#throw Al out into the snow? no that’s too cruel even for her

[pectinpeeress]

I like how Al gets to go into military bases with Ed despite being:

1.) a private citizen

2.) 7 feet tall and wearing a full suit of armor

[flowercrown-bard]

A new us will begin (6/ 11)

word count: 7777

AO3

part 1   / part 2 / part 3  / part 4  / part 5 /  part 7

Tw: assault (mugging) assault (taking away someone’s mobility/orientation aid), injuries

It was strange making it up the mountain to Kaer Morhen. Too long had Geralt not found it in him to go to the only place he had left to call home. Even stranger was taking the track before the first leaves of autumn began to fall. Never before had Geralt been this early and it filled him both with a sense of unease and excitement.

The year on the Path had been rough, harder than usual and he was aching to go back home and see familiar faces. Unlike before, it hadn’t been rough because of how many injuries Geralt got and how often he knocked on death’s door, oh no. This year – for the first time in a long, long time – Geralt needed to make sure he didn’t throw himself into danger as he had done the decades prior. If he did, and if he died because of his recklessness, he would never get to see if he had been right, if through some miracle, there would be another Jaskier out there, waiting for him.

It was a small hope, but it was hope nonetheless and that was more than he had had ever since Jaskier’s death.

Now, that hope was eating at him, gnawing at his heart like a bloodhound gnawed at its prey. He needed to survive if he wanted to see Jaskier again, however slim the chance. But there was a chance, wasn’t there? All those things connecting Yarrow to Jaskier, they couldn’t have been coincidences. There had to be an explanation and Geralt’s foolish, battered heart refused to accept any other explanation than the one he had found while standing over Jaskier’s grave.

But that wasn’t enough. Witchers learned early on not to rely on hope. All the boys hoped they would make it through the trials. Every full-grown witcher hoped he wouldn’t get killed by a monster, human or otherwise. Hope didn’t keep any of them alive.

Geralt needed more, needed to know more. He needed Vesemir’s help, his advice, his untainted view on what was happening. Which was why, when the towering walls of Kaer Morhen came into sight, Geralt’s throat restricted. Behind these walls lay either hope or damnation.

When Vesemir saw him enter the halls, he stared at him for an uncomfortably long moment, assessing him and scanning him over for injuries or any other visible reason that could have brought him back home, and so early too. After how seldom he came back anymore, Geralt couldn’t fault him for being reserved. With every year that Geralt had stayed away, the guilt that pressed on his chest became heavier until it had turned into shame.  

The apology at making his family believe that he might have died was already on his tongue, when Vesemir crossed the hall in long strides and crushed Geralt against his chest.

Geralt trembled as he pressed his face into the crock of Vesemir’s neck. His mentor had never been allowed to be the kindest man, but he would do everything in his power to help and comfort his family. And gods, Geralt needed comfort. It had been so long since he had someone just hold him; not promising that nothing bad would happen, but promising that Geralt would get through it and that they would be there for him.

Geralt didn’t cry. Not when Vesemir’s embrace tightened briefly and not when Vesemir pulled back again to look him over for injuries. As far as Geralt knew, he showed no more signs of his distress, but from the way Vesemir’s brows drew together, he could tell that something had happened.

Vesemir made no move to comfort him again, but his expression was focussed and determined when he asked Geralt what he needed.

It didn’t take long for Geralt to spill everything. It should have. Years and years of heartbreak and despair that culminated in that one impossible, crushing hope, Yarrow had given him, shouldn’t be summarised in a handful of sentences. Jaskier would have rolled his eyes and complained about his lack of artistry if he’d been here to hear, but he would have also cupped Geralt’s face lovingly and shown him that he was here for him.

Vesemir did no such thing. Geralt didn’t expect him to. This wasn’t what he had come here for. He had come for advice, for the cutting rationality that he knew Vesemir would bring to this.

When Geralt asked him the impossible, if there was still a chance that Jaskier might be alive in some way, Vesemir became eerily still.

Geralt saw in his eyes what answer he was about to give him, and still his chest crumbled when Vesemir did. No one had ever come back from the dead.

It was a sobering answer. It was one that nearly shattered Geralt.

Vesemir had always been rational and to the point. If he said he knew of no one who had conquered death, then it wasn’t likely that Jaskier had been the first to do so. But Vesemir also loved his family with a fierce dedication. When Geralt clammed up, closed himself off, pulled his walls back up, Vesemir was the one who grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to the library. He was the one who made sure that no book on the topic remained unread and that Geralt contacted every sorceress he knew.

Triss looked at him with pity and promised to do her best to help him. Keira said she’d keep her eyes open, but Geralt shouldn’t be surprised if she decided that she had better things to do than chase after Geralt’s daydream. Philippa’s expression turned into one of astonished surprise before she just left – she couldn’t have made it any clearer just how stupid she thought Geralt for clinging to this hope like a toddler to their mother’s skirts.

When he contacted Yennefer, the answer to his question now was no different than it had been when he had gone to her a month after Jaskier’s death: There was no way for a sorceress to bring him back to life.

