take it upon himself to fill that space. Or he wanted to make important movies with strong social messages. I don't know. Who knows? So anyway, he utilized only two animators for his production (Norm Ferguson and Fred Moore) and it took about eight months to finish. And it flopped.

It was such a flop that Disney's animators would often use it as a riposte to any of Walt's nagging complaints. The animators could just say The Golden Touch and the sound of bellowing airhorns would pierce the air as a plum-faced Walt Disney left the room in silence.

And that was the last time Walt Disney directed anything. Ever.

It is not a highly-regarded short, though I would argue it gets way too much of a bad rep, which is why I will defend it in my typically over-rigorous way. Let's take a look, shall we?

(Keep in mind, this adaptation is set in a medieval setting, so don't expect Mount Olympus looming over the horizon.)

We open on a wide shot of a dungeon that serves as King Midas' treasury/counting room. The floor is covered with bags and chests of gold coins. Midas is at his desk, counting each individual coin (with no aid of abacus or feathered quill to keep track of his slow progress) as a black cat, wearing an Elizabethan ruff around its neck, looks on, rhythmically curling and uncurling its tail. The location is dour, with grey stone walls and a barred window casting a solitary shaft of light on our lone protagonist (one of the bars on the window is suspiciously bent, giving the scene a more sinister cast than is necessary). There's a garish sign over the stairwell passage that proclaims, "IN GOLD I TRUST", the kind of vulgar display you'd see displayed unironically at Mar-A-Lago. The gloomy mise-en-scène is starkly contrasted with the merry counting ditty Midas sings as he stacks each coin into unorganized piles.

One billion, two million, twenty-five-thousand, nine-hundred-and-eight,

One billion, two million, twenty-five-thousand, nine-hundred-and-nine,

One billion, two million, twenty-five-thousand, nine-hundred-and-ten,

One billion, two million, twenty-five-thousand, nine-hundred-and....

Before he can say eleven (cheekily nodding that eleven would break the syllabic count of the meter), he mightily sneezes, knocking over all the piles. He notices the camera, tips his crown to the audience, and launches into an introductory song about himself.

Before he starts singing, let's take a moment to describe King Midas' appearance (or at least Walt Disney's interpretation of him). Imagine the kind of fat, middle-aged slob you find haunting the dog track, or the local OTB, adorned in slovenly dress and a cheap stogie clamped in his teeth (narrow it down to a less lovable Uncle Buck). The kind of long shot loser that, if you even emerge within his eye-line, will chatter your ear off about how great a handicapper he is and how the so-called "experts" don't know jack-shit. A red drinker's nose, a bald dome with clownish tufts of black hair on the sides of his cranium, flabby arms, large hairy man-hands, and a stringy mustache that reminds one of a hairbrush if its bristles were made of insect-legs, all ensconced in a hourglass-shaped head. Top it off with a Jughead-like crown askance on his noggin and a ratty, oversized robe purchased from a thrift costume shoppe. It's a comically grotesque character design, like a lazy court jester posing as a king. It's like if the real king took the week off and handed off the reins to his shiftless, dead-beat brother-in-law.

The song goes as follows:

I'm known as rich King Midas,

And when you look at me,

You see a king who knows a thing

About his treasury.

I've never cared for women.

I've never cared for wine.

But when I count a large amount of money,

It's divine!

(giggle)

Gold, gold, gold!

I worship it! I love it!

Gold, gold, gold!

I wish I had more of it!

My love for shiny gold is such

That I could never have too much.

I wish that everything I touch

Would turn to gold, gold, gold!

(laughs uproariously)

It's not a good song and Midas is not a good vocalist, but it fits his boorish character and it's an efficient introduction. Being someone who is not musically inclined, it's the kind of song I would come up with in an unguarded moment.

Just then, a little man appears out of thin air. The stone walls turn golden, giving the room a warmer cast. The little man is a stereotypically androgynous elf character with bald head, big ears, pointy nose, green tights, and a feather in his cap. I'm reminded of those Santa's helper elf dolls my grandma used to stick in her Christmas tree.

A startled Midas cradles his gold doubloons and asks, "Who art thou, stranger?" The little man introduces himself as Goldie. Midas replies, "What do you want? My gold?" Goldie claims gold is "chickenfeed" to him. "Behold!" Goldie proclaims as he delicately places an index finger on the black cat's head. The cat, frozen in place, transforms into a golden statuette (an 18 K designation embossed on its torso). Midas' crown does a back flip. Seemingly unconcerned about the cat and its possible demise, Midas flicks the statuette for authenticity and it "dings" in reply. Midas begins to salivate. The Golden Touch!

There's a lovely moment of acting from Midas here. Midas lasciviously grabs the statuette but Goldie stops him. Goldie wags his finger like an adult scolding a child. A look of petulance, followed by a cocked eyebrow of suspicion clouds Midas' features. Then, he reluctantly lets go and sits back with this helpless expression on his face as Goldie snaps his fingers and claps his hands, and voila, the cat is back to normal. When the cat runs away, Midas looks briefly disappointed. In a performance dominated by broad strokes of acting (his performance is mostly ham-and-cheese with a side of big hairy mitts wildly gesticulating), it's easily the most humanizing characterization of Midas we get throughout the whole short. He's a fat, stubborn child, but not so stubborn to where he won't listen or be guided by a little reason. Underscored by Frank Churchill's lilting string section, it's a moment that gently nudges towards Midas' redemption.

Midas offers his gold and his kingdom for the Golden Touch. He even takes off his robe (leading to a funny reveal that he's not wearing a regal gown so much as a regal undershirt, exposing hairy, liver-spotted shoulders). Goldie warns of the perils of the Golden Touch, but Midas won't hear of it ("Fiddlesticks! Give me gold! Not advice!"). Goldie relents and blesses Midas with the Golden Touch. He hoots a little "toodle-oo" and disappears into the invisible ether from whence he came, the room returning to its original gloomy state.

Midas twiddles his large sausage fingers, now containing a terrible power. What can he test it on? Why, the cat, of course! This rotund fool chases the kitty around the castle, with his index finger stupidly pointing out in front of him.

When the cat runs out into the courtyard, we finally get to see the extent of Midas' kingdom. It's completely devoid of humans. No servants, maids, courtiers, or jesters in sight. It's emptier than the Queen's kingdom in Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. At least she had a burly huntsman and a creepy mirror to keep her company.

The cat climbs up an apple tree, which Midas collides into headlong. The tree transforms into gold, as golden apples (due to the the sheer weight of this miraculous alchemy) fall on Midas' head (though some of the apples still retain their red hue, which never made sense to me. I presume Midas' initial collision with the tree shook some of the apples off the tree before the alchemy took effect). Unfortunately, the cat is transformed into gold as well. Midas, delighted, grabs the stiff tail of the golden cat and lifts it up like a scepter, proclaiming, "It works! It works! Whoopee!"

Midas launches into a giddy dance, holding up his robe like a maidens' skirt (why doesn't his robe turn to gold?), and sings a mindless ditty that seems, much like the first song, shot from the hip in a passionate moment:

The Golden Touch!

The Golden Touch!

The Golden Touch!

The Golden Touch!

La La La La!

La La La La!

La La La La La La La!

Midas touches the flowers, each flower (well, they're golden flowers now) sounding like a tinkly bell in rhythm with the song. He approaches a bird fountain and twirls his finger in the water. Somehow, he is able to twirl the water upward as it turns to gold, creating what looks like a pile of excrement with a curlicue pig tail on top. The birds appraise it like studious art history majors.

He approaches a water fountain, places a hand atop the gushing water, and an avalanche of gold coins spurts out (the visual of this moment, coupled with the sound effect of the coins, reminds one of a big cash payout at a video slot machine). Then he turns the fountain into gold, mid-gush.

Then he turns two pan-flute-playing satyr statues into gold (you begin to feel the creative vitality of this sequence winding down if two boring satyr statues is Walt's idea of a victory lap).

Midas prances through a hallway before approaching a big mirror. Since he is a lonely monarch, he talks to himself. More specifically, he discusses the possibility of turning the whole world into gold. His reflection becomes a separate entity and applauds the king's lofty ambitions (a overused visual gag, but it's fine). The king smiles and gives himself a golden tooth.

After a long morning of touching things, Midas treats himself to a full banquet of food. This scene is the revelatory moment when Midas discovers the foolhardiness of his wish. He attempts to eat grapefruit but as he dips his spoon into the pulp, a stream of coins shoots into his face. Midas takes it in stride at first, affecting an aristocratic manner, using a gold coin as a mock monocle. Peeling back a banana, he gets a pile of coins rather than a sweet fleshy treat. He grabs his goblet. Mouthful of coins,

Midas is starting to get worried. He forks a succulent roast chicken from across the table. Just as his teeth touch the skin, the chicken is now a golden chicken. In petulant frustration, Midas touches all the dishes before flipping the entire table.

(The sound design is also quite interesting: throughout the short, when Midas turns things to gold, there's a tinkly, quavering bell sound that emanates. It's frothy and angelic, echoing Midas' glee at his newfound power. Now, when he's touching all the dishes in the throes of hunger, the sound is more hollow and cacophonous, evoking the gold's now chilly uselessness. When he's biting the gold-plated chicken, it sounds like someone hammering a slab of metal.)

Midas is pulling his hair out and laughing maniacally. He approaches the mirror from earlier and asks his reflection, "Is the richest king in all the world to starve to death?"

His reflection, now a golden skeleton, nods in assent. Frightened, Midas tries to flee the castle. Unfortunately, his long shadow serves as the veil for a giant golden Grim Reaper blocking the door. The sound that comes out of Midas is.....is it possible to call one's frightened gasp 'blood-curdling'? It's a gasp that has 'fatal coronary' written all over it. The skeleton makes a slashing motion across his throat and the king runs away. Probably my favorite moment in any cartoon.

A shaken Midas returns to his treasury and pleads for Goldie to return, all the while crying like a infant. Goldie, indeed, does return, mocking Midas' vanity. Midas begs Goldie to erase "this golden curse". He offers Goldie his entire kingdom for one "hamburger sandwich" (charmingly redundant phrase). A pretty drastic offer: a complete enunciation of all materialism and power, all for a sandwich whose existence would cease after three masticatory cycles of the lower jaw (it takes me three bites to finish a hamburger, a pleasant sight for anyone whose ever eaten in my presence). Being the maniacal sadist that he is, Goldie teasingly asks him, "With or without onions?" Midas says plain is fine. Goldie "toodle-oo's" back into the eighth dimension.

We get a wide shot of the dungeon treasury (if you notice, the desk is not centered in the shot like it was in the opening and the ceiling is way higher. Mainly because it's about to be used in an upcoming match cut where we see the massive dirt pit that was once the treasury, to show the overall scale of the castle's evaporation) as the castle begins to implode. Debris is falling and there's this putrid gold filter that flickers on screen (like a strobe effect) to simulate the implosion. It's not great.

Midas is now standing in an open pit that was formerly the treasury. His kingly robes disappear, replaced by a Depression-era railroad bum outfit with polka-dotted undershirt, striped boxers, and a tin can as a replacement crown. Then, as promised, a hamburger sandwich appears out of thin air. Midas is ecstatic, but hesitant. He slowly and nervously touches the hamburger sandwich (covering his eyes in the hopes that...well, his hopes won't be dashed). It remains a hamburger sandwich. He looks under the bun and exclaims with a toothless smile (the gold tooth is gone...little details do not go unnoticed), "With onions! Whoopee!" Midas voraciously gnaws at his hamburger sandwich. La fin.

So, why is The Golden Touch considered such an ugly duckling in Disney canon?

Backlash towards it, at least from the perspective of the animators, was either a case of expectations being raised too high (considering that Uncle Walt was behind it, you would think it would be the most amazing work of animation to have ever been farted out of that blessed studio), or just plain old schadenfreude (Walt was known to be a prickly pear, so animators rejoiced at this supposed "failure").

I don't have an opinion on what makes The Golden Touch strong or weak from an animation standpoint (I'm not an expert on the finer details of animation). You can't really go wrong with Disney in terms of technical craft, so all I can is say is that I like the animation. It's good....except for that palace destruction sequence.

A common criticism of The Golden Touch are that the characters are unlikable, with Midas being a loud man-child and Goldie being a snide rogue who harbors no sympathy for the king. It's also criticized for not being terribly effective as a fable either, with Midas' redemption hinging not so much on a moral realization of gold's inherent evil, but rather on the self-preservation instinct that starvation inspires in desperate, selfish people. Sure, Midas' hunger for gold is extinguished, but it just ends up being replaced by a different kind of hunger. And judging from his rotund physique, his whole existence is driven not by any sort of human compassion (since there's no one around for him to be compassionate towards), but rather by satiety. You could argue the ending has a Depression-era populist moral, relating to the common man and how to be content with little, but it doesn't seem to point in any hopeful direction in its otherwise hopeless protagonist.

And also, people didn't find it funny (well, Disney shorts were never that funny; they were just clever in a smirky way) and thought it was too long (The Golden Touch is ten minutes long, the longest of the Silly Symphonies). But that's subjective.

And if we want to be shamelessly nitpick-y about it, we could say it barely qualifies as a Silly Symphony. It only has two songs, and they're easily disposable. It leans more on the "silly" than the "symphony" and it falls short of the mark of being both at the same time and that's probably irritating for anyone who is that much of a literalist.

These are understandable criticisms, but they're also rather narrow readings. It's being judged too much through the lens of "meaningful fable" or "typically whole-hearted Disney fare".

The Golden Touch, at least to me, feels more like a farcical condemnation of privileged wealth. Its flippant tone and irreverent disregard for easy morality is more akin to a Warner Bros. cartoon. It doesn't have the same snide mean-spiritedness as Bugs Bunny torturing an opera singer, but there's a noticeable lack of sentimentality, especially compared to other Disney projects. This tonal flippancy can be seen as a failure of intent, but if it is, its unintended effect still works. It felt different from other Disney shorts and probably why I gravitated towards it the most. It had...edge. Well, about as much edge as a butter knife, but relative to other Disney shorts, it manages to draw a pink mark on the studio's lily-white skin.

I like King Midas. Midas is a larger-than-life clown whose childishness and slimy charisma are engaging in a mildly acidic way. This is all due to Norm Ferguson's amusing character design and Billy Bletcher's gargantuan baritone. It's a well-realized interpretation. I can't say the same for Goldie, who is basically a squeaky-voiced dime-store leprechaun with a mischievous countenance, but it's serviceable.

It's enjoyability is also enhanced by its visuals, especially when Midas is turning everything into gold. The golden touch is, obviously, the short's creative weapon and I'm still entranced by its various visual gags. The sequence when Midas is prancing around in his garden has a playful tone that is acerbically contrasted with his casual destruction of nature. The sequence with Midas at his banquet table is funny while also being palpably tense (you cam feel Midas' panicky frustration at not being able to eat).

The ending itself is a pretty bold reimagining of the blandly happy ending that often bookends the Midas myth. It often just ends with Midas learning his lesson and retaining all his worldly goods. In Disney's The Golden Touch, Midas literally loses everything. Sure, it's based on Midas' impulsiveness (he doesn't even think twice about what he's saying when making that fatal deal with Goldie; he's just an mindless animal blurting things out in desperation), but that impulsiveness and recklessness is just punishment for a man who has no business ruling over anybody, or anything for that matter. Uncle Walt is a much harsher critic of Midas than Ovid or Hawthorne ever were.

I also like The Golden Touch simply because I like the dark, suggestive undercurrent of the tale. The myth itself is already bathed in frightening implications. The eerie uniformity of a kingdom glazed in a dull sheen. And not being able to do...anything, let alone eat. It's crippling and isolating and would send even the most stalwart soul into the fetal position.

Granted, The Golden Touch doesn't morosely dip its head into the widening gyre of its scenario. It is ultimately a silly, harmless cartoon at its core, but it's the suggestion of that darkness that matters. It's only a ten minute short and yet, its conveys its world with brisk efficiency and surprising creativity. And though it might not feel wholly satisfying in its brief running time, it managed to fire up my young imagination.

Even its inconsistencies are engaging. Like, when he touches his cloak, why doesn't it turn to gold? When he touches the apple tree, why are some of the apples still red? When he forks the big chicken, why doesn't the chicken turn to gold right there since the chicken is touching the fork that he's holding? Why does the chicken turn to gold when it touches his teeth? Is it implying that other parts of his body have the golden touch? If that's the case, then why don't his slippers turn to gold? This infinite regress of nitpicks, far from being frustrating, are actually tantalizing and fun. It gives the viewer license to wrap their head around the thorny practicalities of having such a curse. Like, I'm just imagining one of Midas' servants (if he has any) dangling from a rope and dropping pieces of chicken into Midas' mouth, in the vain hope that none of the meat turns to gold if it touches his uvula.

Also, I like the golden skeletal specters of death near the end. It's always nice when a cartoon aimed for children reminds me of the finite time I have left.

Would it be trite to compare King Midas to Walt Disney for the purpose of a sassy put-down? Yeah. I'm sure one can't help but make that comparison. Were they both somewhat controlling bastards who got a taste of their own medicine? Sure. But that's just symmetrical poetical thinking.

If anything, I could almost see the short as being self-deprecation on Walt's part, playfully imagining himself the way he thought other people saw him. He purposefully created a demon so others could slay it, and hopefully inspire confidence in his animators to outdo themselves. But that's symmetrical poetical thinking on my part.

The simple honest answer is that Walt Disney sincerely tried to direct a short, and nobody liked it, and he remained wounded about it ever since. But I think ol' Walt might have been a bit hard on himself. The man tried and I think it worked. It was a noble attempt at something different after multiple cartoons tackled such tried-and-true subjects like cats, birds, flowers, trees, mice, pigs, kittens, bunnies, insects, fish, and other assorted nursery rhyme miscellany. Walt tried to tackle the inner darkness of mens' souls, and he did it with the kind of palatable whimsy that we can expect from the man. It's good. I like it.

Now, I will end on my own sassy critic blurb: "The Golden Touch? More like The Silver Touch."

Thank you.

Further Reading

Mythology: Timeless Tales of Gods and Heroes by Edith Hamilton (the classic, go-to source for Greek and Roman mythology, although her section on Midas is listed in the section entitled "The Less Important Myths", which frankly kind of undersells my rigorous, pain-staking scholarship on the subject; how am I to be taken seriously on Tumblr with that kind of attitude, Ms. Hamilton?!?)

The TVTropes page on the Midas Touch provided examples of the myth's impact on pop culture; not an exhaustive list, I imagine, but it definitely answered my persistent queries on whether there have been any substantial adaptations of the myth.

When Walt Laid a Golden Egg by Jim Korkis https://www.mouseplanet.com/10214/When_Walt_Laid_a_Golden_Egg

Lastly, an interesting little article about the history of the short in question.