But Geralt knew better. He had seen magic even more powerful than even Yennefer’s. He had seen what a Djinn could do, what Destiny could do, as much as the nation made him want to grind his teeth.

The library of Kaer Morhen brought no clear answers. Despite hours reading and desperately searching for anything substantial, all they found were theories and speculation.

The idea that Jaskier somehow had been reincarnated could be the hopeful wish of a fool just as well as the truth.

It wasn’t much and it wasn’t what Geralt had hoped for, but this slim chance that he had been right, was like a spark inside Geralt’s chest, growing stronger with each passing day until it turned into a fire.

This year, when Eskel and Lambert finally arrived, Geralt didn’t avoid them like he had before to wallow in his misery, lest enjoying himself would bring back painful memories of the times Jaskier had accompanied him to Kaer Morhen. For the first time in decades, he joined in when they asked him to spend time with them. It was obvious that they noticed the change in him, but even Lambert knew better than to ask what had brought it forth.

When Geralt finally told Eskel one drunken night, that maybe in a few years’ time, Jaskier would join them at the keep again, he ignored the look of pity Eskel gave him. Eskel didn’t know what Geralt knew. And Geralt’s certainty that he would get Jaskier back was unwavering.

--

Once the snow thawed, Geralt went back on the Path, almost brimming with energy. This year, it wouldn’t only be monsters he would track. Jaskier, wherever he was now, must still be a baby, no older than a toddler at the most, but Geralt could waste no time in his search for where he could be.  He couldn’t put his trust and Jaskier’s life in the hands of Destiny to keep him safe or hope chance would bring him to him in time.

When the year turned round again and autumn once more painted the continent red, Geralt told himself that it wasn’t too bad that he had found no trail of Jaskier that first year of his search. He had time. Jaskier could be with a loving family right now, learning how to walk and talk. Geralt had time. He would find him again.

--

A decade of not finding so much as a hint of Jaskier in this world, made his faith waver. It could be coincidence that he hadn’t heard of Jaskier yet. This was just Destiny playing her cruel games. Geralt refused to believe that maybe he had been wrong and Jaskier wouldn’t come back to him.

And yet…

Geralt hated himself for it. Hated himself more, than when he had let that Viscount die or when he hadn’t been fast enough to save that child. He hated himself, because all it took was three more decades to crush his spirits and his hopes. He hated himself, because he gave up, because he had failed Jaskier again by accepting how hopeless this search had been. And he hated himself for having been fool enough to make himself believe that he still could get Jaskier back somehow.

When the air grew crisper and leaves turned brown, Geralt had already decided that he wouldn’t return to Kaer Morhen. Instead he went to Dol Blathanna and mourned Jaskier’s loss for a second time.

--

It was already late autumn, too late to change his mind about going to Kaer Morhen after all, when doubt crept up on Geralt.

The wind was colder this year and if it continued like this, Geralt would be forced to take more dangerous contracts, if he wanted to survive the winter.

Hell, even now he had to flee into a tavern from the cold, despite knowing that he it wouldn’t leave him with enough coin to make it another week without going on a hunt again. He had really wanted to buy a new cloak and gloves, but he supposed that was a luxury, he wouldn’t be able to afford this year. All he could do to keep warm right now, was buy the cheapest ale he could find, hoping that it would be enough to warm him a little from the inside and linger here for as long as he could, before he would inevitably get kicked out again.

It was miserable. It was exactly what he had coming for chasing after dreams. He had always known that dreams were nothing but pretend, hadn’t he? He couldn’t escape facing the nightmare that was reality any longer.

A harsh wind swept into the tavern when the door was thrust open with more force than normally. Instinctively, Geralt tensed and beneath the table, his hand went to the swords leaning against his. It was only the laughter that followed the bitter wind into the tavern, that made Geralt relax again. It wasn’t the cruel laughter of someone looking for trouble but the cheers of a group of friends that wanted nothing but to spend the night drinking.

Geralt settled back into his seat and averted his eyes, fighting down the bitterness that rose up in him. Still, he couldn’t help but see the group of people that came in out of the corner of his eyes. They were too loud, too big a presence to not notice them.

They walked through the tavern as if it belonged to them, as if they belonged here, but not in the arrogant way Geralt had seen soldiers or powerful criminals behave.

Geralt scowled and took a swig of his ale, more to block his view on the group than out of the need to drink. It was too close. Too much like how Jaskier had acted when he waltzed into a tavern, sure in the knowledge that he would get everyone in it to admire him.

He should stop thinking about Jaskier. That was the entire reason why he was here and not on his way to Kaer Morhen; so that he would be distracted and wouldn’t have to face the halls of his home that was now so empty and cold without Jaskier’s laugh filling them.

The very same laugh that now rang through the tavern, louder than any other, more joyful than befitted this moment.

Geralt flinched, spilling some of his ale over himself. His eyes raced through the room, wide and wild, while his heart refused to slow down. His whole body was tense as a bow string and he gripped the tankard tightly enough to turn his knuckles white.

He couldn’t be here. He couldn’t. Geralt had searched for years, decades, without so much as a rumour of anyone fitting Jaskier’s description. He wasn’t here, he wasn’t alive.