[kpopnlockit]

Sunsets

Optional Bias

     The sun took longer to set in summer. The gilded hour that preceded it was beautiful in its own way. It was hazy and thick and cast everything it touched in gold like King Midas. That moment passed in a blink of an eye. The sunset was more careful, more decisive in who it let its light paint. It coated the clouds in a soft pink and pastel and as it deepened, purples scattered across the dimming sky as if it were a footman announcing the nightfall to a crowd of onlookers. You were pleased to read by an open window, letting the warm breeze float over your skin and the barrage of colors illuminate the yellowed pages of your obscure tales. Only when the sun had nothing left to give did you light a candle. Often you would continue to read a bit more before retiring, but sometimes you let nature tell you it was time for bed. There was beauty in the night but that which was fleeting seemed to mesmerize in a way that could only be described as a spell cast with the most innocent of magics.

     You had a small balcony that you sparingly used. There were two not so pleasant wasps that tended to occupy the space and you were not often in a sharing mood. Today it had been particularly humid and mist created a gradient in the sky that you could not ignore. It was warm out but you still wore a jacket to protect any exposed skin from dangerous insects. You braved the balcony and leaned against the dusty neglected wooden railing. There, the sunset was undiluted and vibrant. The smell of moisture was heavy in the air. It was a lovely summer evening. No, “lovely” could not begin to describe the moment. It was so much more.

     The light was dimming when you felt someone watching you. You followed the strange feeling to a terrace on the building next door. There was a young man leaning on the railing much like you were. The only difference was that he rested his head on the palm of his hand and was gazing in your direction instead of up at the heavens. He did not look away when your eyes met his. You startled at his brazenness and hurriedly averted your gaze. He could not have been looking at you. You must have been mistaken. You glanced back and he was still watching you. He wore a faint smile and though you should have been unnerved, you were not. His face was open and friendly and somehow you knew that he too, had simply come out to enjoy the scenery. You had not planned to share the view but you supposed that you could offer some semblance of graciousness to a kindred spirit. You gave him a warbly smile.

     At that, his smirk faltered and he seemed to suddenly cough, having to cover his mouth and turn away to recover. That gave you a chance to really examine him. He appeared to be about your age and was dressed simply in a shirt still tucked into his trousers. His hair had been waxed but was now slightly tousled out of its once neat style. Even with the night rapidly coming upon you, you could make out that he was relatively handsome. Perhaps not in a conventional way, but he was attractive in the way that people who knew who they were are. His eyes flitted back to yours. He pressed his lips together sheepishly before flashing you a grin. He had an endearing dimple on his cheek.

     You gave him a tight smile in return and set your sights back on the last of the sunset. Navy had already become the prominent pigment between the layers of ozone above. Somehow, your little encounter had not broken the spell. The magic was too strong. When you snuck another peek at the other veranda the man was no longer there. You too, went back inside and went to bed.

     The following day, it rained relentlessly. The gloom dyed the world gray. The only way you knew that the sun was out at all was that it was slightly brighter than it had been at night. You needed candles to even see well enough to make a cup of tea. After work, you sat by the window with a blanket and a book in your lap. It was a cozy kind of day, the ideal type of Autumn day despite the season being months away. The weather held its own mystical quality completely different from the prior day’s bewitchment. However, it was still very much enjoyable. You slept unusually well that night. Probably too well.

     You were incredibly late from oversleeping. You barely had enough time to brush your hair let alone dress properly. You were sure that when you got a chance to look at yourself, there would be more than a few buttons misaligned on your blouse. You ran out of the house like a bat out of hell and promptly crashed into some poor pedestrian on the sidewalk. You bounced off the other person as if you had gone careening into a brick wall. Thankfully your purse had been slung over your shoulder or it would have gone flying. A hand flung out and grabbed your arm. The grip was hard enough to bruise but it kept you upright. Falling backwards into the pavement would have caused a lot more damage than the catch.

     Once your balance had been righted, you loudly and breathlessly apologized, “I am so sorry!”

     Only when you took a firm step out of the way were you released from your hold. When you looked up, you realized you had run directly into the chest of the man next door. Recognition flashed across his face and you could physically feel the level of awkwardness rising. You searched the area to ensure none of his belongings were on the ground. After confirming that there were no items in need of retrieving, you asked in a calmer tone, “Are you alright?”

     The man looked dumbfounded for a moment before answering, “I am alright.” His hair was neat and tidy and he was wearing a vest over his shirt. He was the image of orderly chivalry.

     You apologized again and excused yourself in a rush. You ran all the way to the shop but were still late.

     To make up for your tardiness, you stayed later and made sure to be extra productive. As such, by the time you trudged home, the sun had already dipped just less than halfway below the horizon. You gandered at the row of apartments lining the street and saw him waving at you. As you waved back, he leaned over the balcony to call out to you.

     “Are you just getting home?” he inquired.

     “Yes,” you replied. Then you added, “I am sorry for earlier.”

     “I am quite alright. Were you late to work?”

     “Yes,” you responded guiltily.

     “Well, I wish you an uneventful evening.”

     “Thank you,” you said and waved goodbye.

     That night, you washed and tried to catch the last bit of the sunset. This time you did not hesitate to step outside, wasps be damned. You looked to your right and he was there. His vest from the morning was gone and his hair was back to being a charming mess. He grinned widely and you returned the gesture.

     “I was not expecting to see you out here tonight,” he commented.

     You tilted your head slightly and said, “I could not resist.” After the words were out of your mouth, you realized all the ways they could be misconstrued. You gulped and pointedly returned your attention to the sky.

     “Me either,” you heard faintly.

     You smiled despite yourself. Sunsets were most certainly magical.

[pillage-and-lute]

An Ever Fixed Mark (Part 3)

 Part 1 Part 2 (here) Part 4 Part 5 Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10,

Read it on Ao3 HERE

It’s back! The boys get hitched, and Geralt gets nervous. 

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Three days.

Three entire, fucking awful days until the wedding.

Geralt had paced in their quarters, he had paced in the halls, he had paced in the courtyard (after getting lost and pacing until a footman found him). He had taken Roach out for a ride and paced her.

It wasn’t just cold feet, pre wedding jitters, or the usual sort.

He was afraid for Jaskier, afraid for himself, and afraid of letting down witchers. If Jaskier became unhappy in their marriage the contract was void. Jaskier didn’t seem happy in Lettenhove but it was comfortable and he had plenty to eat and a warm place to sleep. Nice clothes. Like minded, well educated people. The list just kept getting longer.

Geralt had to keep him happy.

More than that, he’d have to keep him safe. The path was dangerous, no place for an Earl’s son who’d only known luxury. He understood Jaskier had been at Oxenfurt, so he must know something of the world, but only of the academic world. He’d studied literature and music, what good was that for a witcher’s companion?

He liked Jaskier. It would be hard not to. But would he like him on the Path, as a constant companion? Another person to look after, another mouth to feed? He liked Jaskier, but he also barely knew him. He knew he was young, thankfully unafraid of witchers, but could he fight? Would he do as he was told? 

And Geralt would be around him all the time. 

Geralt didn’t like being around anyone All. The. Time.

He needed space even at Kaer Morhen, sometimes disappearing into his room all day, or if the weather allowed just taking Roach into the forest for a day.

Eskel was beating the stiffness from Geralt’s muscles again, the evening of the day before the wedding, and said quietly, in between vertebrae numbing digs,

“You ever think all that worrying will be a self fulfilling prophesy?”

“Hmmm...OW Eskel the fuck!”

“Listen, first of all I didn’t even do it that hard. Geralt, you’re my brother, and I know you better than anyone. You get all trapped in your head, and you worry, ‘cause you don’t understand people. You think you’re different.”

“I am different.”

“Don’t interrupt me,” Eskel said, popping Geralt’s back with well placed pressure. “You’re different, okay. I don’t know what all they did to you with that extra trial. I don’t think Vesemir knows, really, no one does. But I remember you before, alright? You were like this before. It isn’t a bad thing, some people just don’t always get other people. Jaskier does though. Allow him to understand you, don’t try and understand him all at once.”

Eskel finished the massage with a truly bone-wrenching press. “I think you could be really good for each other, just don’t...don’t go and mess it up just because you think you shouldn’t have something good.”

“Hmmm.”

Geralt woke up on his wedding day feeling hungover, except he hadn’t been drunk last night. 

Eskel didn’t look well rested either, although he had a sort of stupid grin on his face. Mabel had been by a few times in the past days, and Eskel at least was having the time of his life. 

Judging by the scratch marks she’d left all down his back, she’d been having the time of hers as well. 

Geralt sunk into the bath, which had been tepid by the time the tub had been lugged up the stairs and servants had filled it with water. Igni took care of that, and Geralt sat and steamed behind a little standing wooden panel that the servants had also brought. 

The little modesty panel room divider had been a source of some amusement for the witchers. Body shyness was bred out of witchers before it had time to form. Lambert did comment, however, that it would be nice not to have to watch Geralt sit and cook in the bath like a boiling potato.

Rosewater had been put in the bath, not much, and it wasn’t a strong scent, but to witcher senses it was heady. 

Geralt scrubbed his hair. Then Vesemir scoffed and told him he was too gentle. Vesemir practically beat his scalp into submission.

Geralt had a gold doublet and he felt like a ponce. Lambert insisted that he couldn’t wear black to a wedding, and certainly not his own. Geralt wanted to protest, but he couldn’t, not really. None of the wolves were wearing black, and if the occasion had pried black from Vesemir, then it really was time for colors.

Lambert was in a mahogany brown-red, and looked almost dashing, if a little rougish. Eskel was in dark green, he looked good, too. If Maybel was serving at the wedding there would almost certainly be some appreciative remarks. Vesemir was wearing brown. If he couldn’t wear black, Geralt supposed a neutral color was the next best thing. 

It was still inexplicably a party brown. There was some quilting on the sleeves of the doublet done in a coppery thread and, all in all, Vesemir looked as festive as Geralt had ever seen him.

Geralt didn’t look festive, he looked like Midas had touched him, then, when apparently that wasn’t enough, covered him in glitter and embroidery. The wedding was to take place outside, and Geralt wondered if he wouldn’t blind people. Still, looking at the School of the Wolf, he thought he at least had a rather handsome entourage. 

His face was scrubbed and, short of the miraculous disappearance of a couple scars, he was as handsome as he could get. Lambert had pulled his hair back with a couple braids. Also, in Geralt’s opinion, poncy, but he’d seen a few of the other nobles in a similar style so perhaps he’d best leave it to fashion and not put up a fuss. 

They were lead by a footman, more a foot boy, with a face full of freckles and unfortunate ears, to a garden. It was probably a bower but Geralt didn’t know about horticulture. Trees had been planted and then twisted by someone dreadfully patient into a sort of cathedral of arching limbs. Spring meant flowers, and they were everywhere. The trees were the flowering sort, almond trees with fragrant blossoms. Delicate petals had fallen to the ground in a sort of pale carpet. Every time a breeze blew a few more drifted to the ground like spring snowflakes. Smaller, brighter flowers abounded near the edges of the manmade clearing. Their perfume was giving Geralt a headache, but he couldn’t blame the knee-knocking terror on them. 

Little stone benches had been arranged in rows, but were empty as of yet.  Vesemir sat in the position traditionally meant for the father of the groom. Eskel was best man, with Lambert beside him as the other groomsman. 

And they waited in silence, blossoms falling around them as Geralt’s knees turned progressively into liquid.

He felt sick.

He might throw up.

The image of stuffing his head into one of the bushes of pink and yellow roses and puking lurked threateningly in his head.

Lambert smirked at him unsympathetically. 

Ladies swept in, dusting petals from benches and hanging little baskets of flowers off the back of the benches. Geralt absently wondered what for, all the while fighting his roiling stomach.

He’d been too nervous to eat this morning, and now he was worried it would growl during the service, but if he ate now he’d vomit for sure.

His flower question was answered when a broomstick-thin lass came up to him with a basket in hand and nervously proffered a little twist of flowers. He took it, baffled. One of the funny pink and yellow roses, something purple, a bit of greenery, and a couple almond blossoms. He glanced at Vesemir, questioningly, who pointedly stuck the flowers in a decorative slit in his doublet. 

Next to him, another girl nudged the skinny, nervous one out of the way. He recognized Mabel. She gave him a cheerful grin.

“Switched places with Leeann for the day,” she whispered to Eskel. One of her hands slid slowly up his chest, wrapped in green silk. “And I’m so glad I did.” She stuck the boutonniere into the collar, his doublet lacking anywhere else, and sent him a wink that, in more conservative countries, got women jailed.

Past Eskel, the nervous girl was holding flowers out to Lambert. They shivered in her grip. Instead of the vicious grin Geralt expected, Lambert gave her a polite smile and an attempt at a courtly bow. She scuttled off and he tucked the flowers into a small pocket on his doublet, looking at his brothers and shrugging.

Geralt looked at the twist of flowers in his hand. They seemed very easily bruised and broken in his fingers. He didn’t have anywhere to tuck them. 

Eskel came to the rescue.

“There’s a little slit here somewhere,” he said, poking at the embroidery on Geralt’s chest. He found it. “Ah, here we go, just stick those in there.” Geralt did. “You almost look presentable.” Eskel said, not totally unkindly. 

Then he must have seen the raw terror in Geralt’s eyes. 

“It’ll be fine, brother,” Eskel said, clapping him on the shoulder. “You look good.”

Eskel stepped back into place, sending a wink towards Mabel, lined up near the back with the other housemaids. 

Guests slowly filtered in. 

There were more jewels and crystals about the throats and in the hair of the ladies than Geralt had ever seen before. Geralt felt a little better about his golden doublet, because there wasn’t an outfit on the benches that didn’t glitter. 

Then a couple minstrels struck up a sweet, simple tune, and two little children entered. A girl in an almond blossom crown was scattering pink petals on the already well-petaled floor. She was so sweetly serious about her duty, solemnly distributing the petals, that coos and chuckles filtered through the crowd. The little boy was holding a cushion with wedding bands. 

Geralt cursed mentally and began to panic. He’d left Jaskier’s mother’s ring in their rooms. It was too late to get it. He felt even more sick. Vesemir gave him a worried look and Geralt took a deep breath. They could always swap the ring out later.

A young woman in a pale blue dress entered, holding a small bouquet of the white almond blossoms. She was followed by another young woman, in the same dress and a very similar bouquet. Bridesmaids, Geralt supposed. One of them reached down and took the hand of the little flower girl. The ring bearer, slightly older, stood without a hand, but fidgeted. Geralt could sympathize.

The music changed.

A slow processional began and a hush fell on the crowd.

 The Earl stepped forward, Jaskier on his arm. The earl wore grey, like a dove, but Jaskier.

Jaskier.

Well.

Wow.

He wore pearly white, with a crown of almond blossoms and roses, and every inch of his doublet was covered in tiny, delicate seed pearls. In this beautiful bower, with delicate flowers all around, he looked like the spirit of this place. Like a dryad made of almond blossoms and sunlight. 

He was beautiful. Truly breathtaking.

He wore no boutonniere, and his hands were free of bouquets. Geralt’s stomach chose this exact moment to remind him that he really, really wanted to throw up right now. His head pounded and his knees felt weak.

He vaguely registered the slow procession being brought up at the rear by a priest in white. Next to Jaskier, the white looked dull and lifeless as the priest took his place.

“Who gives this man,” the priest croaked.

“I do,” the earl said, linking Jaskier’s hand with Geralt’s and sitting in the mirror of Vesemir’s position. 

Geralt looked at that hand, so delicate in his giant paw. He thought of the flowers tucked into his doublet, so easily crushed. 

The priest was saying something about eternity, but Geralt’s blood was rushing in his ears. Jaskier was looking at him too, but Geralt’s gaze was locked on their hands. 

Vows were said, and Geralt was lucky they were short. 

“From this cup we shall drink,” Geralt repeated, taking a sip of wine from a goblet that appeared out of nowhere and handing it to Jaskier. 

“And we shall share this wine as we share our lives,” Jaskier said, taking a sip.

“All the days of our lives,” the priest said, taking the goblet.

“All the days of our lives,” Geralt and Jaskier said in unison. Their eyes met for the first time, and Geralt’s stomach protested. 

“Have you the rings” intoned the priest. The little ringbearer stepped up. Jaskier took a wedding band and thanked the boy with a smile. Eskel nudged Geralt and palmed a ring into his hand, Jaskier’s mother’s ring. 

The ringbearer took this well in his stride and went back to his place. 

Jaskier smiled up at Geralt, then carefully slipped the little golden band onto Geralt’s finger. Geralt gulped, Jaskier’s smile slipped a little, looking concerned, and Geralt wondered what he’d seen in his face. 

His big fingers fumbled a little with the delicate ring, but he slid it into place on Jaskier’s finger. It fit as exactly as it had in the little study, which seemed very long ago now.

“You may kiss the groom,” said the priest. 

It felt like a badger was gnawing Geralt’s intestines. He slid his hands hesitantly around Jaskier’s waist. The young man’s arms wrapped around his neck. It would have been nice if Geralt wasn’t so nauseous. 

Geralt gave Jaskier a peck. 

He pulled back and caught Jaskier’s disappointed look, but then they were being ushered back down the aisle and into the hall and there were congratulations. Bells were ringing, people were throwing rice, Geralt’s head was pounding like his brain was about to leak from his ears. 

Out on the steps of the chateau they were handed plates, most of the wedding party were, and they smashed them on the ground, to the misery of Geralt’s poor head. 

Jaskier seemed to be having a wonderful time, laughing as the porcelain smashed and shining even brighter in the bright sunlight on the steps. Geralt longed for the dimmer lighting of the glade. Jaskier kept looking over at Geralt, and the laughter in his eyes kept dimming. 

It made Geralt’s ribs ache to see. He knew he must be scowling, but the thought that Jaskier’s day was being ruined by him was awful. He wasn’t an ideal husband but surely he wasn’t that bad. It definitely didn’t bode well.

The tide of people bore them into the great hall, and they were sat at the front table with the earl and Amaria. Vesemir and Geralt’s brothers were at another table and Geralt felt very alone. 

“Is everything alright?” Jaskier asked, leaning in close to whisper in Geralt’s ear.

“Headache,” Geralt grunted. 

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier said, rubbing his thumb over Geralt’s wrist. On his finger, the opal caught the light. The young man’s shoulders slumped a little. “I’m sorry too that you’ve been roped into all this,” he released Geralt’s wrist. “I know this isn’t your choice.”

It wasn’t Geralt’s choice of course. But if he was getting married, Jaskier didn’t seem like a bad husband. There was something in Jaskier’s eyes, though, a sort of wistful distance. It occurred to Geralt that Jaskier was in this arranged marriage too. This wasn’t his choice. From what he’d said before, the viscount had probably grown up believing he’d be able to marry for love, or at least someone he liked and was of suitable social status.

Geralt wondered if the young man wasn’t looking around at his own wedding, wishing love were the base of it after all. True love, a smile during the procession, giggles during the ceremony and little jokes and kisses during the reception, instead of a witcher with a headache. 

Geralt realised that he didn’t know if Jaskier liked men at all. Perhaps he was looking around wishing some pretty noble lady was wearing white instead of he. 

Clanging started up as first one, then many people tapped spoons to glasses. 

“They want us to kiss,” Geralt said numbly.

“Yes,” Jaskier said, turning towards Geralt and leaning in. At least he didn’t seem to horribly mind kissing men. Geralt rested a hand, the one towards the audience, on Jaskier’s face, hiding the view of their lips. Then he leaned in and kissed the air less than a centimeter from Jaskier’s mouth. 

It satisfied the crowd, but Jaskier looked unhappy as he pulled back. Had he minded the play acting? Did he just want Geralt to let them ring the glasses indefinitely? Had Geralt crossed a line, even pretending to kiss him? Jaskier stared at his lap.

Geralt stared at his own.

They both picked at dinner. Sounds swirled in Geralt’s ears.

“Geralt.”

He wouldn’t have heard it but for his enhanced hearing. To anyone else it was just another murmur of conversation, the susurrus of the ballroom. Geralt looked up, to meet eyes with Eskel. 

“Geralt,” Eskel said. “Don’t mess it up, you deserve nice things.”

Geralt nodded, and Eskel broke their locked gazes. 

Some of the headache had subsided by now, and it was too late to be nervous. He took a big swig of the wine. 

Jaskier may not have wanted to marry him, may be dreaming of a different wedding day, but Geralt could still make it memorable. He took another swig of the wine and wished it were stronger.

Dancing hadn’t been planned, but there was music and a clear space between tables. Geralt stood and took Jaskier’s hand, giving him an only slightly wan smile.

Jaskier looked baffled, but followed Geralt to the impromptu dancefloor. The minstrels picked up on what was going on, and a rather cheerful waltz was struck up. 

Geralt wasn’t much of a dancer, but he’d been taught the basics long ago, and Jaskier was an excellent partner. His skill made up for Geralt’s more clumsy footwork. Geralt slid his hands to Jaskier’s hips, keeping his grip firmly appropriate, then lifted Jaskier into a twirl he’d seen once before at a ball he’d been forced to attend.

In that case, the lady’s skirt had swirled and swished most attractively. Here, Jaskier’s slightly wilted flower crown came off, but Jaskier was laughing, head back, the sound like sunshine. The crowed oohed appreciatively at the display and Geralt guided his new husband down to the ground again.

Jaskier’s fancy footwork saved them from stumbling into one another but Geralt wasn’t paying attention. He’d saved Jaskier’s wedding day, or at least he hoped, this portion of it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw motion, Lambert flinging the recovered flower crown to Geralt. He snatched it from the air and placed it firmly back on Jaskier’s head, to applause. 

More couples joined the dancefloor, and soon it was pretty crowded. Jaskier led them back to the head table, giggling a little. 

The earl wasn’t dancing, and Amaria looked wistful, or perhaps just distant, it was so hard to tell with her.

“Look,” Jaskier whispered, pointing surreptitiously at a couple. It was Eskel. Geralt half expected him to be dancing with Mabel, but she was busily serving tables.

Besides, Geralt reflected. Theirs wasn’t a romance, per say, more simple physical appreciation.

No, Eskel had the little flower girl standing on his boots, and was happily spinning them about the dancefloor. He took great, hopping steps that bounced her about, holding her hands gently to keep her grounded. Geralt listened carefully and, in the din of the hall, picked out her delighted, pealing laughter. 

Lambert liked dancing, and Geralt carefully pointed him out to Jaskier, as he showed the shy, thin housemaid how to do one of the fancier spins. 

Jaskier seemed to delight in the people watching, and they chuckled together at a couple, a very large, glamorously dressed woman with her small, slim beau. She whirled him about, sometimes holding him entirely off the ground. 

“He doesn’t seem to mind,” Jaskier said.

Geralt looked at the man’s expression as he was crushed against a frankly enormous bosom. It looked blissful. “No, he certainly doesn’t.”

Vesemir approached their table.

“My congratulations,” he said to Jaskier. He gave a handshake and then pulled the lad into a warm hug. “Welcome to the family,” he whispered. 

“A fine party,” he then said, to the earl and Lady Amaria. “If you do not care for dancing,” this was adressed to the earl. “Would the lady perhaps wish to join me for a dance?”

“By all means,” said the earl, waving Vesemir away. Lady Amaria smiled absently and limply took Vesemir’s hand. 

Geralt knew trading dances was usual, but he was curious to see his mentor dancing. As he watched the couple, he saw Vesemir conversing with her ladyship, whispering into her ear. Even Geralt’s advanced hearing couldn’t catch the words.

After the dance Vesemir returned Amaria to her seat. Perhaps it was a fluke, but she looked more alert. Then the earl tapped his knife to his crystal goblet. 

It had the same effect as a drop of ink falling into clear water.

Silence spread through the hall, twisting between couples and curling around tables until everything was still.

The earl stood. 

Like his son he was a fairly tall man, and in the grey, with his steely eyes and sharp demenour he didn’t just command attention, he demanded it. He got it, too, as men rich enough to have dungeons in their basements tend to.

“I wish to make a toast to my son,” he gave a smile like a stiletto. “And his new husband.

“Before, witchers have been seen as wicked mutants, monsters,” a tiny pause, like the glint of a crossbow bolt. “Butchers.” 

Unease was in the hall, and there was something in the earl’s voice, he was a truly charismatic speaker. And a dick. 

“Long has it been known how they viciously kill, dismember, and pillage.”

“No,” Jaskier whispered under his breath. The words had really set the cat among the pigeons. A few short sentences reminded the crowd of their distrust. The flower girl, still standing next to Eskel, was ushered away from him. Lamberts dance partner was edging away.

“Of course, not anymore,” the earl continued, snakelike. “And it behooves us to make a contract, that so long as they act appropriately, they are to be treated as other migrant workers.”

Damn, Geralt thought. Migrant workers weren’t treated that well, and after this speech...well. 

“It brings me great joy to marry off my only son,” the earl gripped Jaskier’s collar and hauled him to a standing position. “Although many of you know, he is more of a daughter,” here the earl gave an unpleasant chuckle. “And a troublesome one at that, not much of a warrior, too headstrong for knighthood...but today he sacrifices for his people.”

The earl’s voice swelled, an impressive, ringing oration, like a good preacher ringing home the moral point. “He sacrifices much, and it is sad, I am, that I may never see my son again, to submit him to the ravages of a witcher,” a vicious breath, “’s lifestyle.”

Lambert looked murderous, Eskel betrayed. Vesemir’s face was entirely impassive. Granite. Unreadable.

“But we each make sacrifices for the greater good, and I place my faith in our people, as I have always done. My, admittedly troublesome, shameless son has become part of a new...family.” Family was said like it poisoned the tongue. “And my people become my children. I work for your benefit, my beloved subjects, and today, so does my son, Julian. Three cheers for the new couple!”

Three very hesitant cheers were given, then Geralt and Jaskier were very nearly pushed into a room.

“What the fuck?”

“Evil, stupid, bastard,” Jaskier cursed at the same time. 

Jaskier looked furious, but there were tears in his eyes.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, crossing to the young man and guiding him to sit on the huge, lavish bed. Their marriage bed, Geralt supposed. “Jaskier I don’t understand, what was all that.”

“He couldn’t resist humiliating me, his last chance, I suppose,” Jaskier said, pulling off his boots. “But it’s worse what he did to you lot.”

A tap at the door. Geralt opened it hesitantly, but it was the wolves, and there was fire in Vesemir’s eyes.

“I didn’t know,” Jaskier said, looking up at Vesemir pleadingly. “I swear I didn’t know what he would do.”

“I understand lad,” Vesemir said, but the fire in his eyes didn’t bank. At least it wasn’t directed at Jaskier, who looked positively wilted.

“I don’t,” Geralt said. “He said, some awful stuff, he referenced Blaviken, I get that, but what does it mean.” 

“The common people don’t know the specifics of out contract,” Jaskier said. “Most of them can’t read, and they’ll never see the document in any case. He implied that you’re going to...well, that ravaging bit, he implied that there is a consumation requirement, and the rumors about witchers...”

“Ah,” Geralt said. The rumors about witchers were never kind, what they said about their sexual interests he didn’t know, nor cared to find out, but they wouldn’t be kind. 

“I’m rather well liked by our people,” Jaskier continued, tearfully. “Father’s convinced most of them that I’m simple, but I make a point to be kind and a kind reputation goes around. They’ll hate and fear witchers even more.” He began to cry in earnest, not loudly, but hot, angry tears rolled steadily down flushed cheeks.

“Worse, now,” he said, looking up at the witchers. “He’s some sort of martyr, sacrificing his son to keep the horrible witchers at bay.”

“That’s not even what he said!” Lambert exploded. He’d been fuming this whole time, but his temper was short and he was done.

‘No,” Eskel said. “But that’s what rumor will make of it. He’s going to be seen as some sort of a self-sacrificing hero.”

“He’ll probably use it to raise taxes,” Jaskier said, damply. “And I doubt witcher treatment will get better either.”

“But then, is the contract void?” Geralt asked. 

“Not officially,” Vesemir grumbled. “Improved conditions hold de jure, but not de facto.”

Jaskier shivered. “If the contract is voided everything will only get worse.” The witchers looked at him. “Whatever reason the contract becomes void, Father will say I was mistreated. That’d be enough to convince most of the country to go to war with witchers, all witchers.”

“It wouldn’t take much,” Vesemir mused.

“And I’d be a ruined woman, except that I’m a man.”

“What?” said the witchers.

“I’d have been married,” Jaskier explained, fiddling with the ring. “And no matter the situation, in Lettenhove the woman is almost always blamed for the failure of the marriage. There is no woman in our marriage, but I take on that role, If I’m mistreated, I should have better pleased my husband.”

“That’s idiotic,” Lambert said.

“I’d never be married off again either,” Jaskier continued. “Not only was I ruined, I was ruined by a witcher.”

A deep, heady pause.

“I could probably even be put to death, for failing the contract and shaming my father.”

‘But your people like you,” Geralt said. 

“They won’t if I’m the reason we go to war with the witchers,” Jaskier said. Then, a little more brightly, “At least whatever happens, I wont be an earl. My father may be a rat bastard and a small minded pig and a...” he paused searching for more insults.

“A cunt?” offered Lambert. 

“Yes, thank you, a cunt. But he’s right about one thing, I’d be a very poor earl. No head for politics, I can understand it, I just can’t do it.” He looked up at the witchers apologetically. 

“And now because of me,” he said, “You’ve all been dropped right in it.”

“No worries, lad,” Vesmir said, clapping him on the shoulder in a gesture that made Jaskier’s spine visibly buckle. “We’ve been dropped in it before. As it happens, I may have caused some political trouble for your father all by myself, and it might even be better if we leave a little earlier than planned.”

All the boys looked baffled, but Vesemir looked satisfied.

“Can we leave tomorrow?” Jaskier asked hopefully. “I don’t have much stuff and I want to get out of here.”

The witchers agreed, and then Jaskier and Geralt were left alone with just one bed.

Geralt coughed awkwardly.

“I thought there wasn’t a consummation requirement,” he said.

“There isn’t,” Jaskier said, taking off his flower crown, now quite battered. “There isn’t explicitly, I mean, but there is a hidden fidelity agreement.”

“Hmmm,” Geralt said. He meant a panicky, ‘what!’, but couldn’t say it.

“We both need to be happy in our marriage, if word get’s back to father that either of us is sleeping with someone else, well...”

Shit. Geralt thought. Shit shit shit.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said aloud. 

There were no extra clothes in the chamber, meaning no sleep clothes, so they both undressed to undershirts and smallclothes, then Jaskier snuffed out the candle.

On either side of the large bed, there was plenty of room between them. 

Geralt heard a sniffle. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, feeling awkward.

“I’m fine,” Jaskier said. “It’s silly anyway.”

“Can’t be silly if you’re crying over it.”

“It’s just, this isn’t exactly...” Jaskier trailed off, but Geralt thought he had it.

“Isn’t how you pictured your wedding day?” he asked.

“Exactly,” Jaskier sniffled.

Geralt didn’t know what to do, but he stretched an arm out, above the soft covers, and covered Jaskier with an arm. The young man turned over, so they were facing one another, and inched a little closer.

It wasn’t an embrace, not nearly, but it had a whisper of the same emotion.

Geralt listened to his new husband silently cry himself to sleep on their wedding night, and wished there was some way he could help.

A part of him, long suppressed, was crying too, for the bright and cheerful young man in his arms.

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Wow  5000 words that I basically had to thumbscrew from my brain. 

Taglist! Tags were being weird, let me know if I didn’t add you, forgot to add you, added the wrong person, etc.

@llamasdumpsterfire @stinastar @aziz-the-fangirl @mordoriscalling @bastardofmothman @negativenuggetz @morte-mistrata @ailorian @hayleynzlive @filledepluie @bygodstilliam @sociowithatardisachevyandawand @faery-god @honeysuckletook @theflurtifly @saibowtie @1stbonesfan @frywen-babbles @the-kewlest @innocentbi-stander  @aqueenrisesintheeast @toothhurtyam @marauders-fan-account @ineffable-lasagna @limevodka @rocknrollphanda @seralyra @permanently-exhausted-witcher @aj-itated @watchthewolvesfall @00qtee @the-blondey @birds-of-forgiveness @west-moor @abstractartwithoutpaint @darkonesdagger7437 @onwardsandfourwords @underwaterattribute @whenrainbowsend @goldbvtton @in-love-with-writing002 @flustratedcas @fontegagrilledcheese @little-piece-of-tamlin @somanyfandoms @werevampiwolf

[admelioraii]

King Midas: the true story about how an ancient king’s golden touch turned a river into gold

Paktolos River

Here is where it all started!

In the gateway where east meets west.

The region of Anatolia, although situated in one of the driest regions in modern days “Turkey” and surrounded mostly by steppe vegetation , except for the forested areas in the south, the earth here is remarkably fertile.

This culturally rich region has seen a long line of important civilizations including several great Empires.

It is in this land of honey, pears, muskat grapes and “gold”, where our story begins.

The Phrygian civilization and its kings soon realised that the western plateau of Asia Minor was blessed with several important assets.

Thanks to its fertile lands, strategic position (between the Persians and the Greek) and the skilled and hardworking metalworkers and potters, it soon grew into an Empire.

In ancient times the Anatolia region, Phrygia and Assyria included, was famous for making brass and other metalwork as early as 3000 B.C.

To make brass they mixed zinc with copper. The zinc was obtained by heating a metal called calamite.

As brass is obtained by alloying zinc and copper by mixing and crushing these metals, the Anatolian workers crushed the ore with the help of wheels and simple mechanical mixers.

Nevertheless the Phrygians had a secret to their brass making. Their brass was more shiny, glancing and unique than the rest of the brass in the area. It was strikingly similar to gold!

Brass Vessles

The Phrygian brass making was famous and Phrygia prospered. During these prosperous times the king of Phrygia who was ill and in poor health still lacked a successor.

He informed his advisors that he intended to give the throne to the first man who entered the city gates in a wagon pulled by three oxen.

Time went by and finally a man appeared in a wagon pulled by three oxen.

It was Gordios and when asked, he accepted the offer. He was overly grateful for the trust he was shown and as a symbol of his gratitude to the king and as a promise to the people, he tied a knot to his wagon.

This was a special and very complicated knot, then he said; as gratitude I have tied a knot between me and the citizens of Phrygia. The one who is able to untie the knot gains the rule and is destined to rule Asia.

Here from the expresion “to tie the Gordon knot”.

This is how Gordon, the commoner, became Emperor. Under his rule the already prosperous Phrygia flourished even more.

The citizens in turn wanted to show their gratitude to Gordion, as well so they named their capital “Gordium” in his honor.

Gordion ordered the construction of many impressive palaces, fortification walls, buildings and tumultombs at Gordium.

He married Cybele and they conceived at least one son Midas.

Furthermore he refined the already impressive brass making thus it became the finest in the world at that time.

Golden embroidery

He is also accredited for the development of golden embroidery on garments and materials.

First the clothes were dyed in gurtiti or ochre to obtain an ochre or yellowish colour. Yellow dresses were exceptionally popular by women at the time. These garments were later embroidered with golden threads, they gained so much popularity, they became a status symbol for the high class in the area.

At the age of sixty, Gordion died of natural causes and was put to rest. After a generous funeral feast, which remains were found in his burial chamber, together with lavish bronze pottery vessels and bronze fibulae, he was put inside a wooden chamber, the oldest standing wood structure in the world. The wood has been counted by ringing and is from 740 B.C.

The wooden chamber was found inside a burial mount, one the largest in Anatolia , it took 1000 people 1.5 years to build.

The grave was found in 1957 by a group of archaeologists.

Tummbulus, burial of Gordion

Gordion and the Phrygian Empire had been a strong ally to Troy during the famous “Troyan war”.

He had fought alongside the Troyans against Achaeans.

It was now Midas turn to continue his fathers dreams.

Inscriptions in Gordium tell that Midas was crowned here shortly after his fathers death.

Midas was beyond any doubt the greatest, richest and most famous of all Phrygian kings and emperors ever !!!

He was also to be the last independent ruler of Phrygia.

He is the king with the golden touch.

Midas ruled over his people from a lavish castle in Gordium encircled by a beautiful garden of wild roses.

The famous Greek Herodotus wrote in his book; The garden of Midas, son of Gordion, where the roses grew wildly and each bearing sixty blossoms of surpassing fragrance.

Herodotus claims to have met king Midas and seen his wild rose garden, personally.

The Phrygian Emperor further founded at least two cities, “Midaeum” named after him and the city of Angora (named so until 1930, then Ancyra to later become Ankara).

Angora or Ankara is the origin of both angora wool (from angora rabbits) and mohair wool (from angora goats)unrelated to the wool; the angora cats also have their origins in the same city.

Rose Garden

Midas indisputably greatest achievement was the development and production of coins. One of the earliest in the world. This invention was later passed down to the Empires of Lydia, Persa and finally to the Roman Empire who spread the invention of coins throughout Europe.

The credit for this historical invention and the way it changed history, is given to Midas.

The origins of the whole coin making process is found in the river Paktolos (today’s Turkish name is Sart Çayı).

The river rises from mount Tmolus, flows through (the ruins of)

the city of Sardis and later empties into the Gediz Nehri river, the ancient “ Hermus”.

The river Paktolos contained electrum, an alloy of gold with at least 20% silver, used to make coins. In alchemy the transmutation of an object into gold is known as chrysopoeia.

To obtain the electrum from the river, Midas and his people placed sheep skins that were left for a few days then recollected.

River Paktolos

Midas continued to rule the Empire the same way and with the same values as his father.

Continuous wars were fought against his archenemies the Assyrians and the Urartus.

The Assyrians called him “Mita of Mushki”. The reason for this was that the Phrygians originated from a place in Macedonia with that name.

During large periods of time these conflicts hindered his access to the Mediterranean Sea that was of utmost importance for Phrygian trade. As a solution Midas married a Greek Princess “ Damodice” daughter of Agamemnon of Cume, the problem was solved , he got permanent access to the Mediterranean and an ally and business partner.

However in the late 600’s B.C Phrygia was attacked by the Cimmerians who plundered, destroyed and burned Gordium. After the fall of Phrygia, the region came under Lydian suborderance followed by Persian, Seleucidian ( general of Alexander the Great) and Roman rule.

What happened to Midas in the middle of all this is unclear but some rumours say that he drunk poisoned ox blood and died.

Others say he lived for a short period after the invasion and died of natural causes after that.

Greek mythology.

The story about king Midas that is most commonly known, is the one in the children books, which is based on Greek mythology.