But there was no mistaking his laugh. Geralt would be able to recognise it in a crowd of hundreds. And this, this bright, boisterous laugh that came from the group of newcomers, was exactly like that laugh that Geralt had accepted he would never hear again.

Geralt’s eyes were trained on the group like a hawk fixating its prey. There were too many people. He couldn’t find Jaskier, he couldn’t –

One slightly older woman with red locks leaned forward, unblocking his view and Geralt’s heart jumped to his throat. There he was. Jaskier.

He looked older than Yarrow had been, but still far from wearing the wrinkles that had painted Jaskier’s skin for the last decades of his life. He must be in his forties, but it was hard to tell, with the ridiculous feathered hat that obscured part of his face and the beard that dusted his chin.

Geralt’s lips twitched and his heart fluttered in his chest. It looked almost like the one time Jaskier had lost a bet and let Geralt shave his beard in ridiculous ways. He had pretended to sulk after that, but the whole time there had been mirth twinkling in his eyes, especially when he had taken his revenge by shaving Geralt’s hair. The both of them had looked terrible after that, and Geralt wouldn’t have had it any other way. The chuckle that had bubbled up in Jaskier every time he had laid eyes on Geralt then, had been the most beautiful sound Geralt could imagine.

And now that laugh was back, fading with time, but not dying down fully.

The woman with the red hair flashed him a mock-glare that Jaskier didn’t seem to notice or was used to enough not to be intimidated, judging from his lack of reaction.

“You wouldn’t dare do that during an actual performance.”

“Is that a challenge?” Jaskier’s smile turned into a grin. “Because if it is, my dear Nadine, you know I will take it.”

“Sure, if you want to get shoved off the stage.” The red-head snorted. “I’m being serious. You know that I love you, but don’t make me break character again or I will take my revenge on you, Dandy.”

Dandy. It was a strange name, but Geralt couldn’t help but smile at it. As ridiculous as it was, there was no denying it fit. Jaskier – Dandy – was twirling a cane at his side that was weirdly long but decorated with bright colours and a ball that almost looked like a gem at the end. It looked utterly impractical, but since when had Jaskier ever cared about practicality when it came to his accessoires.  Geralt’s eyes drifted back up to the long hair was curled in a way that made it very clear that Dandy put a lot of effort into his appearance.

Geralt was so distracted by the sight of him, that it took a moment for the girl’s other words to catch up to Geralt. Performance.

So this Dandy was a musician again. Something warmed in Geralt’s chest and his fingers twitched against his tankard. He would get to hear Jaskier sing again, would see him stand on a stage and bask in applause again!

The need to see him like that overflowed and made it impossible to think. The reality of all this hit him with unhindered force. For all of Geralt’s hope, of all the time he had spent convincing himself that he would find Jaskier again, he hadn’t once thought about what he would actually do once he found him. Now, that he was so close, sitting so damn near that all Geralt had to do was walk over there to touch him, he didn’t know what to do but helplessly watch Dandy joke with his friends. Geralt wanted to be one of them. He needed to feel Jaskier’s eyes on him, his hands, anything he was willing to give.

But this wasn’t Jaskier. It was Dandy. And Dandy didn’t know Geralt, has never met him before. If Geralt just came up to his table and told him – told him what exactly? That they had been lovers before? That Dandy had lived different lives and that he had died because Geralt had failed him?

There was nothing Geralt could say or do that wouldn’t make Dandy draw back, thinking him a disoriented drunk at best and a dangerous threat at worst. Now that Geralt was finally so close to the dream that had consumed every waking moment of his life, he didn’t know what to do to not ruin it.

Every fibre of his being screamed at Geralt to just do something, no matter the consequences. But Geralt had spent lifetimes without Jaskier and he would be damned if he did anything that would push Dandy away and leave him a lonely mess once more. As much as it hurt him to sit by idly, Geralt gathered all his strength to not go to Dandy right then and there and pull him close, burry his face into his neck and never let him go again.

He forced himself to sit back and just watch him, got drunk on the sight of him. Geralt’s chest tightened as if an iron fist was clenching around it, when one of Dandy’s friends began to sing and the rest joined in. For years, Geralt had fallen asleep with the memory of Jaskier’s voice in his ear, but hearing Dandy sing now, clear and full of unbridled happiness was something entirely different. His voice soared up and fell to an almost-whisper. Geralt’s eyes stung and he had to fight against blinking the burning away, unwilling to close his eyes for even a second and lose sight of Dandy. And oh, he was beautiful like this, swaying with the rhythm and smiling around the melody as if this was what he’d been born for.

When the song roared higher and higher, Dandy threw his head back and Geralt’s watched with bated breath as the hat fell to the ground, revealing the rest of Dandy’s face that had been hidden before.

He was beautiful. He was so painfully beautiful and he was alive and he was right there!

In that moment, Geralt wanted nothing more than to see his eyes. So often had Jaskier looked at him softly while he sang, a storm of emotion dancing in his eyes that was only meant for Geralt to see. He needed to see those eyes again, even if they wouldn’t hold any of those feelings for Geralt now.

Yet, the blue he hadn’t seen in so long remained hidden from him even now. Dandy’s eyes were closed, as he sang with passion, the same way Jaskier had sometimes closed his eyes, so he would feel nothing but the moment and the song.

Geralt’s chest threatened to burst at the sudden realisation that hadn’t reached him until now: Dandy was happy. Really, truly happy. He was surrounded by friends, he had money enough to drink carelessly, he had the confidence to sing in a room filled with strangers, even if he wasn’t singing for them. Dandy had everything Yarrow had lacked. He had everything Geralt could ever want for him.

Maybe…no. Geralt forced himself to look away, no matter how much everything in him yelled at him for doing so. His hand trembled, as he lifted the tankard to his lips once more.

Dandy was happy. He had everything he could need. Who was Geralt to think he had any right to insert himself into that life Dandy had built for himself?

Because there were only two ways this could go, if Geralt approached him. Either Dandy wouldn’t be interested in having Geralt in his life and Geralt would be forced to life with the rejection of the man whom he used to mean everything to. Or Dandy would be the same as Jaskier and Yarrow had been. He would give up this life, throw it away for a chance to be with Geralt. Try as he might to do right by him, Geralt wouldn’t be able to replace what Dandy already had.

It was selfish and cruel to even think about taking him away from this life he evidently loved.

Geralt should leave. He now knew for sure that Dandy was alive, that he was happy. That should be enough to satisfy him. There was no need to stay and risk tearing down Dandy’s life.

There was no doubt, that leaving would be the right thing to do, and yet Geralt’s body didn’t obey him. The urge to stay, if only just a little while longer and bask in Dandy’s presence, was bigger than any rational thought telling him it was madness.

He stayed and watched as Dandy blindly reached down and searched for his hat, before putting it on again and obscuring Geralt’s sight once more without having granted him as much as a glance at his eyes.

Geralt stayed even as his own ale was long gone and the barkeep kept shooting him dirty looks for taking up space without at least nursing another ale. Geralt couldn’t afford another drink, not if he wanted to sleep in an actual bed, sheltered from the cold winds, this night, but the dread of freezing in the night was nothing against the fear of losing Dandy so quickly again.

So he bought another ale and watched as Dandy’s friends started playing a card game that Dandy didn’t join in. Which didn’t stop him from giving the players tips seemingly at random and utterly unhelpful ones, judging by the player’s eyerolls and Dandy’s gleeful cackling.

All too soon, Dandy’s little game of distracting his friends got interrupted, when another man approached him from behind, tapping him on the shoulder. Geralt’s brows drew into a frown when Dandy flinched at the touch and before he knew it, Geralt’s hand had closed around the handle of his sword, ready to put himself between Dandy and that other man should the need arise.

But then the man whispered something in Dandy’s ear. The sudden shout of outrage and cheer coming from Dandy’s friends as they finished their game, was loud enough that Geralt couldn’t hear Dandy’s reply, but seconds later, the man, who had approached him, sat down next to Dandy, far too close for Geralt’s liking, but Dandy leaned into his touch, running his own hands up and down the man’s arms.

The sight sent a sharp pang of jealousy through Geralt’s chest. His jaw worked, but he couldn’t get himself to look away. Of course Dandy would flirt with other people. He had every right to have his fun and Geralt was a stranger to him. It was none of his business whom Dandy cosied up with.

It was just…he had spent so long being the only one Jaskier had turned his attentions to, with the bard reassuring him time and time again that he didn’t want anyone else, even when Geralt told him that he would understand if Jaskier chose to take other people to his bed. He had almost forgotten what it was like watching Jaskier touch strangers with obvious intent and lean into them to whisper sweet nothings into their ears. It was no easier watching Dandy do the same now.

Geralt might not be able to understand his whispers, but he had spent enough time with Jaskier to recognise the way Dandy’s posture changed, how he tipped his head to the side to reveal his neck to the other man, inviting him to press a kiss against the tender flesh.

An invitation that the stranger accepted with pleasure.

Geralt’s hands clenched and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from doing something rash. He had no right to interfere. Not when Dandy was so clearly enjoying himself. Not when Geralt was nothing to him.

Still, his insides twisted painfully with something ugly and cruel, while every fibre of his being wished that he could be in that stranger’s stead; that he would get to feel what Dandy’s fingers felt like dancing across his skin, and learn how he tasted beneath his lips.

He knew it was unfair to Dandy. Geralt didn’t even know the man. All he knew was that he looked and moved and laughed like Jaskier had and that in some way he was Jaskier. But he must also be someone else. Yarrow had been his own person. That viscount that Geralt suspected had been Jaskier before him, had certainly been his own person, going his entire life without ever knowing Geralt.

He had no way of knowing who Dandy really was, no right to want of him what he had had with Jaskier.

Knowing that didn’t make it any easier to watch the stranger kiss his way up Dandy’s neck, brushing his hair to the side and whispering something into his ear that Dandy responded to with a shuddering intake of breath and an enthusiastic nod.