The Greek philosopher Aristotle of Stagira (384-322B.C) tells the story about king Midas. According to the myth; King Midas was walking in his famed rose garden when he came across a drunken Satyr, the Satyr was Silenus or Sílenos. Midas helped him, gave him a meal and a bed to rest.

Later on the Satyrs master Dionysus, Greek god of wine, found him with Midas. The god was grateful that Midas had taken good care of his friend so he granted Midas a wish.

Midas wished that everything he touched would turn to gold.

To his disappointment he discovered that even the food he was about to eat turned to gold before he could eat it.

Aristotle goes on to tell that King Midas starved as a result of the wish and died a slow, painful death.

According to the Romans the story has a different ending.

Publius Ovidius Naso (43 B.C- 17 A.C) tells that king Midas repents his greediness and begs Dionysus to take the golden touch back.

Dionysus agrees and orders Midas to wash his hands/ bath in the river Paktolos (today Sart Çayı).

Midas follows the instructions and the golden touch washes away.

For centuries to come the waters were filled with gold, thereby making the later rulers of Phrygia fabulously wealthy.

King Midas was a historical king of the kingdom of Phrygia in Asia Minor.

He ruled a very powerful country and a wealthy Empire. He couldn’t literally turn things to gold but abstractly and symbolically, yes!

The Phrygian brass “looked like gold” , their gold embroidery was the first and finest in history, moreover they were one of the first countries to produce gold coins.

The stories about him wishing for the ability to turn everything he touched to gold arose from Greek mythology based on the alleged fabulous riches of Phrygia.

Gordian Knot

What happened to the Gordian knot?

The ox-cart still stood in the palace in Phrygia in the fourth century when Alexander the Great arrived. Alexander wanted to untie the knot but struggled to do so.

He reasoned that it would make no difference how the knot was loosened so he drew his sword and cut the knot in half with one single stroke.

Even though his solution is disputed, it is known ever since that cutting the Gordian knot means; finding a quick solution to an unsolvable problem.

Ancient Anatolia.

Prehistoric cultures of Anatolia.

The Neolithic period.

The Chalcolitic period.

Early Bronze Age.

The old Hittite kingdom.

The middle Hittite kingdom.

The Hittite Empire to 1180B.C

Phrygia from 1180-700 B.C

Information and ideas:

Heroditus, histories 8.138.1.

Eleven narratives of the poem

“Metemorphoses “ written in Latin

by Publius Ovidius Naso (43 B.C-17 A.C)

Historical independent Turkish sources.

https// world history.org.Midas

[princesscyr]

Gold & Venom, A Fortnite Fanfic. Chapter 2 - Steel

Rating: PG-13 Pairing: Midas/Yellowjacket Platforms posted: Wattpad, ao3

Word Count: 2936

The day Yellowjacket’s class graduated from agent training was the day Jules decided to throw an office pizza party. Jules had been so excited for the new agents to join the team she wanted them to feel welcomed. Who doesn’t like pizza anyway? Everyone was invited, including all the high ranking agents, henchmen, and additional staff. Midas refused to go until Jules called him a “boring bitch” and forced him to attend.

               So here he was, standing in the corner. A frown was carved into his face as everybody else was having a good time. Current agents were introducing themselves to the new agents, new agents were expressing their excitement to work with them. Midas rolled his eyes as he saw Fusion grab three pepperoni slices to put on his paper plate.

               “Sick party, Jules!” Fusion exclaims, taking a big bite out of one of the slices on his plate.

               Jules grins at him, “Thank you! I think it’s nice we have more members within the agency now, don’t you?”

               Midas watched as the two of them walked away. He took a sip of his fruit punch, glancing around the room. He stumbled forward when somebody ran into him, causing him to spill some of his fruit punch on the floor.

               He turned around to glare at whoever ran into him before his gold eye met with big brown eyes. It took seconds before realization hit him. This was the same girl who would look at him and then roll her eyes. For the last two weeks they’d make eye contact every single day, whether it was when she’d pass by his office in the morning to talk to Jules, or at the breakroom midday, or when she’d come into his office to drop off her paperwork. When she’d come into his office, she’d try to avoid his gaze but always end up looking at him. At first, he thought his eye was playing tricks on him when he saw a light shade of pink dust along her face. After all, he did have trouble with vision having one eye. That reaction was consistent with every other meeting.

               Midas was used to people fawning and fanning over him, pointing him out of a crowd and squealing. He wasn’t unattractive in the slightest, if anything he was almost every person’s ideal man. It humbled him that Yellowjacket would roll her eyes at him even when she’s blushing. They haven’t said a word to one another but Midas knew. He knew he affected her. He was always first to make moves, but this… this intrigued him. The way she would avoid his eyes for the first few seconds before looking back and rolling her eyes, a blush following soon after, or the way her lips turned into a pout when he’d initiate the starring contest, making her squirm as though she didn’t want him to look at her.

               “Oh—“ she apologizes, her face turning pink quickly, “I’m so sorry sir, I wasn’t paying attention. Here, I can get you a new drink and clean up the mess—“

               I could get used to being called sir, he smirked, keeping the thought to himself.

               His eye looked her over. She was shorter than him, standing at 5’8” with her boots. She must’ve been 5’5” without them. Yet here she was, looking up at him with her hands on her hips.

               She scowls at him, “Are you just going to stand there and stare at me? Ugh, you’re so weird!” she rolls her eyes, squirming under his gaze.

               Midas chuckles, “I’m not the one who rolls my eyes at strangers, Doll. Judgmental much?”

               “Whatever,” she huffs as she takes a paper napkin from the nearby table to clean up the mess.

               Yellowjacket tried to hide her blush as she wiped the floor. It was his voice and British accent that made her shiver. This was her boss’s brother and here she was making a fool of herself by walking into him and spilling his drink. At the same time, she wanted to wipe that smirk off his face.

               After wiping up the mess she stands up to dispose of the napkin, her back facing Midas.

               “Aren’t you going to get my drink?” he asks.

               Yellow turns to look at him, “I was, but then I noticed you have two working hands and the punch bowl is right next to you.” She gestures towards the punch bowl that’s on the table beside them.

               He looks into her eyes this time, a smirk plastered on his face.

               “You’re right, here…” he trails off, his gold hand immediately going to her hip.

               The sudden action stunned Yellow as she watched him use his free hand to grab a cup while leaning into and around her, keeping his hand on her hip. He kept eye contact with her and seeing her squirm in his hold made him squeeze her hip as if he was telling her to stay still. She stopped moving with a frown on her face.

               Once he got his drink, he released his grip on her hip. She had the same frown on her face while a smile grew on his.

               “You should stop frowning, darling. It’s not a good look on you.” He looks her over again, pleased with his work done on her.

               Yellows face felt like it was on fire and the frown soon dropped off her face and was replaced by a pout, “I’m—“ her voice higher than normal when she realized what he had said to her.

               This golden hoe just told her to smile. Her next reaction was priceless. She snatches the drink out of his hand before throwing it at him.

               “You fucking dick!” she shouts, causing the music to be cut short and everyone to look over at both of them.

               She throws the cup at him next, “Don’t you ever touch me again and then expect me to smile as if you did me a favor!”

               She excuses herself, quickly moving towards the exit without looking back at him. Midas stood there speechless, his clothes now soaked in fruit punch and everyone was staring at him. When he would look to the others, they would avoid his gaze or shake their head at him. Others would scoff and blame him, telling him how his humiliation is the best part of the party. This situation was almost as bad as the time he was nearly eaten by a shark, but the shark wasn’t as cute as Yellow.

               With everyone looking at him, Midas began to get annoyed. His ego was wounded, to be embarrassed this way in front of everyone by a woman was humiliating.

               “Why do you all insist on looking at me?! The situation ended! Stop fucking looking at me!” he snaps, the gold from his hands beginning to creep up his arms slowly.

               “Calm down, Midas. You don’t need to make a scene out of this,” one of the henchmen nearby warned him, his voice firm.

               That was the cherry on top of Midas’ angry sundae. Immediately he moved back to the table, placing his hand down on it. The table had begun to turn into solid gold, causing some of the party-goers to look at each other with panic. A few of the henchmen started to approach Midas, but Jules called them off with a click of her tongue. Confused, they backed off. All they could do is obey their boss and entrust she has the situation under control.

               Jules made a move to approach him, only to jump back when he lifts the now golden table and flips it over, causing the punch bowl, napkins, and various food dishes to fall with it. The other party-goers ran away in a panic, most of them were screaming and others were trying to bring more henchmen into the room. The only people left in the room were Midas, Jules, and the few henchmen that were already present.

               “Midas,” Jules starts, “You need to calm down right now. We need to talk in my office because this behavior is unacceptable and I expected better from you.”

               At this point, most of Midas’ body was in gold, mainly his arms and upper part of his neck. He had a bit of a way to go before his face would turn gold.

               “You expected better from me?!” he yells, followed by laughter, “Who are you to demand such things of me, child?!”

               “You are mad because a woman disrespected you. You need to get over that. You have no right to be mad here, you knew what you were getting into when you took my job offer.” Jules tries to reason with him, her voice calm.

               “You forced me to attend this shit fest you called a party, Jules.” He hisses, “Now I see why you did, this was your way of getting entertainment for the party. Fuck you.”

               They stood there, glaring at each other for what seemed like an eternity. The gold started to return to his hands slowly. Jules breaks the stare, clearing her throat.

               “My office, shall we?” she asks him, to which he reluctantly accepted.

There was a tense silence between the two of them as they sat in her office. Midas was still wearing the same fruit punch stained clothes.

               Jules broke the silence first, “Your behavior was uncalled for, Midas. I did not expect you to react the way you did. You do not know that agent you were speaking to, and yet you exploded because she threw a drink at you?”

               Midas rolls his eye, “That’s not why I’m mad. Why do you deflect from the problem? I was annoyed because everyone was looking at me like I had committed some crime, and it became worse when I was told to calm down.”

               “I’m not deflecting from anything. I saw the entire situation. You made a disrespectful comment to one of my agents and she reacted as such. Midas, I can’t believe I have to police everything you do. This isn’t your agency, do you understand?” she says as she rubs her face, mainly from stress, “This is my agency. I am your boss and you cannot disrespect my employees without some sort of discipline.”

               “Your employees are disrespecting me as well, Julia. Throwing their files at me when my desk is right in front of them, poking fun at me as I’m passing the halls to get to the break room, the list goes on.” He argues.

               “Reactions such as those are warranted. You’ve ruined people’s lives with your selfish behavior. I can only do so much for you, such as protecting you from harm. I cannot prevent the words that come from their mouths, nor will I stop it either.” She replies to him, spinning in her chair to face her cabinet.

               Jules opens the cabinet drawer, pulling out a sheet of paper and a pen.

               “I was going to make you sit in a cell for 3 days, but I think this will build some character in you. I want you to write a formal apology letter to Yellowjacket, for your inappropriate comment. I expect it to be a sincere, heartfelt apology. I will read it when you are done and if it’s to my satisfaction, I will sign off on it and bring it to her.” Jules explains as she sets the paper and pen down in front of him.

               Midas groans, opening his mouth to complain, only to close it immediately when he saw the glare Jules was giving him. If looks could kill, he’d be liquid gold right now. So he starts to write an apology.

               Forty-five minutes had passed and Jules was satisfied with Midas’ apology letter to Yellowjacket. She made sure he emphasized what an arrogant asshole he had been towards her and how it wouldn’t happen again. Jules signed off on the apology letter before she motioned for a henchman to come over.

               “Please take this to Yellowjacket.” She ordered him.

               The henchman nodded, taking his leave immediately to look for the agent.

               “Get out of my sight, Midas. Go change your clothes and get back to work. You ruined the party and everyone’s day as well.” Jules dismisses him with a wave of her hand.

               Midas frowns at her, but he got up, not wanting to anger her further.

                He took his leave, walking to his room at a brisk pace. He took the elevator to avoid running into people, as he knew that word had spread fast about the party. He changed out of his stained clothes and put on fresh clothes before he made his way back to his office. He could feel the judgmental looks he was receiving from other agents and henchmen as he passed by. Midas never had to deal with this when he was a boss, it was easier just to kill people for looking at you wrong, or at the very least, look intimidating. But if there was something he learned from working at A.L.T.E.R. for a couple of weeks now, it was that these people have nothing to lose. They have killed for a lot less. Midas knew there was a target on the back of his head. The question is, who will get to him first?

               Midas makes it into his office, shutting the door and moving over to his desk. Opening his desk drawer, he pulls out his bottle of scotch and a cigarette. A wave of sadness hits him but was drowned out with the first sip of his drink. Instead, loneliness crept up. It had been a while since he socialized with anybody that wasn’t in his agency. The people he could socialize with at ease were gone, replaced by others who do not want anything to do with him. He had a confident exterior that hid the deep self-loathing within him. He takes a drag from his cigarette while his mind races with thoughts of the party. Midas knew he had made a mistake, the girl was being nice to him and he had to go and make an unnecessary comment. He hoped the apology letter would be enough. He could settle with her avoiding him like the plague, though part of him hopes that wouldn’t be the case.

               Yellowjacket had gone down to the training room to let off some steam. She couldn’t believe the nerve of that man. Who did he think he was? Just because he’s the boss's brother doesn’t mean he’s immune from the consequences of his actions. She kicks the practice dummy so hard, its body flies off the metal pole holding it in place. The practice dummy lands against the wall mat, falling to the ground with a thud. Yellow moves onto the next practice dummy and her friend, Siona watches her in amusement.

               “What’s got you so worked up, girl?” she asks as she rushes over to pick up the dummy.

               Yellow punches the next dummy, her fist hitting it made a soft thud.

               “Bosses brother was being a creep so I threw his drink at him.” She replies as she hits the dummy harder this time.

               “The golden king? Huh, I thought he didn’t talk to anyone. He’s usually a loner when I see him.” Siona shrugs.

               “What do you mean—“ Yellow was cut off by the rough clearing of someone’s throat.

               Both girls turn to look at who made the sound, it was a henchman.

               “Excuse me, ladies, I have an apology letter from Midas addressed to Yellowjacket.” the man read out the name on the envelope.

               Yellow, who was still annoyed and becoming confused approaches the henchman, “Yeah, that’s me? He wrote me a letter…?” she asks.

               “Yes ma’am. Ms. J required that he write you a formal apology for his disrespectful outburst at today’s party.”

               Yellow took the letter but refused to read it. She looked more offended than she did at the party.

               “And he expects me to accept his apology because he wrote me a letter? Fuck no, tell him to go fuck himself and apologize to my face. Ridiculous, has he no shame?” she pushes the letter towards the henchman who grabs it and accepts her request.

               “Yes ma’am, I will deliver the message to him. I do apologize if I have inconvenienced you with this.” With that, the man takes his leave, heading back to Midas’ office.

               Midas was half a bottle in when there was a knock on his office door.

               “Come in,” Midas slurred.

               The henchman stepped in with the apology letter in hand.

“Sir, Yellowjacket has requested me to tell you that you can go fuck yourself and that you need to apologize to her in person, and that apology letters are stupid. She is down in the gym right now, do you need an escort?” they ask him, handing him the apology letter.

               Midas sighs, “I guess there's no other option, give me a second—“ he hiccups, “Give me a second and I’ll be right out.”

               “You are drunk, sir? Not a good impression to be making on a lady of her caliber, but I digress.” They state, shrugging.

               “Hey, I don’t critique what you do in your life, henchman, don’t do it to me.” He barks, setting the bottle of scotch back in his desk drawer, slamming it shut.

               The henchman acknowledged his reply with a nod, waiting for Midas to gather his bearings. Once Midas joins him, they set off to the gym to talk to Yellowjacket.

[gatesofember]

Frailty and Fortune: Chapter 2

PJO Arranged Marriage/Royalty AU Part 10

Rating: T | Pairing: Solangelo

Prev | Next | AU directory | Read it on AO3 (Recommended) | Arranged Marriage AU Masterpage

Summary: A few months have passed since Prince Nico’s wedding to William of Solace. Even with his husband at his side, Will sometimes feels lonely as he settles into his new life. He misses his home, his family, his friends, and his studies in Venadica. Meanwhile, Nico is uncertain how to help him, awkward about expressing himself, and he wonders if he’ll ever be able to truly make his husband happy. As time goes by and Will continues to feel lost in his new home, Will and Nico must both learn how to make their marriage work.

Nico spent the majority of the trip to Phrygia holding Will’s hand and dozing on his shoulder.  When he opened his eyes, he saw Mellie and Hedge similarly cuddled together while Reyna sat plastered against the carriage wall as far from Mellie and Hedge as she could get.  Nico had a feeling that she was tired of being surrounded by newlyweds.  

When they reached Phrygia, however, Nico began to feel agitated.  He wondered if bringing Will along had been a good idea.  Will had seemed strangely excited the whole trip, but he would probably find the visit boring and would have enjoyed himself more if he’d stayed in Divitia.

But more importantly, Nico didn’t want Midas to go anywhere near Will.  He didn’t want Midas near anyone he cared for.

Although he rarely went anywhere without his dog, Nico had purposely left Asterion behind and had encouraged Will to do the same with Bonnie.  Midas had apparently repented after the bating scandal came to light nearly a decade ago, but Nico didn’t believe it.  Midas was clever; when Nico listed his name as one of the contributors in his old tutor Minos’ baiting ring, Midas had known exactly what to say to save himself.  Nico could still clearly recall the fake remorse in Midas’ voice when he admitted his involvement in his hearing.  He’d done it for his dying wife, he’d claimed.  Midas had spun a tragic tale for the jury about the agony he’d felt when his wife had been diagnosed with the Scarlet Delirium, how he’d depleted his wealth to find a way to save her, and how, in his despair, he’d turned to betting on dog fights to support her.  The next day, whispers all over Divitia quoted his statement: “People do shameful things to save the ones they love.”

Nico, who’d acted as the primary witness in most of the baiting cases, was one of the few people Midas hadn’t managed to charm.  Nico had seen the dogfights firsthand.  He’d touched Asterion’s wounds and nursed him when he was too weak to even stand.

But Nico had still been a child at the time, unable to express himself and not even half as charismatic as Midas.  He could do very little to convince the jury of Midas’ cruelty—especially not after he his temper in the middle of the trial.  When Divitians weren’t too busy sympathizing with Midas, they were gossiping about the tantrum that the little prince had thrown in the courtroom.

Midas had gotten off too easily.  He’d paid a fine—one he could easily afford with the money he’d earned on dog fights—and he’d cooperated with Artemis’ investigators to help identify and arrest the others involved in the baiting ring.  And that was it.  After that, it was like it had never even happened.

Nico knew that Midas wouldn’t dare to harm Asterion, but he would never allow his dog to be in the presence of a man who had pitted animals against each other for profit.  Midas would always be cruel and corrupt, no matter how much he insisted otherwise.  Although he had failed to bring Midas to justice, Nico would never fail to protect Asterion again.

They rode past sprawling fields of grain and grazing livestock before they reached Phrygia’s gates.  “What a beautiful city,” Will mused as he watched the buildings roll by.  “Large cities like this usually have more problems with sanitation, but the streets look clean.”