He quickly told his friends where he was going with his new and oh so charming acquaintance Fillip and that one of them should come get him in the morning. Geralt winced when Dandy’s friends hollered as Dandy grabbed his cane and stood up. The Fillip gently took Dandy’s free arm, which earned him a radiant smile from Dandy. A bitter taste filled Geralt’s mouth, as he watched them go. Jaskier had always been touchy and he had loved leaning onto Geralt as they had walked side by side.

Seeing Dandy lean onto someone else – a blonde stranger with a dazzling smile and who was so much more handsome than Geralt could ever be – made Geralt’s arms feel empty and cold.

Without Dandy, the tavern felt too small, too lifeless, too lonely. Geralt downed the rest of his drink to get rid of the bitter taste Dandy’s departure had left him with. It didn’t work. Not even Lambert’s moonshine would have been able to get the images of Dandy leaning into that other man out of Geralt’s head.

Geralt glowered at the empty tankard, as if it was to blame for Geralt’s cowardice and inner turmoil. Abruptly, he stood up. With Dandy gone, there was no reason for him to stay here any longer. He shouldn’t have stayed here that long anyway. It would have been for the best if he had just left once he knew that Dandy was safe.

Once outside of the tavern, he hesitated. The strange tug in his chest that had lead him to Yarrow’s grave all those years ago, told him to follow Dandy. But what good would that do? Everything about the idea of following him and the man he had chosen to spend his night with was wrong.

No, Geralt should just go and find a place where he’d be able to sleep, now that he had spent too much coin to be able to afford an inn anymore.

So he ignored the tug in his chest and the way all of his muscles tensed at the thought of not going after Dandy, and turned into a different street, one that would lead him out of the city to where he had left Roach.

Regret and that piercing longing for an embrace he wouldn’t get, were his only company as he walked through the city. After a while, he left the streets that were illuminated by lanterns and found himself in darker alleyways. No thug of petty thief would be able to get the jump on a witcher, but still, Geralt strained his ears and tensed his muscles as he passed through this part of the city. If not for his sake, then he at least wanted to make sure no muggers would be walking the streets this night and stumble across Dandy.

Sure enough, voices reached Geralt, distant at first, but then getting louder.

“Really, I could have sworn that we were supposed to take that turn to the right.” Laughter that couldn’t quite hide how strained it was. “I don’t think we’re going in the right direction.”

Geralt froze. It was Dandy’s voice. What was he doing here? Geralt had made sure he wouldn’t cross paths with him. To get here, Dandy and his companion must have taken a truly inconvenient and winding route.

“No, trust me,” another voice – Fillip’s? – replied. “I know where we’re going. You don’t need to worry.”

Geralt’s hackles rose. Part of him told him that he was overreacting, but another, stronger part felt that same dread creep up on him that he had always felt when he had realised that Jaskier hadn’t heeded his warnings and come along to see a monster for himself.

“Oh. Alright then. Of course I trust you.”

He shouldn’t. Dandy really, truly shouldn’t trust this man. But if he was still the same in a way as the bard who had approached a witcher without fear and had followed him into any danger, then there was little chance that Dandy didn’t mean those words.

As silent as a shadow, Geralt followed the sound of their voices, until he could see them at the far end of the seemingly endlessly long alley, Dandy still leaning against the blonde and holding his cane out in front of him as he walked.

But it wasn’t Dandy that Geralt’s narrowed eyes were fixated on. It was the other man, whose smile was no longer charming and warm. It was cold like a snake’s.

Was Dandy really that smitten that he didn’t see the way that expression screamed danger? He must be, for he didn’t show a single sign of wanting to pull away. Gullible, naïve, trusting Jaskier! Of all the traits that must carry over into another life, it had to be the one that would inevitably put him in danger.

Suddenly, Fillip stopped. Geralt couldn’t see Dandy’s expression beneath the shadow his hat threw onto his face, but his shoulders tensed.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, a hint of that trust still persistent in his tone, but now it was laden with unease. “You didn’t get lost, did you?”

“No. I’m exactly where I wanted to go.”

The discomfort in Dandy’s posture became even more apparent. “I think we should maybe go back. If you would be so kind as to show me the way back to my friends – “

“I don’t think so.”

Geralt quickened his silent steps, almost breaking into a run. Panic raced through his blood. He was still too far away to help, should the man decide to attack Dandy. Yet, he was close enough to be able to see how now Dandy, too, caught on to just how bad this situation was.

Dandy stiffened, when Fillip tightened his hold on his arm, before Dandy could even attempt to pull away.

Anger flared up in Geralt, that turned into ice-cold fear, when two more figured appeared from the shadows, the moonlight reflecting on the blade of a knife in one of the man’s hands.

“Easy there,” the armed newcomer sneered and let out a dirty laugh when Dandy flinched. “This doesn’t need to get ugly. Just give us your coin and we’ll be on our way.”

The men weren’t too big. The only reason they probably felt secure enough to attack Dandy was because they outnumbered him. Still, Dandy had his cane. He could at least try to fend them off and keep them at a distance, if only to buy himself enough time to run away. But Geralt’s silent pleas for Dandy to defend himself changed nothing. Dandy stood still and helpless as the men drew nearer.

“You really think I have coin with me?”

Geralt let out a silent curse when Dandy was stupid enough to laugh. The sound ended in a shocked gasp, when the man holding him yanked him around without warning. Dandy’s head flew to the side when the back of Fillip’s hand hit his face.

His hat fell off, landing in front of the feet of the bald man who hadn’t spoken until now. He deliberately stepped onto the hat, grinding his heel into it.

“You’re really telling us that someone with such fancy clothes doesn’t have coin?”

Silently, Geralt begged Dandy to not say anything that would get him into any more trouble. At least until Geralt got close enough to actually defend him.

If he provoked the men enough to use their knives – Geralt’s stomach churned at the thought. He couldn’t watch him die again. He couldn’t!

He was so close! Just a little more time and he’d be able to save him!

Dandy snorted, his shoulders already drawn up in a useless attempt to protect his head. “Those clothes are a costume. I am an actor. All the coin I had, I spent on my drink.” He flashed a grin, that looked a little off, not really directing it at either of the men. “But if you want to try your luck mugging me again, I advise you to do it after our premiere tomorr-“

A punch in the gut made Dandy cry out, the sound piercing Geralt’s ears. He doubled over.

The bald man who had punched him, grabbed him by the hair and pulled him back up, spitting in his face.

“I’d ask you if you think we look stupid, but you wouldn’t know, would you?”

“Oh, don’t worry, I am sure you look stupi- hey, what are you doing?”

The sound of Dandy’s pain was nothing compared to the cry that tore out of his throat now, when the bald thug grabbed his cane and ripped it away from him.

“Give that back!” Dandy thrashed in his assailant’s grip. “You can’t take that from me! I need it!” He staggered when Fillip let go of him without warning and pushed him to the side. “Give it back, please!”

Dandy’s pleas cut into Geralt like a knife. He was close. He was so close, just a few more steps and he would be with him –

The cane came crashing down on Dandy’s back. With a pained cry that tore Geralt’s chest open, Dandy went to his knees. The laughter of the men burned like acid in Geralt’s ears.

The man lunged out to take another swing with the cane. He never got the chance.

With a jump, Geralt threw himself between Dandy and the attacker. The cane hit him across the chest at the same time that his sword plunged into the attacker’s shoulder.

Geralt couldn’t hear his cry of pain, the sound of his blade tearing through his flesh or the noise the cane made when it fell to the ground, over the sound of Dandy’s whimpers. It enflamed something raging hot in his chest.

Geralt whirled around with a snarl that would send hardened soldiers running.

The man that had lured Dandy here blanched and reeled back, but not fast enough to escape Geralt’s sword. It painted a thin red stripe across his face.

The third attacker was the only one stupid enough to try and attack Geralt, slashing at him with his knife. One swing of Geralt’s sword and the smaller weapon clattered to the ground, the sound accompanied by an agonised scream when Geralt’s sword cut through the hand that had just held the weapon.

A growl rose in Geralt’s chest, animalistic and promising death to anyone who dared to lay another hand on Dandy.

The attackers tensed up, holding their bleeding wounds and staring at Geralt with wide, terrified eyes.

“Stay away from us, monster!” What should have been a shout came out as a terrified whisper. “Stay away or –“ Fillip’s eyes darted behind Geralt, where Dandy must still lie.

Geralt lifted his sword higher and took another menacing step towards the attackers. The simple gesture was threat enough. If any of them dared touch Dandy, he would cut them down.

He didn’t need to use his words to get that message across. For a tense second, the three men stood frozen in place, then they staggered back, running as fast as they could away from Geralt and the man he would protect with his life.

Geralt followed the men with his eyes until he was sure they wouldn’t come back, then slowly, he sheathed his sword and turned around with his hands held in front of him, praying it was enough to show Dandy that he didn’t mean him any harm.

But Dandy didn’t even look up at him. He still cowered on the ground, making himself as small as possible and shielding his head with his arms, as if he expected another attack.

Seeing him like this, so small, so afraid split Geralt’s heart in two. Never, in any lifetime that Geralt knew of, had Jaskier been afraid of him. And now here Dandy was, curling in on himself, his broken breathing mixing in with sobs.

Geralt swallowed thickly and crouched down as slowly as he could. Still, there was no reaction. His blood ran cold. Had he been too late? Maybe one of the attackers had landed a hit on Dandy’s head that Geralt hadn’t noticed.

His heart sank like a stone. No. No! He couldn’t have been too late. Not again, not when he had just found him again!

With a trembling hand, Geralt reached out and gently touched Dandy’s shoulder to turn him and see if there were any injuries Geralt could help with.

As soon as his hand touched him, Dandy shrank even further into himself and he let out a whimper. His whole body shook from his broken sobs.

“Please,” he gasped, squeezing his eyes close and burying his head even more in his arms, “Please don’t. Don’t hurt me, please!”

Geralt snatched his hand back as if burned. “I’m not going to hurt you. No one is. Those men are gone.”

Dandy’s trembling didn’t stop, but there was a miniscule shift in his body.

“Those men?” he asked tentatively, “You’re not one of them?”