Nico was only half listening and didn’t fully realized what Will had said until Reyna replied, “Phrygia has an advanced sewage network for a Plutonian city.”

Nico turned his glare from the window to Reyna.  “For a Plutonian city?” he repeated.

Reyna nodded, ignoring Nico’s irate tone.  “Most haven’t had the funds to introduce such modern systems.”

“The mines must have helped with reconstruction a great deal,” Will commented.

Nico snorted.  Will was too busy looking outside to hear him, but Reyna eyed Nico warningly to remind him to control his temper.  Nico averted his eyes.  

Truthfully, Phrygia was a beautiful city, which only agitated Nico more.  He wished he could have found more to pick at to stick the blame on Midas, but it was in remarkable shape.  Divitia paled by comparison.

Midas’ estate was located outside the southeastern wall of the city.  The manor would have been dwarfed in size by the Palatium de Divitae, but it did not lack in grandeur.  They entered the property through a gate before pulling into the main courtyard.  The mansard roof gleamed like silver in the late afternoon sun, while the yellow brick and white stone ornamentation of the manor shone like gold and ivory.  The manor itself consisted of two wings that came forward from either side of a central building, with tall windows and beautiful terraced gardens.  The earl and his household stood outside, waiting to greet them.  

As the carriage came to a halt, Nico tried to cool his temper.  Reyna tried to catch his attention, but Nico ignored her.  He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing to distract himself from his anger.  And he waited.

Too soon, he heard the carriage door open and he looked down in time to see the step pulled out.  “I’ll go first,” Reyna said.  Nico could feel her eyes on him, like she wanted to exchange one last glance and one final warning, but Nico refused to meet her gaze.  When he heard her shoes hit the road, he looked up at Will and gestured for him to exit first.

And then Nico couldn’t delay further; it wouldn’t be appropriate for a guard and a maid to exit before him.  He considered asking them to do it anyway, but only for a moment before he gathered his courage and stepped outside.

When Will took his hand to help him down, Nico kept his chin held up.  When he was escorted to the doors of the manor, Nico looked forward.  When they stopped in front of the earl, Nico held Midas’ eyes.  

Midas looked exactly how Nico remembered him; perhaps his hair was grayer and his face more lined, but other than that, he looked the same.  He was a heavyset bearded man—a horrible choice, as far as Nico was concerned.  Facial hair hadn’t been fashionable for a century.  Then again, nothing about Midas was tasteful.  His clothes—scarlet and gold with diamonds sewn into the embroidery—were lavish to the point of ostentation and served as an obvious statement to announce his wealth.  A man like Midas did not deserve such opulence and luxury.  He had always been wealthy; even during the Scarlet Delirium, he’d continued to amass a great fortune from betting and baiting.  The fines he’d paid for it had barely dented his wealth. 

“Your arrival is an honor, Your Highness,” Midas said.  When he bowed, the rest of the household followed suit.

“Midas,” Nico said.  “It’s been some time since we last met.”

“Indeed,” Midas answered.  “Last I saw you, you were still a child.”

“I think you’ll find that I have grown and learned much since then,” Nico said.  He paused, just long enough to enjoy the expression on Midas’ face.  He looked nervous.

Good.  He ought to be.

“I have brought my husband, Lord William of Angelus, and my adviser, Lady Reyna,” Nico continued, nodding to each of them in turn.

“A privilege,” Midas said.  “And you remember my son, Lityerses.”

Nico forced himself not to scowl in distaste when Midas gestured to the young man beside him.  “Of course,” Nico said.  He nodded politely when Lityerses bowed, but avoided meeting his eyes.  He was not afraid of Midas, but as for his son....

Well, Nico did not fear Lityerses, either, but he felt an unexpected twinge of apprehension.  Nico shuddered to think of the teasing he’d endure if Will found out that Midas had once offered his son as a potential marriage candidate.  Nico had turned Lityerses away without even bothering to meet with him.  He’d had already known what kind of person Lityerses was; they had met on a few occasions when Midas brought his son to the Lotussium to watch dog fighting matches.  Lityerses was just as greedy as his father, and even more merciless.

“Shall we retire inside for dinner?” Midas suggested.  “You must be hungry after your journey.  Afterwards, I would love to give you a tour of my home.”

“Yes, thank you,” Nico said.  “Will your daughter not join us?”

“Not during this visit,” Midas replied.  “She is currently studying abroad.”

It wasn’t out of the ordinary for wealthy families to send their daughters abroad for schooling, but Nico glanced at Will to gauge his reaction as Midas showed them inside.  Will usually studied that time of year.  Nico knew he missed it, even if he didn’t mention it often.  He couldn’t be sure what Will was thinking, however; Will didn’t appear upset or envious, but Nico noted that he also didn’t inquire about her studies further.  Usually, Will would be interested in other people’s schooling.

Nico would have liked to critique Midas’ skills as a host, but he was disappointed when dinner was set out for them almost immediately after they sat down.  Midas had timed their arrival perfectly and the meal was inconveniently delicious.

Nico did not avoid meeting Midas’ eyes when he addressed him, but he also was careful not to look in Midas’ direction much at all—enough to show that he was not afraid of Midas without letting him think that he was at all worthy of Nico’s attention.

But Will did not follow Nico’s lead.

Nico had been so wrapped up in his own apprehension that he had forgotten one important detail about his husband: his infuriating and incessant kindness.  He’d never heard Will speak ill of anyone—save Octavian, but that hardly counted—and he couldn’t think of a single time he’d witnessed his husband greet someone without a smile.  Perhaps Nico had assumed that considering Midas’ despicable nature, Will would make an exception to his usual routine of kindness.  But no—Will wore his brightest, prettiest smile and acted as charming as ever.  He talked and talked and talked until Nico thought his ears might bleed if he didn’t stop.  Nico gripped his tableware so tightly that his nails left marks on his palms, and still Will and Midas talked.  Nico knew his flaring temper was to blame; Will wasn’t trying to bother him.  But even still, he found Will’s voice loud and obnoxious.  Nico had to bite his tongue to keep himself from snapping at him to shut up.  

“Lityerses has become a talented swordsman since you last met,” Midas said.  “He remains unmatched in every fencing.  I hear you enjoy fencing as well—perhaps you could have a friendly spar during your visit.”

“I did not come here to spar,” Nico answered cooly.  “I came to review your mine.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Nico saw both Will and Reyna turn to him.  Nico ignored their shocked expressions.  He knew that later Reyna would lecture him about at least acting polite and he would regret acting so callously in front of Will, but he felt too angry to care just yet.  He had not come to be friendly with Midas and Lityerses.  Midas should not expect otherwise.

“Of course, Your Highness,” Midas said after a moment’s pause.

Nico didn’t bother to respond.

For a few moments, the only sounds were that of tableware scraping against plates.  Then Will suddenly cleared his throat.  “Your city is beautiful, Lord Midas,” he said.  “We had the privilege of admiring it as we rode through on our way here.”

“All compliments ought to be directed to the mines,” Midas said.  “It is due to the hard work of Phygia’s citizens that the city has recovered so well.”

Nico tried not to snort.  He didn’t believe for a second that Midas didn’t revel in every compliment.  Phrygia was doing admittedly well, but perhaps the reason they weren’t experiencing the economic depression so harshly was because of Midas’ questionable sources of income—Nico knew too well how lucrative baiting could be.

When dinner was over, Midas brought them to view the gardens before the sky fell to dark.  Will and Midas commented on the newer Juvian styles and how Midas planned to introduce them to his grounds.  They discussed construction and design and gardening, and all the while, Will held that foolish smile and innocent charm.  Nico didn’t notice that he’d been clenching his fists and jaw until Reyna fell in step beside him.  Her presence—and the look she gave him—both calmed Nico and reminded him to remain poised.  Nico could not allow himself to seem frustrated in front of Midas.  He could not appear weak or young or less than perfectly composed.

“Has the estate been in your family long?” Will asked when Midas brought them back to the manor to continue the tour indoors.

“Four generations, but only about half the manor is original,” Midas said.  “It’s constantly under construction.”

“I thought so.  There are pieces that look historic, but others are quite contemporary.  The entire estate is beautifully designed.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

Nico barely contained a snort.  Beautifully designed?  Everywhere he looked, there was gold.  Gold filigree embellishing the walls, gold squares tiled across the ceilings, gold wrapped around the base of marble columns.  It looked nothing like the Hall of Gold in the Palatium de Divitae—that had been artfully designed, and for all its riches, the Hall of Gold radiated a sense of modesty and restraint.  Midas’ home was designed to be ostentatious and boastful.  Nico felt sick to his stomach.  He had his doubts about how honorably Midas had attained such vast amounts of gold.

But Will didn’t seem to care about that.  He happily complimented every room they walked though.  Nico could have expected Will to act civil with almost anyone, but so friendly?  How could he be so needlessly charming to a person like Midas?  Nico knew Will’s opinions on baiting—they’d discussed it on multiple occasions.  Didn’t Will realize that....

Unless he didn’t.  Gods, Will didn’t know.

Nico had assumed that Will would’ve been aware, especially considering how passionately he felt about baiting.  Hadn’t Nico told Will about Asterion?

But no.  He hadn’t.  He’d mentioned that Asterion’s first master had been cruel, but he’d never offered more information than that.  He hadn’t told Will about Midas or the others, and he certainly hadn’t said much about Minos.

Nico bit back the urge to curse.  This was exactly what everyone had kept telling Nico—he needed to talk to Will.  Hestia had told him.  Reyna had told him.  Even Percy and Jason had told him.  Talking was difficult, especially when the subject of conversation was something Nico desperately avoided thinking about, but he couldn’t keep expecting Will to understand everything automatically.

Nico looked at Will, wondering if he could somehow send a silent signal to say, “Don’t trust him,” or at least, “I have something to tell you,” or maybe even just, “Gods above, stop smiling!”  But Will was too engrossed in his conversation to catch any of Nico’s subtle cues, even when Nico wrapped a hand around his arm.

Nico didn’t find an opportunity until later that night, after Midas had invited them to sit and talk over refreshments.  When Midas sent Lityerses to bed, Nico saw a chance and pounced on it.

“Actually, I was thinking that we ought to retire soon, as well,” Nico said.  “Will, why don’t you head to bed?  I will continue talking a while longer with Lady Reyna and Lord Midas, but there’s no need for you to stay up with us.  You must be tired.”

Will frowned.  For a moment, Nico worried that Will would argue, but then he nodded.  “Yes, Your Highness,” he said, getting to his feet.  He turned to Midas and bowed.  “It has been a pleasure meeting you, Lord Midas.  I look forward to speaking more tomorrow.”

“Likewise,” Midas said.  He called for a manservant to escort Will to his room.

Will touched Nico’s shoulder as he walked by.  “Goodnight, Nico.”

Nico started to answer, but it died in his throat and he felt the blood drain from his face when he realized what Will had done.  Nico.  Will had called him Nico.

Of course liked it when Will used his given name, but it was intimate.  It showed a vulnerability that Nico had chosen to share with Will.  That vulnerability wasn’t meant to be put on display for others—especially not Midas.

Nico clenched his fist, but did nothing.  He waited for Will to leave them, took a sip of his tea, and pretended that Will hadn’t said anything out of the ordinary.  Perhaps Midas hadn’t even noticed.

“I suggest we leave early tomorrow to reach the mines before noon,” Nico said.  

“Yes, Your Highness,” Midas agreed.  “I was about to say the same thing.”

Nico made an unimpressed noise.  “I’m looking forward to reviewing them.  I hope I will find everything up to my standards.  I’m particularly interested in the wellbeing of your workers—including those of the four-legged variety.”

Midas was quiet.  He looked nervous.

He should.

Eventually, Midas cleared his throat.  “Will your husband join us tomorrow?” he asked.

“I will invite him,” Nico answered.  “I’m sure he’ll be just as eager as I am.  You know, my husband has exceptional veterinary experience.  I expect that he’ll be a good judge of the working conditions of your animals.”

Midas said nothing, but Nico thought he seemed pale.

“Perhaps we should all retire for the night,” Midas suggested.

“Yes,” Nico agreed.  “Perhaps so.”

*   *   *

Will had taken off his coat and cravat, but otherwise had not moved to ready himself for bed.  His guest chambers consisted of two separate rooms—one for sleeping while the other was a small sitting room for his own personal use.  He’d tried to keep himself entertained by sitting and reading, but that hadn’t lasted long.  Will had already spent a considerable amount of time sitting and reading in the carriage earlier, so he was quite tired of it.

He didn’t want to go to sleep, either.  Why was it that people always insisted that he needed rest after traveling?  Will hadn’t done anything but sit all day.  If anything, he usually felt restless after long journeys.  They were tedious and boring and within the first half hour of any trip, someone invariably announced the need to relieve themselves at the least convenient moment.  Often, that person was Will.

The point was, Will wasn’t ready to sleep and he was ever so slightly annoyed that Nico had suggested it.  He’d spent a significant deal of his life in carriages and he was sick of people telling him that he was a weary traveler when he’d really spent hours doing absolutely nothing.

Of course, that didn’t keep annoyed Will for long.  The real reason Will still felt bothered by the whole thing was the way Nico had said it.  As soon as Midas had sent his son off to bed, Nico suggested Will leave, too, as though Will was a child and the real adults—Reyna, Nico, and Midas—were trying to have a serious conversation.

Admittedly, Will knew very little about mining and wouldn’t have been much use anyway, but he didn’t believe that warranted an early bedtime.  Perhaps he’d done something else to offend Nico.  Nico had been irritable most of the day, after all, so it wasn’t unlikely.  Had Will spoken too much earlier that day?  Perhaps Nico felt like Will had stolen their host’s attention.

But then again, perhaps Nico hadn’t meant anything by it at all.  Will could be imagining the entire thing.

Will nodded to himself.  That was probably the case.  He’d ask Nico to be sure, but there was no sense working himself up over something that could be nothing at all.

He wondered if Nico would come see him before heading to bed himself.  They’d been given separate suites, of course—no sensible host would ask royalty to share their room with someone else.  Fortunately, their rooms were adjacent to one another, but the arrangement felt lonely.  He slept beside Nico most nights.  Nico always invited Will to join him in his room.

That was, unless he went looking for Will only to find him already sleeping.  Will sometimes unintentionally fell asleep with a book in his private study or curled up next to Bonnie for a nap that ended up lasting until morning.

That wasn’t likely to happen that night.  Will usually fell asleep quickly and easily, but his present restlessness denied him even the inclination to go to bed, so he was still up waiting to hear Nico arrive next door when there was a knock at the entrance of his chambers.  He sprang to his feet to answer it, but was surprised (and a bit disappointed) to find Midas on the other side of the door rather than Nico.

“Lord Midas,” Will greeted with a respectful bow of his head.  “Pardon my appearance.”  Thankfully, he still wore his waistcoat and could pass as decently attired, but he’d at least have put his coat back on if he’d realized that he wasn’t opening the door for his husband.

“Not at all; pardon the lateness of my visit,” Midas answered.  “I saw that the room was still lit and thought I’d check to see if everything is to your liking.”

“Yes, of course,” Will said.  “Would you like to come in?”  He would have rather asked Midas to leave so that he could go next door to check if Nico was in his room yet, but that wouldn’t have been proper behavior for a guest.

Unfortunately, Midas took him up on his offer and entered.  He shut the door behind himself, which Will thought was odd, but he didn’t have the opportunity to think about it much before Midas sat down and asked if he found his rooms satisfactory.

“Yes, very much so,” Will answered, sitting across from him.  “Every part of your home is beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Midas said.  “I hope you feel welcome here.  I’m honored that the Prince’s consort chose to join him for this visit.  You already have quite the reputation here in Pluto.”

Will was surprised.  “Do I?”

“Of course,” Midas answered.  “You are a consor, as I understand?”

“I am,” Will said proudly, sitting up a bit straighter.  “I spent most of my summers studying in Venadica.”

“An awfully long way to travel from Diana,” Midas commented.  “Why didn’t you study in Delphi instead?”

“I often spent winters in Delphi, but my aunt invited me to study Venadica when I was a child.  My father sponsored me.”

“Of course, the Matestra,” Midas said.  “You come from an impressive family, Your Highness.  Does your father still sponsor you?”

Will faltered, but collected himself quickly.  “Unfortunately, my studies are on hold for the time being as I settle in to Divitia.”

“Unfortunate indeed, but understandable.  I’m sure it won’t be long before you continue.  You primarily research medicine, if I recall correctly?”

“Yes, under the mentorship of Asclepius.”

“Another impressive name—even I have heard of him.”

Will swelled with pride.  He knew that part of the reason Asclepius had taken an interest in his studies was at first because of Will’s relationship with the Matestra, but he’d long since earned his place as Asclepius’ pupil.

“I must confess that I have an ulterior motive for discussing this with you,” Midas suddenly said.  “A private matter.”

Will blinked and glanced at the door, now understanding why Midas had closed it.  “Ah,” he said.  “Is it a problem with your health?”

“No, not mine,” Midas said.  “It’s my daughter.  This evening, I said she was studying abroad, but she’s actually here, in the manor.  She’s ill.  Very ill.”

It had been a long time since Will had last had a patient, but slipping back into the role of healer felt natural and comfortable.  “What have the doctors said?” he asked.  

“They’re at a loss,” Midas admitted.  “None of the doctors in Phrygia have your education.  I know it isn’t proper to ask this of a guest, but I’d hoped that you might examine her during your visit.”

“That won’t be any trouble at all.  I can examine her tomorrow.”

“I will be in your debt,” Midas said.  “And if it’s not too much to ask, I would appreciate your discretion, Your Highness.  She’s always been sickly, but we’ve kept her health private to avoid panic.  Since the Scarlet Delirium, people in Pluto have been especially prone to hysteria when it comes to disease.”

Will nodded, but he didn’t think it was that it was fear of hysteria so much as fear of scandal that worried Midas.  Illness carried a heavy stigma in Pluto.  In general, Venadicans were well-informed about matters involving health, but in his years as a healer, he’d had several run-ins with paranoid Plutons.  Some would only meet with him in private and would swear him to secrecy.  A few had gone so far as to disguise themselves before going to the sororal infirmary.  A cough could send a family into panic and anything less than perfect health brought a burden of shame.

“I understand,” Will said.  “You have my word.”

“Thank you,” said Midas.  “Tomorrow, I can have my son escort you to her while I meet with your—”

Midas halted at the creak of a handle turning and they looked up to see Nico opening the door.  He was still wearing his shoes, but had removed his coat and waistcoat and instead had covered himself with an open dressing gown.

“Your Highness,” Midas greeted.

Will might have seen Nico’s eyes narrow.  “I thought I heard voices,” Nico said.

“Were we keeping you up?” Midas asked.

That time, Will definitely didn’t imagine the coldness in Nico’s voice when he said, “No.  I intended to visit my husband anyway.”

Evidently, Midas picked up on Nico’s mood, as well.  “Right, well, I’ll leave you to rest,” he said.  “It was lovely speaking to you, Your Highness.  I’ll see you both tomorrow.  Sleep well.”

Midas didn’t wait for either of them to answer before he left.

Nico closed the door behind him.  He didn’t turn to look at Will before he spoke.  “You met with him alone,” he observed icily.

“He came to check in,” Will said.  “It would have been rude not to invite him for a chat.”

Nico made a dissatisfied sound.

“I didn’t want to, though,” Will added as an afterthought.

That didn’t seem to lighten Nico’s mood.

“Why have you been so angry today?” Will asked.  “Have I done something wrong?”

Nico sighed and walked into the room further.  “No,” he said, taking a seat next to Will.  “It’s Midas.  I don’t trust him.  Be careful around him.”

“Nico, I don’t understand why you have such a grudge against him,” Will said.  “You’re not...certainly you’re not jealous?”

Nico’s frown deepened.  “What?”

“Because if so, I’ll remind you that he’s old enough to be my father.”

Nico shook his head and curled his lip in disgust.  “That—gods, Will, no!  I didn’t even...no!”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem—the problem is Midas.  He’s a dirty, lying, cheat and yes, it’s upsetting me that you’ve been so chatty with him but I am not jealous— ”  Nico broke off and cursed.  “ Now I’m jealous.  Damn it, Will, why did you have to say that?  I was perfectly not-jealous until you suggested it and now I can’t get it out of my head.”

Will doubted jealousy could manifest out of nowhere so suddenly, but he decided not to fight Nico on that detail.  “While I am wholly uninterested, I think it might be excessive to call him a ‘dirty, lying cheat,’” Will said instead.  “I thought he seemed friendly.”

“Friendly?”  Nico scoffed.  “Yes.  So friendly that he managed to talk his way out of one of the worst criminal scandals that Pluto has seen in the last decade.”

Will blinked.  “What criminal scandal?” he asked.

Nico sighed.  “So you don’t know,” he said.  “I suppose you wouldn’t have been in Pluto at the time—it must have happened while you and the other Venadican children were taking refuge in Delphi.  For a while, it was all anyone would talk about.  Midas was one of several noblemen discovered to be involved in an illegal baiting ring.  He made animals fight each other to the death for entertainment.  That’s why he’s so wealthy, Will.  He barely felt the economic crisis after the Scarlet Delirium because he made so much money betting on fights.”

“Baiting,” Will whispered in disbelief.  “But that’s been illegal in all the Romanus Terris since long before we were born.  How is he not in prison?”

“Because he’s friendly, just like you said.  He shed a few tears for the jury, identified a couple more conspirators, and paid a fine.  And that’s all.”

“Gods,” Will murmured.  He rubbed his face.  “You mean that all day long I’ve been chatting with a...a....”

“A greedy, selfish animal abuser, yes,” Nico said bitterly.

“But at the very least he shouldn’t be an earl.  How can he still have a title?  Why didn’t you take it away?”

“At the time, I had very little real power,” Nico answered.  “I was too young; ‘Duke of Angelus’ was more of an honorary title than a real position.  My father could have taken away Midas’ claim to the county, but he chose not to go against the wishes of the jury.  Now that I’m older, I have the authority to strip his title, but I still can’t.  Midas is very well-liked.  The public hates me enough as it is already, so imagine how they would react if I deposed him.  Believe me, I’ve discussed it with Reyna and it’s not a viable option.  The point is, he’s not in prison, he’s still an earl, he’s very wealthy, and I don’t know what he’s capable of.  If he has no problem sacrificing animals for a few extra coins, what else could he do?”

Will swallowed.  Should he tell Nico what Midas had asked of him?  He didn’t want to keep it secret, but regardless of what Midas had done, he and his daughter were entitled to medical confidentiality.  Plutons were especially private about their health.  It would be wrong of Will to disclose that information without permission.  

“I will be more cautious around him from now on,” Will said.

“You can’t let yourself seem at all vulnerable,” Nico said.  “Don’t give him anything he can use to manipulate you.  Did you talk about anything in particular?”

“He asked about my studies,” Will answered.

Nico nodded in satisfaction.  “Then he could have just been greeting you as a host.”

Will chewed his lip.  He didn’t like lying, but he took the issue of confidentiality seriously.  Anyway, what would Nico say if he knew?  Would he ask Will not to do it?  Will would never abandon a child in need of healing, no matter who her father was.

“Anyway, you don’t have to be jealous,” Will said abruptly.

“I know.  Midas has to be well over twice your age.  I’d worry about your judgment if you were interested in him.”

“Yes, but that wasn’t what I meant,” Will said.  “You don’t have to be jealous of anyone, ever.  You trust me, don’t you?”

Nico’s frown faltered.  For a second, he looked like he was fighting a smile, then he gave up and lost.  “I trust you.”

“Good.  Is that all that was bothering you today?”

Nico nodded, but then hesitated.  “Well, there was another thing,” he said.  “You used my given name in front of Midas.”

Will didn’t remember doing that.  “I did?”

“As you were saying goodnight.”

“Oh.”  He still didn’t remember.  “I must have said it without thinking.  Did I cause a problem?”

“Not really,” Nico said.  “I know this is the first appearance we’ve made as husbands and you’ve grown accustomed to more familiar forms of address, but I’d rather keep that private.  Especially around Midas.”

“I understand,” Will said.  “I’ll be more careful in the future.”

Nico nodded.  “Thank you.  I wanted to talk about visiting the mines, but that can wait until morning.  We ought to rest.  The journey here was tiring.”

Will let out an annoyed puff of air.  The journey hadn’t been tiring.  All they had done was sit.  They’d even napped in the carriage.  Why did people always insist that long carriage rides took so much energy?

Will didn’t say that out loud.

“Would you like to stay with me?” Nico asked.

Will looked at him.  “Stay?”

“In my room.  To sleep.”

Will blinked, then he smiled.  “Oh.  Um, yes.  Yes, I would like that.”

Maybe resting wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Next

[mariequitecontrarie]

Best Person

Summary: When Ruby delivers a huge vase of red roses to Gold's office, he believes the romantic gesture is meant for Belle--his new fiancée! Little does he know, Regina and David are competing to stand up in the wedding on the groom’s side of the aisle. A/N: Silly shenanigans in the Cufflinks verse. Thanks to @galactic-pirates and @maplesyrupao3 for being wonderful!

On AO3

“Thirteen roses.” Ruby Lucas sailed into his office and plopped a huge vase of flowers smack in the center of his desk. Gold looked up from the presentation notes he was reviewing and frowned. “Miss Lucas, do you mind?” he asked, waving in Belle’s direction. She was perched in one of the guest chairs across from his desk, her head bent over her own set of notes.

Belle raised her chin, her eyes flashing with mirth. “Be nice,” she mouthed, then blew him a kiss. Her fingertips were stained with gloss from her lips and left little pink finger smudges on the papers in her other hand.

A flush crept up his neck while he thought about all the wonderful things that mouth and those hands had done to him last night. “I don’t mind at all.” Ruby was talking again, reminding him she was still watching. “My desk is in the neighborhood.” “Yes, well.” He cleared his throat and flicked his wrist, pointing toward the door again. Maybe she would take the hint and leave. “We’re working.”

Ruby flashed a sly smile. “I don’t remember a presentation slide about weekend plans with Belle and her parents.”

His attention settled on the flowers again—a heavy crystal vase stuffed with plump red roses. Dread began to churn in his stomach. “She has a point, Darach,” Belle said. “What?” Gold could see Belle’s mouth moving but he couldn’t focus.

A more pressing problem than Ruby’s nosiness had presented itself in the form of the vase occupying most of the outer portion of his desk. He leaned forward in his chair to glower at the stunning crimson blooms. They still had dew on them. How disgustingly cliché. He recognized the florist’s tag—the flowers had been ordered from her parents’ shop. He’d bought arrangements there many, many times over the last year. The person who had sent these knew quality. But he hadn’t arranged for flowers to be delivered to Belle today. Had he missed some important date? She wasn’t ill, it wasn’t her birthday, and if she’d been promoted he would have been the first to know. Which left Gold with only one question: who would dare send a romantic arrangement to Belle French? She was engaged. To him. Jealousy curdled in his belly. Granted, he had asked for Belle’s hand only a few weeks ago, but couldn’t they enjoy their engagement for five minutes before he had to fend off applications for replacement suitors? Did people even send wedding objections in the form of flowers? He’d never heard of such a thing, but he wasn’t up on the latest in social non-graces. Later, when Ruby Lucas wasn’t watching his every move like a cat tracking a ball of yarn, he would ask Belle. “Thirteen roses. Really?” Ever curious, Belle leaned forward to stroke one of the blood-red petals. “We all know what that means,” Ruby announced.

Before he could inform them that no, everyone did not know, they were hooting and shouting “secret admirer!” “Someone has quite a crush!” Belle whistled and beamed at him. Belle’s delight was an unpleasant surprise. He didn’t see anything funny or charming about this situation, yet here she was, less than flustered to be receiving a romantic overture three weeks after she’d agreed to be his wife. Perhaps he was oversensitive but her casual attitude stung a bit. And he intended to discuss it with her like an adult—if Ruby ever left the room. He clenched his jaw while he waited, but Ruby was oblivious to his tension. She leaned over the arrangement to inhale the blossoms.

“Mmmm.” Ruby’s face lit in an appreciative smile. “I wonder who sent them.” Belle gnawed her lower lip the way she always did when she was mulling something over and his heart fluttered in spite of himself. “There’s a card.” Ruby pointed out. Belle turned to him before she plucked the small white envelope from amongst the stems. “May I, darling?” “Valentine’s Day is over.” He reclined in his chair with a huff. “But please,” he said, pretending to be magnanimous. “I wouldn’t dream of spoiling your fun.” “Some people celebrate love all the time,” Ruby offered. “Or send arrangements just because. A person doesn’t need an excuse to send flowers.” “Thank you for your observation, Miss Lucas. I’m sure commercial gardeners and florists across the globe appreciate your concern for their economic welfare. Now then, don’t you have some work to do?” He would rather his insecurities over Belle’s secret admirer not be fodder for office gossip. “This weekend when we were all having dinner together I was Ruby. How quickly they forget.” She grinned at Belle like he was a small child who had said something clever. Gold sighed. As a rule, he’d never mixed business and pleasure with anyone except Belle. But Ruby was Belle’s best friend and getting along with her was important. At least he didn’t dislike her. Ruby was sharp, hardworking, and a wonderful support system for Belle. Plus, Regina was always after him to be more sociable with the team no matter how much he resisted. Time and again he’d told her people wanted a leader they could respect, not someone who would take them bowling and host a Jell-O shot contest.

Whatever the hell that was. He coughed. “Don’t you have some work to do, Ruby?” “All caught up, boss. I think you’re going to be very happy with the press turnout for the new juice bar tomorrow.” “Fantastic,” he muttered. Pitching to the media, not subtlety, was Ruby’s area of expertise. The two women leaned over the flowers with an identical, fanatical gleam in their eyes. What was it about females and plant life? Perhaps it was the same as it was with women and shoes—a veritable mystery to the male mind. He busied himself with stacking the papers on his desk and slapped them against the surface with more force than necessary. Belle opened the small white envelope and read the card. “They’re from David Nolan.” She squealed. “How sweet!” “Sweet?” Gold dropped the papers he was holding and stood. He grabbed for his cane, his fingers squeezing reflexively around the handle. In less than a second he had rounded the desk. Belle and Ruby both stared at him with wide eyes, but he had already slid way down the ladder of reason. “What the hell is Nolan doing sending flowers to my fiancée?” he bellowed. “He’s married! You’re engaged.” He’d thought David was his friend. Perhaps not a close friend, but an acquaintance at least. The bastard had crossed a line. No, the line was a million miles behind, back in hell, where he was going to send him. “Darling, stop,” Belle said. She gave his shoulder a loving squeeze. “You’re going to break your fingers.” He slid away from her touch and cursed. “No, I’m going to break his fingers. Or”—he crushed his palm against the head of his cane—“maybe I’ll start with something else first. Something he’ll need if he ever wants to father any children!”

Intent on his prey, he stalked to the office door. But Belle was quicker. She ducked under his arm and stood in the doorway. “Wait. Wait!” She shut the door. “Why should I?” He crossed his arms. She was the one who thought the flowers were sweet. It hurt more than he wanted to admit. “Those flowers aren’t for me, Darach.” Her smile was patient, understanding. “Who the hell are they for then?” “They’re for you, Gold,” Ruby said. “Why do you think I brought them to your office?”

“Hey, Gold! Wait up.” David Nolan chased him down the hallway and fell in step beside him.

He gave the cover of his pocket watch a meaningful glance. He was due in the conference room in five minutes and he abhorred lateness, especially when he was meeting a client.

“You get the flowers?” David asked.

“Yes.”

“Too much?”

“Yes.”

“Shit.” David was walking fast to keep up, a white paper sack swinging between his fingers. “I knew red was the wrong color. “I should have gone with yellow, right? For friendship?”

He didn’t care, especially after the way he’d embarrassed himself this morning in front of Belle and Ruby. But Nolan looked so damned hurt by the brush-off he felt bad. He slowed his pace.

Gold imagined his future father-in-law trimming and watering his beauties in the cooler, one of his deep, rumbling belly laughs frosting the glass. Still, he found it hard to believe Maurice or Colette would commit such a faux pas as sending red roses from a married man to their daughter’s fiancé.

“Who answered the phone at the florist’s?” he asked.

“Anna,” David said, an expression of relief crossing his face. “I think she was new.”

He nodded. “Anna Bjorgman.”

“She didn’t give a last name.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Chattered and giggled so much you agreed to anything she suggested to get her off the line?”

David’s shrug was sheepish. “How’d you know?”

“That’s Anna. I met her at the Frenches’ house last week. She’s their new intern.”

In ten more steps, they were standing in front of the conference room where client James Midas was already waiting. David loomed in the doorway, barring Gold’s entrance. Blocking him from going places was becoming epidemic today. He would accept it from Belle, but not from this lummox.

“We’ve arrived at my destination,” he said, then tapped the floor with his cane, impatient.

“Right. Here.” Nolan thrust the paper bag at his chest.

Gold peeked inside. “It’s a blueberry bagel.”

“Your favorite, right?”

It was, but his breakfast of choice was beside the point. In the past few weeks, Nolan’s behavior had become increasingly strange. “What’s this all about, Nolan? First, you wash my car in the parking lot on your lunch hour, then you send flowers, now you’re following me around and buying me baked goods? This isn’t the way to ask for a raise.”

David huffed. “Why do you always assume anyone who talks to you or does something nice who isn’t Belle wants money?”

What else would they need from him? “Answer my question, Nolan.”

David shoved his hands in his pockets and took them out again. It was a nervous habit he fell back on whenever he was caught off-guard. “I just wondered if you’d given any thought yet to who would be your best man.” He toed the floor with his shoe. “You know, at the wedding.”  

Bewildered, Gold could only stare.

Last night, Belle told him wherever and whenever they tied the knot, Ruby would be her maid of honor. But he hadn’t given any thought to his attendants. Weddings were overpriced, overblown affairs. Whatever Belle wanted he would happily go along with but all he cared about was the honeymoon. Taking Belle on a tour of Europe and making love to her in as many cities as possible, now that was his idea of a party.

“I just proposed...Belle and I…it’s early to make plans,” he said, faltering.

Mary Margaret squeaked by to deliver Midas a mug of coffee, then nudged David on her way back down the corridor. She spoke to her husband out of the corner of her mouth. “Did you ask him yet?”

“Ask me what?” Just then, Midas met his eyes through the glass door and gave a little wave. Gold glanced at his watch again. “I’m late, Nolan. We’ll continue this conversation later…perhaps at a quarter to never.” He muttered the last words under his breath as he strode into the conference room.

“Midas, my apologies for keeping you waiting.” Gold set down the bag with the blueberry bagel to shake hands with one of the firm’s best and longest running clients.

“No trouble.” Midas stroked his golden beard. “Gave me time to think over my campaign, though if I didn’t know your distaste for politics I’d think I have competition in the race.”

Gold stopped nodding midstream. Midas was running for a state Senate position and the firm was assisting with public relations. “Competition?”

“I’d really like something like the billboard of you downtown.” Midas took an experimental sip of coffee.

Gold resisted the urge to loosen his collar. “What billboard?”

“‘What billboard’ he asks. Ha! You old dog!” Midas’ grin could have covered the broad side of a barn. “It’s the huge one in the center of town with your face and the slogan The Magic Man. Nice touch with the company logo. Tasteful design, too. Already offered my compliments to Regina.”

“Aha.” Gold flexed his fingers along the edge of the conference table, pretending for a fleeting moment it was Regina’s neck. “Regina’s talents are…without parallel.” As is her unmitigated gall, he wanted to add. As soon as this meeting was over, he was going to drive to the square and see this monstrosity for himself. Then he would have it torn down with a wrecking ball.

Midas nodded with enthusiasm, seeming to be unaware of the bite in Gold’s words. “If you could put together a plan and design samples featuring something along those lines. Electronic too, if you would. Cost is no object.”

“I’d be delighted.” Gold forced a smile. He would put the pricing together and then he would bludgeon Regina with the enormous vase of red roses occupying half the real estate on his desk.

While Midas continued to share his ideas, a noise in the corridor drew Gold’s attention. The genius in question was standing in the corridor next to David, her swelling voice and wild gestures indicating a heated argument. Regina bared her teeth in a hiss, her hands on her hips.

This was not good. “Would you excuse me a moment, Midas?”

He hurried into the corridor.

“This figures,” Regina was saying, her lip curled in a sneer. “I knew the minute I turned my back you’d pull something like this.” She glared at David then turned to Gold. “Charming as he is, he’s the wrong one for the job. It’s the twenty-first century. Who says the best man has to be an actual man, anyway?”

David crossed his arms. “I was the one who pushed him to go talk to Belle last New Year’s Eve.”

“And I’m the one who hired Belle in the first place!” Regina insisted. “It’s my company. That office of Gold’s they’re always pretending not to have sex in exists because of me. He should choose me to be his best person!”

David snorted. “You always have to be in charge of the party, don’t you, Regina?”

“I am the party!” Regina bellowed.

They continued to bicker and Gold begged the ceiling for patience. This is what came of making a marriage proposal in the workplace—a team of lunatics expecting to be involved in all aspects of the wedding. Was he going to have to clear honeymoon destinations with them, too? Perhaps they wanted to join them on the trip? Why not plan a company cruise while they were at it?

Tonight he would beg Belle to elope and marry him as soon as possible.

But Regina was poking David in the chest and before he whisked Belle to Las Vegas or a justice of the peace, he had to stop these two before they initiated a wrestling match in the middle of the hallway. Belle was so much better at dealing with people—preserving feelings, soothing ruffled feathers, breaking bad news to interfering idiots with such finesse they didn’t even know they’d been handled and shown the door.

He was about to text her for help when his phone buzzed with a message. It was Belle. He scanned the text then pocketed his phone with a weary sigh. “My office. Now.”

He ushered Regina and David inside and slammed his door with a snarl. “For fuck’s sake! This is insane.”

“Cursing is evidence of a lazy mind, Gold.” Regina wagged a finger at him.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” he shouted.

They both snapped their mouths shut and stared, two sets of eyes as wide as the blueberry bagel Nolan had given him. The few employees talking outside his door scurried out of sight. A hush blanketed the office and only the mild whirr of the copy machine broke the strained silence.

“Is this a place of business?” he asked them.