Geralt’s brows drew together, before he schooled his face into a neutral expression. He couldn’t risk Dandy choosing this moment when Geralt scowled down at him, to open his eyes and see him for the first time, becoming even more terrified.

But Dandy kept his eyes firmly closed.

“No,” Geralt said as softly as he could. “I’m not. I made sure they won’t bother you again.”

For an endless-seeming moment, Dandy didn’t move, but he turned his head as if trying to hear if anyone else was around. Ever so slowly, Dandy relaxed, but not enough to let his guard down fully. Geralt couldn’t blame him. No one in their right mind would watch a witcher fight and not be terrified to be alone with him afterwards. If Geralt had ever thought differently, the first monster he had killed had taught him otherwise.

“Sorry.” Dandy rubbed a hand down his face, turning his face to the ground so that Geralt couldn’t see the tears, that he knew were there. The salt-scent was so strong that he could almost taste it. “I didn’t hear you coming. You were just suddenly there and then there were those sounds of a fight and I… I didn’t know what was going on.”

“It’s alright,” Geralt said, though the lie couldn’t have been more obvious. Nothing was alright. Geralt had terrified Dandy enough that he now wouldn’t even look at him, that he would rather cower at his feet than even raise his eyes to meet his. “I…” he swallowed, forcing the bitter words that tore his throat apart like swallowing glass, “I can leave if you want me to.”

Dandy remained quiet, the only indication that Geralt’s words had reached him was the hitch in his breath and the way he clenched his hands into fists.

Geralt wished he could help. He wished he hadn’t been such a damn coward and just approached Dandy in that tavern. If he had, none of this would have happened. Dandy would still be laughing instead of being blinded by tears. He would be sitting with his friends instead of lying broken in some alley. He might even have trusted Geralt enough to let him help. But as it was, Geralt had made sure that Dandy didn’t even dare accept his help for fear of what he might do to him.

With a sigh, Geralt stood up and took a couple of steps back. He couldn’t leave Dandy to fend for himself, but if he didn’t want Geralt anywhere near him, he would go away far enough that Dandy wouldn’t have to be afraid of Geralt attacking him. He could watch over him from the shadows.

Geralt had barely made it out of reach from Dandy, when Dandy moved, lifting his head and looking around, though not in the direction Geralt had gone.

“Are you still there?” The question came quietly, hesitantly. “Please stay.”

Geralt froze mid-movement. “I’m here.”

Dandy winced, but the movement was accompanied by a sigh. If Geralt hadn’t known any better, he would have said it sounded relieved.

Painfully slowly, Dandy pushed himself up onto all fours, then stopped. Geralt frowned.

“Are you hurt? Do you need help standing?”

“Ah, no. I…” Dandy reached out with his hand, letting it wander over the ground. “I just…I really need my cane back.”

Geralt blinked, taken aback. He must not have noticed it before, but apparently the cane wasn’t just an accessory but a walking aid. That must be why Dandy didn’t reach it, though all he had to do was stretch a little to get to it. He must have an old injury that would hurt from such a movement.

“Wait,” Geralt said, coming closer again. “I can get it for you, it’s just over –“

“No!” The tone of the shout was so final that Geralt stopped right where he was. “Don’t touch it. I got it.”

Geralt watched in confusion as Dandy groped more frantically for the cane, until his fingers finally closed around it. Geralt could practically see the tension fall off of him as he held the cane close like it was the most precious thing to him.

After a moment, Dandy took a deep breath and made to stand up. His face contorted into a grimace and he winced at the movement.

“Are you alright?” Geralt asked without second thought. He grimaced at how stupid the question was.

Dandy hissed out a sharp breath through his teeth. “My back hurts. Really bad. Damn, that guy didn’t need to hit me that hard.”

He moved again, gasping in pain once more.

“Let me help.” Geralt was at his side in a flash, holding out his hand for Dandy to take. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself trying to stand on your own.”

Dandy hesitated for a second, then he nodded. Still, he made no move to take Geralt’s hand. Unsure what to do, Geralt reached for Dandy’s arm.

“May I?” He asked in as soothing a voice as he could, his hand hovering right above Dandy.

“Yes.”

Carefully, Geralt closed his hand around Dandy’s elbow. His heart stuttered in his chest, his mind overtaken by the thought that they were touching. Jaskier was alive and Geralt could actually touch him! He didn’t disappear, he was really there!

Geralt clenched his jaw and beat back those thoughts. There would be time for that later. Right now, the only important thing was that Dandy would be alright.

With the same gentleness with which Geralt had helped up Jaskier when he had gotten too old to stand on his own, he guided Dandy until he stood, while Dandy kept his head low and his cane clutched to his chest tightly.

Geralt’s hands lingered on Dandy’s arm, while his eyes darted over his body, making sure he wasn’t hurt. Apart from a couple of scratches and his back pain, he seemed to be fine.

Although it took inhuman strength to break the contact between them, Geralt let go of Dandy again.

Dandy let out a shuddering breath when Geralt drew back and ever so slowly, he lifted his head.

Geralt’s heart was pounding painfully against his ribs. Without meaning to, he leaned closer, urged on by a sudden desperation to see Dandy’s– Jaskier’s! – eyes again.