“Of course it’s a business,” Regina said. “My business.” She flashed a tight, red-lipped smile and elbowed David in the side. “Mine, mine, mine!” David parroted, rubbing his ribs.

“Very well, Your Majesty.” Gold offered her a mocking bow. “In between the two of you commissioning me new suits, buying Belle shares in a publishing house, and all these other outlandish gestures, can we all agree that my wedding and Belle’s is our business?”

More reluctant nods from Nolan. Regina rolled her eyes, but she allowed a single sharp nod to communicate her understanding.

“Good. Then as we’re running a marketing firm and not a wedding planning service, perhaps interviewing potential groomsmen—” he caught the narrowing of Regina’s eyes—“groomspeople, can wait?”

“Yes,” they grumbled in unison.

He plucked a file from his desk, intent on returning to the meeting with Midas. “Let’s get back to work.”

“It’s just…” Regina trailed off.

Dammit, he’d almost made it to freedom. “What?” He paused with his back to her, his hand hot on the doorknob.

“You’re my oldest friend,” she said softly.

Oh. He released the doorknob and turned to face them.

David was slouched against the edge of his desk, looking like a kicked puppy. “When you asked my advice about Belle at the New Year’s Eve party last year, I thought we’d become friends.”

Nolan had offered the advice unsolicited, but as it had worked in his favor and he’d won the girl, now didn’t seem like the best time to point it out.

Regina and David bowed their heads, reminding him of fighting children who’d been separated on the school playground. And guilt began to dislodge his anger.

He could hear Belle telling him as misguided as their behavior was, it didn’t give him the right to be cruel. Shit. Being in love was turning him into a decent human being.

“The truth is you’re the best person I know,” Regina said. “All I want…” David cut her off with a meaningful cough. “All we want,” Regina amended, “is for you to be happy.”

David’s grin was boyish. “That’s it exactly.”

All at once, the ridiculous billboard, the extravagant gifts, and all the attention they were paying him began to make sense. They were trying to be his friend.  

Fresh out of snappy retorts, he sucked on the inside of his cheek. Until Belle had opened her heart and offered him her love, no one had cared about his happiness. Suddenly, friendships were more than an abstract concept in his world, something he could sneer at and pretend he didn’t need. It seemed he had friends of his own, rather than people who accepted him because he was Belle’s tagalong. It was a bit overwhelming.

David looked to be moving in for a hug. Oh, dear God, he needed to leave before he hugged him back or burst into tears.

“We’ll discuss this later.” He threw the promise over his shoulder and bolted for the door. One small olive branch was the best he could do.

“So we can expect a decision about your best person by the end of the day, then?” Regina called to his retreating back.

He grunted as he rounded the corner and scuttled toward the conference room, reclaiming his chair at the table.

“Say, Gold,” Midas said. “Heard from David Nolan you’re getting married. Congratulations! Regina’s baking the wedding cake?”

Idiots. He smothered a smile. Something had to be done if he wanted even a moment’s peace. There was nothing for it, he supposed.

He would ask them both to be in the wedding.

###

[alchemisland]

The Moors Mutt - II

https://www.wattpad.com/676844776-the-moors-mutt-ii

II. Limbo

Rising early, if rising it was and not merely stirring from a wakened restive state, I walked a barren stretch. At pale dawn birds like Aztec idols flighted at my stirring. Cold light stained the pasture either side. Sleepshod, the road to Cairn Cottage found me quiet company. Even the tinkers were not yet to the road in their triskeled wagons.

When the machine architect of our world was in infancy, men of old, men of renown, used more than sight in their primitive observations of our world. Already we, we as mankind, had realized what appeared as reality was deeper yet than simple tangibility. Further back towards the chaotic and infinite churn of the burning epoch, when mankind had not language to manifest destiny and lived subordinate to Echidna's descendants still fearsome on the plain, parts of the brain which one day became memory centers first stirred to life, elongating the possibility of human memory. Scent still is brother to memory.

The air was heavy with scent when I relinquished vision, only for a short time, and let wind corral me. The breeze carried faint lavender.

A pebbled stretch I crossed stirred a memory of my late father and a codex of heroic tales he purchased, whose high adventure stirred me like nothing prior. At six, maybe seven years old, tales of old Arabia appealed greatly. Fabulous kingdoms wrought of yellow stone against a tangerine haze, swirling tarot sun bemused of countenance, scorpions armoured like chargers sending rodents to their redoubt, the cloying madness of it all. I visited them in dreams, jumping from the path of unruly camels, watching the impenetrable waves humbly part in the wake of Royal palanquins.

Their heroes were unlike our knights. More often broody boys who preferred quill to falchion. Brooding teenagehood made me relish the stranger stories, tales without lessons existing solely to unnerve, speaking on the bleak lives of Tartarian wizards. Older, into adulthood, I came to enjoy Greek tales most. The tragedy of Ajax in his lover's plate leaking on the golden sand moved me. Waves, caressing the moored fleet in passing, bursting against the shale where the pyre burned. Since, when I hear crunching pebbles, I think of soldiers marching on the beach at Troy.

I heard the crunch of a trap and waited hopeful until the crude plume fixed atop the horses head appeared like the mantle of some deposed pagan lord. Ixion's disc four times divided had been fixed to bear this chariot. Its trundle ground debris to powder. I hailed the man, a being of wind, every strand of hair or cloth lank enough to lift stood in disarray. A peak stole his brow, but a smile waved me aboard. He never spoke, though carried me within shouting distance of the manse.

Inside chaos reigned. Lady Sizemore's estate was measured first in paper, not coin. Hundreds, thousands of jaundiced sheets, all in disorder busying every surface. Before a single coin changed hands, a great many hours I spent hauling boxes, within which were more boxes where spiders large as potatoes spun temporary wonders above the invoices.

I wonder what effect prolonged tedium has. Such thoughts are entertained in the avoidance of work that should never be given lucid credence. An entire day dedicated solely to translating letters in incomprehensible cursive, it felt ridiculous. My mind, perhaps reflecting its surroundings, felt dulled, unfocused. So long I stared, when I pried my eyes I found feint margins plastered across reality.

The previous night's visitations I had pondered, ultimately chalking to anxiety. Nothing substantially portentous. Unfortunately, another day was required before I indulged my cryptozooligcal fancies.

*

Darkness in ravenfeather arrived prematurely. I gathered my belongings, wondering where the time went, then ran to the track and the sounds of the the last husbandmen bound for Sperrin. I found easy passage. Too easy perhaps; I was cursed to endure indignity on a wagon halfheartedly scraped of its stinking contents; with my legs lolling over the side, I was soaked in every splash. I arrived back mud-caked, a shambling golem. Lar tended bar. I wondered had he stirred in my absence. Anticipating my thirst, two mugs were set.

I dropped my satchel, enjoying relief akin to weightlessness by contrast, and we drained tankards like soon-to-war Saxons, speaking of weather. I asked had anyone noteworthy visited, mostly from politeness. When asked had the room served, I replied it had done so more than adequately. Again, politeness.

Not wishing to seem overeager, I spared him my dream. If the tale was relayed to me, I should say how convenient the very man hoping to find the beast would experience a vision.

Besides, in the unlikely event we found a mangy badger after I'd described a prehistoric horror.. perish the thought.

'Do we depart tomorrow?' Lar grunted, pretending to clean.

'Short delay actually. I'd have said from the doorway, only for the ale calling. Alas, labour remains. My charges lust for satisfaction. They are at Rome's gates! Distant cousins write in droves. By air, land and sea their letters come, squeezing through grates, shimmying down chimneys. Forget the beast, if they find me I'm dead.'

'We sank tankards enough last night. I've seen folks pale on the dizzy morning after the night before. If this delay is to spite me, let me allay concerns, I'm the man for this job. We're the men for this job.' He shot a glance at Fergus, a pale lance cleaving his brow.

I looked to my empty cup then longingly at his selection. Lar fingered a cask, but reached further back and took another instead.

'My god, man. Boil a pot and toss it down your trousers. No such notions occurred to me. We're expedition mates! I didn't make a dent in the work, really.' I raised a silencing finger to hear the splash of ale. 'There you have it. Mystery solved. If the mystery of the beast is this easy, we're laughing.' I inhaled its aroma. Fruity, potent, sickly almost. 'This expedition diary I mean to publish, any thoughts?'

Lar's measured tone returned. Careful as a tiptoeing sinner, he asked 'You good?'

I smiled. 'Only Ben Adhem saw the book, ask him.'

Lar stove the ashen helm crowning his cigarette, plunging the embers into the cold bronze bowl. 'At writing.'

'You should say! I tease, I tease. To answer your question, yes is the answer. Humbly, in my hand, the pen is like the master mason's chisel, from whence grand cathedrals spring forth from their less divine constituent parts.' Lar was fumbling for his tobacco already and I thought what small use that vice would be in peril.

'I'm convinced.' Lar spoke quickly, stumbling over the words to get them out. I took no offence at his zeal to change the subject. 'Do you have a manuscript at hand?'

'Not with me, unfortunately.' He stifled a sigh of relief. 'Upon returning home one story heavier, I'll ensure you receive signed copies of every one. I'll sing them My favourite tub of Lar. Yours literately, Beastman. That way you'll know it's me.'

Lar's ale, a home brew, was a swift agent, promising to travel from your mouth to the toilet's in twenty minutes. I joked he might patent it for a medicine. Call it the Midas touch. Everything it touched turns to gold: toilet seat, floor, shoes if you weren't careful.

I spied Fergus. His thumb led a blunt edge across the ribbed bark of a sprig, from which he had carved two lidded eyes and a pursed mouth.

Lar lit a cigarette from the flared end of the last, then discarded it on the ashen pyre.

Lar had to raise the hatch spoiling any hope of a dramatic exit, but I hovered over the stool while I spoke. 'Departure two days hence, on the strict proviso no unpleasant libel suit comes once the story hits print. Rest assured, I'll include nothing untoward, but I reserve the right to artistic licence. Print the myth.'

'Libel is a city crime.' Anticipating my desire, Lar walked while he spoke. I mirrored his step, slipping through the open portcullis to sleep, perchance to scream.

*

Lying in bed, I wondered what to include in my chronicle; exciting details only, or every charged exchange? Nobody asked how the shipwright felt constructing thousands of ships without prior notice. They only wanted Achilles. The reader will concede, I have included much of the mundane.

Well-oiled, I slept easily. Set like a star I saw things past, dark present and murky future, useless without chronology, stifling their prophetic nature. The beast came again, shaking the ground.

Waking, it seemed I fell to the mattress from a height. Not far enough to endanger, but enough to worry the springs. I lurched, took my journal from the bedside locker, levered its purple tongue to split its leather cuirass and let it whip to a clean page.

One mark on the opposite face demanded attention. A black circle, subtle as a bearded chin, formed by the swift fury of a graceless wrist, its blackness total.

How strangely the lines blended. One moment a nest of fastened rat tails, one mark indistinguishable from another, the next a clear set of growing rings. In its swirling centre around the maelstrom's eye, the paper tore with the fury of the quill.

I found the pockmark on every page. Someone strained greatly to make an impression so indelible. First I thought Fergus with his ham hands, unknowingly forcing the nib through the page. When he had the chance, or the notion? It seemed unlikely. Throughout the workday it was with me, resting once for a moment unattended on the desk.

Despite concerns, I knew no progress could be made at this hour. For now it seemed safe to be about my duties without much extra precaution. I returned the journal, pulled the duvet across my shoulders and turned to sleep, when suddenly a violent jolt racked the shutters so fiercely they juddered back into place with a great thunk.

I winced toward the disturbance and found mocking empty blackness. As my head sank back into the pillow, a shuddering pulse shook the building. A rippling seismic attack. Unlike quakes from within, which sally in waves, this was a single detonation, like a dying star; one magnificent shockwave that stirred everything in the world at once, only for a moment. I stemmed panic, falling to courageous platitudes that would embarrass the most shameless Kipling-mimic. Without panic, I deduced more likely my head sharply turning had disturbed my equilibrium, giving the walls the appearance of motion. As if in answer to my doubt, dust sprinkled from the rafters.

Nothing else came. I waited, steeled. I pretended to be brave and at some indeterminate point, felt into a brave slumber.

*

Lar, blackbird that he was, rose early. He emerged from the fugue state that best pleased his constitution and stretched, his wingspan filling the alcove.

He found me in my linen cell, bewhaled as Jonah.

'Terrible day.' He drew the shutters. I pulled the sheets down over my face to the sight of Lar's stocky silhouette in the dirty light. Tapping his pipe twice on the sill, he plonked one cheek on the ledge and struck a match. 'Anything you want from town? I'm going to get supplies. I should be away most of the day. There won't be a return trip before we go. Speak now or forever hold your peace.'

'Ambulo in pace.' I tapped my journal, 'I have everything.'

'Do you have a mac?' The rain beat harder.

'No, we're English, some Irish. Although I heard tell that a distant branch traded their roses for thistle stalks.'

Lar shuddered, ill-humoured before midday, despite protestations he needed no proper rest. 'I mean a waterproof.'

'Oh give me credit. That's humour.'

'We in the smiling countryside call it idiocy. There's a time for revels. Unless you've been up all night, dawn isn't it.'

'I don't have one and I'd like a loan if that's what you're asking, thank you. I didn't sleep well now you mention it' I tossed my feet onto the cold ground and felt for a sock.

Lar watched the rain spilling in romantic sheets. 'You'll need an ark to get back. It's like a bog when it rains. No one will be able to get you. Not me, not the constabulary, nor anyone else. If the weather worsens, make sure you get back in time. Otherwise, everything will be closed until further boatice.'

'Boatice?' I said.

'Now that is humour. Rain, boats, further notice. Get it?' Lar left more spritely than when he entered.

[whitejeweler]

Welcome to Music Monday when we bring you throwback songs with jewelry, gemstones or precious metals in the lyrics or title. In 1966’s “Colour My World,” Petula Clark sings about how much her life has changed since she’s finally found her true love.

She sings, “You’ll never see a dark cloud hanging round me / Now there is only blue sky to surround me / There’s never been a gray day since you found me / Everything I touch is turning to gold.”

The last phrase is actually a nod to King Midas, who is remembered from Greek mythology for his ability to turn everything he touched into gold.

In Clark’s world, the positivity generated by her new relationship is having a golden effect on every aspect of her life.

Written by Tony Hatch and Jackie Trent, “Colour My World” borrows from the formula established by Hatch for Clark’s 1964 #1 hit, “Downtown.” While not as successful as the 1964 chart topper, “Colour My World” reached Top 20 status in the US, Australia and New Zealand. Curiously, it failed to reach the Top 50 in Clark’s home country — England.

While the UK failed to embrace the song upon its release in December 1966, BBC Television gave the song a boost when it chose “Colour My World” as the theme song to announce BBC2’s upgraded TV service from black-and-white to color in July 1967.

Born in Surrey, England, in 1939, Clark got her start in the music business as a child performer on BBC Radio. Starting in late 1964, Clark released a series of hits that earned her worldwide fame. Among the songs were “Downtown,” “I Know a Place,” “My Love,” “A Sign of the Times,” “I Couldn’t Live Without Your Love,” “Who Am I,” “This Is My Song,” “Don’t Sleep in the Subway,” “The Other Man’s Grass Is Always Greener” and “Kiss Me Goodbye.”

Over the course of her career, Clark has sold more than 68 million records and has starred on both stage and screen. Clark is still performing at the age of 81.

Please check out the video of Clark performing “Colour My World” on The Ed Sullivan Show on January 15, 1967. The lyrics are below if you’d like to sing along…

“Color My World” Written by Tony Hatch and Jackie Trent. Performed by Petula Clark.

You’ll never see a dark cloud hanging round me. Now there is only blue sky to surround me. There’s never been a gray day since you found me. Everything I touch is turning to gold.

So you can colour my world with sunshine yellow each day! Oh, you can colour my world with happiness all the way! Just take the green from the grass and the blue from the sky up above! And if you colour my world just paint it with your love! Just colour my world.

Just as long as I know you’re thinking of me, there’ll be a rainbow always up above me. Since I found the one who really loves me, everything I touch is turning to gold.

So you can colour my world with sunshine yellow each day! Oh, you can colour my world with happiness all the way! Just take the green from the grass and the blue from the sky up above! And if you colour my world just paint it with your love! Just colour my world. Um.

Sunshine yellow. Orange blossums. Laughing faces everywhere! Yeah! So you can colour my world with sunshine yellow each day! Oh, you can colour my world with happiness all the way! Just take the green from the grass and the blue from the sky up above! And if you colour my world just paint it with your love. Just colour my world. Colour my world. Oh, colour my world. Colour my world.

Credit: Screen capture via Youtube.com.

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[notapartytrick-blog]

004

There is a shower with the water turned as high as it will go, steam thick enough in the air to be nearly choking. There are marks on the bathroom wall, streaks and handprints and places where the shower curtain has gone stiff with gold. There is a man under the water, skin patchy with broad and unsymmetrical gilding where frantic scrubbing only spread the metal out. The man is looking at the drain, at the faint rim of gold collecting as the water streams off him. It doesn’t hurt, because there aren’t enough neve endings left to register the pain of turning to gold, or because it just doesn’t hurt, or because the shock hasn’t worn off yet. 

Do you remember the story of old King Midas, who turned everything he touched to gold? Even liquid, even flesh; when he held his daughter in his arms ( when he held his head in his hands at the sight of what he had done, some legends go ). The man doesn’t want to look in the mirror, because he knows even his dark eyes will be swirled with gold. The man doesn’t want to look in the mirror, but he will. There is a terrible thought that rises in his chest until he is forced to stumble from the shower, wipe down the mirror with shaking hands that leave streaks of gold behind them. In the yellow-tinted otherness, there are his dark eyes with streaks of gold. There is his mouth clenched tight against something he desperately does not want to see but must know. He opens his mouth, and in it is——

Duke wakes up three hours after he laid down, with his gloves on, with his little apartment still half-lit by neon city lights. He writes the date and the time and “the same” under a long list of dates and times and sameness; and goes down to the bodega on the corner to drink iced coffee and listen to crackling radio and watch a city that isn’t gold at all. 

He has a routine, you know? It’s all right.

[lapreshjewel]

The Roommate (pt.2)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY LOVE! (You know who you are. Since you’re celebrating your day of birth, I felt like I should give you this gift [since it’s the only gift I can give you].)

**Although this was written with a specific person in mind, I hope you all still enjoy this thing.**

Warnings: Smut, Language, badly written fluff

Word Count: 2601

His lips brushed lightly over your own, and he pulled you closer, rocking you back and forth slowly, “I missed you.” He smiled warmly at you, leaning his forehead against yours. You laced your fingers together behind his back and pulled back to look at him, “I missed you too.”

Your eyes flew open, and you stared up at your ceiling, groaning audibly. Of course this would happen to you. In the six months that you lived under the same roof as Mino, you’d dreamed of him four times. Three of which were the kind of sweet that would leave cavities in one’s teeth. And one......couldn’t be talked about. Your face grew hot at the mere thought of that blessed and cursed dream that had you shook for days. Sighing, you threw off your covers and rolled out of bed, Mino was away for work -again-, and with his presence being so big, the house felt empty without him. 

Having no reason to leave the house today, you decided to bake something to occupy your time. As you padded down the hallway on bare feet, you were low key grateful for the time away from Mino. Without him around, it gave you a chance to push away those forbidden feelings that you were starting to develop for him. He was your roommate, and completely off limits. He felt like a ladies man. He just had that air about him. Like he could have any and every woman he set his eyes on. He could even get the attention of women that seemingly had no interest in him at all. You’d seen in action once. 

The two of you had gone out for dinner one night after spending time at one of the various art galleries downtown, and there was a group of older women seated three tables away from you. They kept throwing disgusted looks in your direction any time either of you laughed too loudly. It was awkward and made you want to leave. Being the object of such scrutiny was never fun. One of them so called herself reprimanding the two of you for being disruptive in such a quiet setting, and watching Mino use his charms to get his way was both amazing, and unsettling. If it was that easy for him to woo a woman that wanted nothing to do with him, imagine how easy it would be to woo someone that had interest in him? Someone like you. 

When the woman stopped at your table, at first, Mino ignored her, choosing instead to carry on your conversation like the woman’s existence didn’t matter in the slightest. But you had become unable to focus on him when the woman refused to leave. You watched in awkward silence as he finally acknowledged her. He turned to her slowly, leaning his cheek onto his closed fist, lifting an eyebrow curiously, “Is there something I can help you with?” She folded her arms over her chest and made it clear that she was upset, “I-I...you two are a bit loud. Couldn’t you keep it down? We’re trying to have dinner over there.” He tilted his head up to her, looking as if he were genuinely concerned with her issue. For a moment, he said nothing. His gaze was so concentrated that it made you feel some type of way, and you weren’t the one he was looking at. You watched the woman’s stance change in a matter of seconds. 

She seemed so angry when she first approached the two of you, and now she was shifting from foot to foot, looking as if she would pass out. He dropped his hand to the table and leaned closer to the woman as if he were about to pass along a secret, gaze steady, “We’ll be quieter.” He winked and she went wide-eyed, stunned. “Oh! You’re no trouble! Sorry for disturbing you!” She scrambled to assure him, waving her hands frantically in front of her. “Are you sure? You seemed pretty upset.” He smiled. She nodded quickly, reassuring him that the two of you were free to continue as you were. How is it that she was the one apologizing when technically it was the two of you in the wrong?

Reaching the expansive kitchen, you smiled to yourself. This was the kind of kitchen that was the stuff of someone’s dreams. Granite counter tops, cherry wood cabinets, stainless steel appliances. The ultimate kitchen that anyone would love to cook in. Opening the refrigerator, you thought about what you could do with the ingredients you had. Being so deep in thought, you hadn’t heard Mino come home. You stood with the refrigerator door open, not really looking at what was inside. You were too lost in your own head to see anything. You’d been envisioning all the different dishes you could make that you’d forgotten that you were even standing in front of the fridge in the first place. “The purpose of a refrigerator, is to keep the food cold, ____________.” The handle was snatched from your hand as the door shut in your face. You blinked up at him and it was only then that you realized how close he was to your face. His cologne filled your nostrils and you stared at him in silence for the longest three seconds in your life. “I....hi.” He smiled at you and leaned closer, “Missed you, roomie.” He knocked your chin lightly with his knuckles, breaking the trance you’d fallen into. “Yeah, sure.” 

Mino pouted, tilting his head to the side playfully, “What? You didn’t miss me?” Yes. “No.”  “And to think, I rushed all the way home.” He tsked, shaking his head as if he were disappointed in you. But you knew this was all jokes. There wasn’t a chance in hell he would be upset about you saying you didn’t miss him. At least, that’s what you told yourself, choosing to ignore the look in his eyes. You weren’t about to read into this situation when it would come out later that what you thought you saw wasn’t what was actually there. He moved away from you and turned to leave, hesitating at the entryway of the kitchen, “Get dressed, roomie. We’ve got some exploring to do today.” You’d forgotten that you were supposed to block out an entire day for him when he got back from wherever it was he went off to for work. Your shoulders drooped as you followed him out of the kitchen. You no longer had the time to lose yourself in the mouth-watering smells of food cooking. No, you had to spend the day with the man you’d been dreaming about regularly. How fun. 

“Hurry up, __________.We’re almost there.” Mino was too far ahead of you for him to here the string of curse words falling from your lips as you struggled up the path behind him. You’d been walking for hours and your legs were starting to protest. “Where are we even going?” You whined. “You’ll see when we get there.” He called over his shoulder. You were starting to regret leaving the house. It was way too hot outside and the trail you were walking barely had any shade. The sun was beating down on you with such an intensity that you contemplated -more than once-, shaving your hair off. The camera around your neck seemed heavier now than it did when you’d first started off on this adventure. “Mino! Slow the fuck down! I’m dying out here!” You yelled at him as he disappeared from your line of vision. “Fuck this..” You huffed, throwing yourself down on to a nearby rock, putting your head between your knees. The recognizable crunching sound of gravel being crushed under shoes started off far away, and then became loud enough for you to know that Mino had turned around and come back. “____________, you’re going to miss it if you don’t hurry up.” Miss what? What could possibly be more important than the way your legs throbbed? Mino sighed in exasperation, pulling you to your feet and supporting most of your weight. “Let’s go.” 

You groaned, begrudgingly allowing him to pull you up the trail. “Wel’re almost there. You’ll be able to sit down soon.” You rolled your eyes and groaned again. This was torture, and you were sure you were going to die of dehydration soon. The two of you walked in silence, concentrating on not falling over on the uneven path. Mino’s grip on you was firm, and you could have sworn his thumb was rubbing circles into your side. Nah. No way. It was the heat messing with you. Song Mino was not touching you like that. Did people normally do that when helping someone walk up a mountain? You had to stop thinking about it, or your knees would give out. You chose to focus on the way your shoes looked as you walked up the trail. “We’re here.” Mino announced suddenly, no longer walking. You looked up from the ground at where you were and your knees almost gave out for real. It was gorgeous. You’d been walking for so long that you’d lost track of time. The sun had started to set, casting a rich, yellow hue over the tops of the rocky hills. It was like the trails had been touched by Midas, painting everything in gold. “Wow..” You breathed in amazement. You were at a loss for words. All that walking suddenly seemed totally worth it as you looked all around you. “It’s beautiful.” You sniffled, suddenly getting teary-eyed at the sunset. “Yes...you are.” 

Wait, what? Did he say what you think he just said? Surprised, you turned to find him staring at you. “Wh-...” Mino leaned in and you stumbled backward, losing your footing. Was falling over going to become a habit of yours whenever he was around? This time around, Mino wasn’t quick enough to catch you. You went down so hard that you were certain you’d be picking tiny rocks out of your ass cheeks for days. “Gotdammit...” Mino wheezed, stooping to help you to your feet. You threw a look at him, snatching your arms from him. “Did it hurt?” Mino guffawed, doubling over and clutching his stomach. “Ha ha.” You seethed. Was your pain really that funny? You watched him wipe tears from his eyes, as he stood straight up. Apparently it was. You narrowed your eyes at him, folding your arms over your chest, “If you’re done, I’d like to go home now.” Mino fought to keep from laughing again and grabbed on to your shoulders, pulling you into a hug, “Awww...the poor baby is upset.” He cooed, stroking the back of your head like he was trying to soothe a child. 

His cologne filled your senses once again, and you inhaled, closing your eyes as you rested your head against his chest. Mino stopped stroking the back of your head and you panicked. What even possessed you to do what you’d just done?! Too afraid to do anything, you stayed still, waiting for him to say something to put you back into your place as his roommate. But he didn’t. He didn’t say anything. Not a single thing. He swayed gently back and forth, hold tightening around you. “I missed you.” He said finally. His deep voice vibrating against your face. This wasn’t happening right? Your dream wasn’t being played out right in front of you was it? You stayed quiet, still too afraid to do or say anything. You weren’t sure if this moment was for real, and you didn’t want to break it in case it wasn’t a figment of your imagination. You glanced over his arm at the sun setting and the tears welled up in your eyes, spilling over before you had the chance to blink them away.  You sniffled and Mino pulled back to look at you, concern written all over his face. “__________? Are you-?” 

You jerked away from him, wiping angrily at the tears streaming down your cheeks. “It’s the sun...and aller-allergies.” You hiccuped. The lie was a lame one, but you hadn’t the time to think of a better one. You felt too exposed now, and it wasn’t a good feeling. “Let’s go.” You whispered brokenly. Mino’s hands cupped your face, and you could tell that he was waiting for you to look at him, but you couldn’t. You wouldn’t. “____________.” You dropped your head and shook it back and forth, tears still falling. “____________, look at me.” You shook your head again, and he dropped his face into your line of sight so that you had no choice. “Talk to me..” His voice was soft and comforting. You pulled his hands from your face and stepped away from him, wanting to put some sort of distance between the two of you so that his cologne couldn’t cloud your judgement. “I think it’s time for me to move out.” You choked on the words, not really wanting to say them. “Why?” You looked at him then and regretted it. He looked hurt, “It’s just...not working out.”  “So you’re just going to leave me, then?” Why was he making it sound like he cared? “Mino...” You sighed, throwing your hands up. “I can’t keep living with you! Do you know how hard it is to-..” 

He crushed his lips to yours, catching you off guard. You pushed him away and stared him down, mouth wide open. “Did you just..?” Mino leveled you with a look so serious you had to break eye contact. “You....we’re just now...you can’t leave.”  “Mino...you don’t mean that. Stop this.”  “Don’t tell me what the fuck I mean, ____________.” Your head snapped back like he’d just slapped the shit out of you. “Wh-..?” Mino wiped a hand over his face in frustration, turning away from you and putting his hands on his hips. The silence that had fallen between the two of you was heavy. It was heavy and it hurt. What was he thinking about? What was he going to say? “You....you don’t....feel anything?” He questioned finally, turning back to you. “You want to talk about feelings? That’s why I’m going to leave, Mino. I can’t keep acting like I don’t have feel-...” 

He was on you again, and this time, you didn’t fight it. Who knew how long this moment would last? Even if he were only doing this to keep you from going, it didn’t matter to you at that point in time. Mino was kissing you like he was going off to war and knew he’d never see you again. He was kissing you like he was trying to drink you in. You felt yourself falling. Like the ground had disappeared from under you and you were being swallowed whole. Your whole body felt like fireworks had been set of, tingling all over. Despite the desperation behind the kiss, his lips were impossibly soft. He used just the right amount of pressure, and when he nipped at your bottom lip, you whined involuntarily. You no longer had control over your own body, and for once, it was okay. When his lips stopped moving against yours, it was like someone had taken a bucket of ice water and threw it in your face. You hadn’t expected the man to kiss you, let alone you enjoying it as much as you did. 

He rested his forehead against yours and kissed the tip of your nose, the action sweeter than you had imagined it to be. 

“Stay with me.” 

[to be continued]

One | Two | Three | Final (pt.1) | Final (Pt.2)

[7r0773r]

American Sonnets for My Past and Future Assassins by Terrance Hayes

Something in the metaphor of the bow Which is never close enough to see the arrow Hit its mark. I remain a mystery to my father. My father remains a mystery to me. Christianity is a religion built around a father Who does not rescue his son. It is the story Of a son whose father is a ghost. No one Mentions Jesus’ sister. Nothing is written About her. She had no children, she was in her Forties the first time she turned water into wine. A late bloomer, she began a small wine business And traveled all over the world selling the wine. Her name was the name of the wine. I don’t recall the name of the wine.

***

America, you just wanted change is all, a return To the kind of awe experienced after beholding a reign Of gold. A leader whose metallic narcissism is a reflection Of your own. You share a fantasy with Trinidad James, who said, “Gold all in my chain, gold all in my ring, Gold all in my watch” & if you know what I’m talking About, your gold is the yellow of “Lemonade” by Gucci Mane: “Yellow rims, yellow big booty, yellow bones, Yellow Lambs, yellow MP’s, yellow watch.” Like no Culture before us, we relate the way the descendants Of the raped relate to the descendants of their rapists. May your restlessness come at last to rest, constituents Of Midas. I wish you the opposite of what Neruda said Of lemons. May all the gold you touch burn, rot & rust.

***

Goddamn, so this is what it means to have a leader You despise, the racists said when the president Was black and I’ll be damned if I ain’t saying it too. Is this a mandate for whiteness, virility, sovereignty, Stupidity, an idiot’s threats & gangsta narcissisms threading Every shabby sentence his trumpet constructs? You Are not allowed to say shit about Mexicans when you Ain’t actually got any Mexican friends—I bet you’ve never Been invited to a family dinner. You ain’t allowed to deride Women when you’ve never wept in front of a woman That wasn’t your mother. America’s struggle with itself Has always had people like me at the heart of it. You can’t Grasp your own hustle, your blackness, you can’t grasp Your own pussy, your black pussy dies for touch.

***

This word can be the difference between knowing And thinking. It’s the name people of color call Themselves on weekends & the name colorful People call their enemies & friends. It used to be The word for the absence of inheritance. Before that It was the word for the feel of burlap. When Lincoln Witnessed a slave auction in his boyhood, it was The first word to enter his mind. Before it evoked A kind of bewildering mothering, it evoked Job’s Afro silvering with suffering. It is the difference Between cursive, tantrum, assault & pepper spray. It is the title of that absurd three-act play Where the actors say nothing but “Who can say” And who can say “Who can say” for two hours straight.

***

From now on I will do my laundry early Sunday Mornings when all the young tenants are hung- Over or worn out, all the old people in church, And the elementary parents parked at playgrounds With their children inside the “Play At Your Own Risk” sign on the fence. I tried to tell the woman Who sent me songs, it’s departure that makes company Hard to master. I tried to tell her I’m a muser, a miser With time. I love poems more than money & pussy. From now on I will eat brunch alone. I believe Eurydice is actually the poet, not Orpheus. Her muse Has his back to her with his ear bent to his own heart. As if what you learn making love to yourself matters More than what you learn when loving someone else.

***

Suppose you could speak nothing but money And acrimony. Suppose all the sunflowers Van Gogh destroyed, all the stones in Virginia’s Pockets & all the stones Georgia painted as vaginas Were simply a matter of making something greater Than money. Prince taught us a real man has A beautiful woman in him. Suppose we cannot Forget what happened in Money. Suppose You’re someone who celebrates Thomas Jefferson’s Birthday. Suppose he was someone whose love  For a black woman was blinded by blackness, Hers & his, yours & mine. I ain’t made at you, Assassin. It’s not the bad  people who are brave  I fear, it’s the good people who are afraid.

***

A brother versed in spiritual calisthenics And cowboy quiet seeks funny, lonesome, Speculative or eye-glassed lass. Shopaholics Welcomed. Also Prince fanatics, museum Cashiers, & pragmatists conversant (lipstick Or no lipstick) with a hipness substantial Enough to contract around a muscle as well  As expand around a child. Fear of boredom is ideal. Fear of dereliction is okay. Love for the willy-nilly And Willie Nelson, welcomed. Crushes, depressions, And unsightly hesitations are okay. Must freely Expend humor & grace. Amid long Sundays, Long drives, long movies, & school conferences, Occasional acts of disregard or guardedness are okay.

***

Glad someone shot deserved to be shot finally, George Wallace. After you send your basket of balms And berries for the girls the bomb buried in Birmingham, After you add your palms to the psalms & palm covered Caskets of the girls the bomb buried in Birmingham, I’ll muster a pinch of prayer for you. You are the blind Protagonist of a story that begins, “In my previous life My work involved returning runaway slaves to slavery,” And ends with the image of a black nurse pushing  Your old ass in a wheelchair. Can you guess what black Folk passing empty cotton fields feel, George Wallace? I damn you with the opposite of that feeling. I keep thinking I’m confessing for the first time, the reason I fear you, And you keep asking why I’m telling this old story again.

***

In a parallel world where all Dr. Who’s Are black, I’m the doctor who knows no god Is more powerful than Time. In a parallel world Where all the doctors who are black see cops Box black boys in cop cars & caskets, I’m The doctor who blacks out whenever he sees A police box. In a parallel world where doctors Who box cops in caskets cry doing their jobs, I disappear inside a skull that’s larger on the inside. Question: if, in a parallel world where every Dr. Who was black, you were the complex Time Lord, When & where would you explore? My answer is, A brother has to know how to time travel & doctor Himself when a knee or shoe stalls against his neck.

[truth-seeker1024]

A Golden Age

King Midas of Phrygia, who was a man of good heart, wanted ultimately what was best for his people. As an honest and good king, he tried to live a selfless life of moral code. Unfortunately, he had been quite troubled lately because his entire nation was suffering from a temporary drought affecting their agricultural exports and therefore their economy, which was beginning to head in bad direction. Besides his troubles and current problems, he went about his life serving people in ways he could until a solution was found for the drought. During this time, he came across a drunk, helpless old man wandering in the streets. He took the old man into his own personal home and had him nursed and entertained until he was finally recovered and satisfied. Midas took Silenus to where he asked after a full ten days since their first encounter and much kindness from Midas. To the King’s surprise and awe, the old man was the much famed Silenus who was a teacher to the last Olympian god Dionysus. Silenus had lead the king to the god to ask if he may have any wish for his remarkable kindness. Midas became flustered! He asked if anything he may touch would be turned instantly turned to gold. Dionysus, wise in his judgment, regrettably granted Midas’ desire knowing it was foolish. The king was joyous in his fortune believing it could bring his country great wealth and prosperity, but ignorant of the great tragedy it would thrust upon him as a result of his poor words and thinking. He decided to test his newly given power as he traveled back to his home where foreign government officials and his family awaited him. He ordered the temporary cease of travel in his chariot so he could walk among the forest trees. First, he touched a willow branch and witnessed it turn to gold almost instantaneously. Midas took a fruit and it too turned to gold. He seized a stone, a leaf, a beetle; all of which were turned to gold! Every object whose surface touched his skin was changed into the yellow metal. Ecstatic, he soon arrived at his palace home to meet the Macedonian negotiators. After greeting them, he boasted of his new found power and decided to demonstrate it by abruptly by touching one of the man’s robes. The foreigner was not aware of Midas’ intentions and felt threatened, and blocked his arm with his hand. Immediately, the man was killed and changed into the coveted material. Feeling overwhelmed, King Midas understood that he had most definitely caused a war, which his country could not possibly overcome. He fled the grand room and suddenly came upon his daughter, who ran into him and also touched him. In only a few moments he had brought complete devastation and ruin to all he lived for and loved. Whether he wished death upon himself or not, he was not even at the least able to drink water and he would perish within a week. With all his being, he cried out in desperation to the god who gifted him with the cursed ability. His weak voice barely echoed through the small palace room, but was all the while heard. The merciful god gained the awareness of the weeping, woebegone man with his warm-hearted voice, saying that this was not the end. Dionysus consented to take away the power so that Midas may have at the least a chance at life, and without the tragedies whose origin is a magic touch. The king was commanded to wash his hands with the water of the river Pactolus, in which the power would transfer into the liquid and become harmless as the grains of sand on its shores. King Midas never said a foolish word again, even if he thought it would bring a golden age of wealth to his nation, or was distraught by a problem.