He couldn’t think straight. His thoughts were a swirling storm, all centred around that endless blue. Why was Dandy moving with such agonizing slowness? Why –

Their eyes met.

Geralt let out an involuntary gasp that could have been a sob or a whispered name. Dandy’s eyes were beautiful. Deep and blue and… and wrong.

Geralt’s heart dropped. Something was off about his eyes. They were the same blue he remembered, but the way Dandy was looking at Geralt…it felt as if Dandy was looking right through him. The moment they held each other’s gazes was no longer than a heartbeat, then Dandy’s eyes wandered higher, facing somewhere slightly to Geralt’s left.

“Thank you,” Dandy said quietly and gave him a hint of a smile. If felt wrong too. Beautiful, because it was Dandy smiling, but slightly off, as if he only knew how an expression of gratefulness should look from a description in a book.

Geralt couldn’t speak, couldn’t move.

The rounded end of the cane hit the ground with a soft thunk that rang in Geralt’s ears like thunder.

All this time. All these years Geralt had spent searching the continent for Jaskier, burning with the need to see him again, not once had he thought about the possibility that Jaskier wouldn’t be able to see him when the time came. But there was no mistaking it.

Dandy was blind.

[missdawnandherdusk]

The Point of No Return

Draco X Gryffindor!Reader

Part One    Part Two    Part Three    Part Four    

Part Five    Part Six    Part Seven    Part Eight

Part Nine   Part Ten     Part Eleven   Part Twelve 

Summary: Will you let Draco fix what happened? Will you listen long enough? Will you two finally confess your true feelings? What did you do that unfroze the winter ground?

Archive of Our Own Link

A/N: Hello my lovelies! I’d like to formally apologize for the angst of the last chapter (though it needed to happen) and I now give you the resolve of that chapter as well as some new thrilling plot lines! I love you guys so so much. Please don’t be afraid to come talk to me or comment or reblog! Always keep fighting.

“The ground?” He repeated. “I didn’t do that, Y/n”

I flinched as he said my name, clenching my fists.

“Okay, look, I know what you saw,” He held his hands up in surrender, backing away slightly. “But please, listen.”

“To what? You... you kissed her Draco! You were... and God I trusted you!” 

“My father—” He tried.

“Oh, I have a few choice words for you and your father!” I snapped standing up. “How could you!?”

“Y/n, please,”

“Say please one more time and I swear to Merlin I am going to punch you in the face.” I threatened.

A smile flickered across his face that he tried to suppress.

“He used the Imperius Curse on me, Y/n,” The confession was small, and broken. “You have to believe that I would never do that to you,”

I froze, gritting my teeth, the thought mulling in my head. We had just learned about the Unforgivable Curses in class not but months ago... could his father really go that far?

Who was I kidding, that’s exactly how far his father would go.

But it came down to the question: did I want to believe Draco? The Imperius Curse could only be broken by a strong mind... constant vigilance. What had given the Draco the power to fight against his father?

“What... how did you...” I voiced my thoughts softly. “You’re not under the curse now?”

He gave a solemn shake of his head, his blue eyes meeting mine briefly then dropping to the ground.

“How... prove it,” I took a small step back, refusing to be burned again.

“Prove it?” He shot back, exasperated. “How am I supposed to prove it to you!?” He paced the ground, along the line of grass and snow.

“I don’t know!” I exclaimed. “I want to believe you Draco! But how do I know you’re not under the same spell? And... this is just another ploy?” I folded my arms across my chest in a desperate attempt to keep myself together.

He looked around agitated, trying to find the impossible answer. I watched him, as snow began to fall softly over me.

“Here,” He offered his wand to me, placing it in the palm of my hand. “Take it. A person can only be under one Imperius Curse at a time... so even if I was—which I’m not, you’d take over control,”

I gaped at him, my eyes widening as he shed his jacket, leaving it to the ground and looking at me expectantly.

“Are you crazy!?” I yelled, throwing the wand to the ground. “I’m not doing that! That just... so wrong.”

“Then how do you want me to prove it!?” He demanded. “I’m trying to fix this Y/n! I want you to believe me because I don’t want to lose you! I love you Y/n and I don’t know what it means or what to do and I’m sick of my father taking things from me and ignoring how wrong it is!” He stalked up to me, staring me down. “Now please,” He grabbed my shoulders, his eyes pleading, tears threatening to spill.

“You... you love me?” I breathed.

“How do you think I broke the curse? Of course, I love you, you stupid beautiful girl,” Draco’s hand came up and cupped my cheek, brushing away a stray tear that had fallen.

“I...”

There were so many words that I wanted to say. Some of them overly sweet and sappy but others were harsh and cruel, to hurt him the way he hurt me. Before I could figure out what to say, Draco stopped my thoughts on a dime.

“Did you mean it?” The question fell softly from his lips as he didn’t dare to meet my eyes. “Do... did you love me?”

His words cut me deep, pulling at my heartstrings. The words that held the pain of stitching my soul and heart back together as the seconds ticked by and neither of us moved.

“Of course...” I finally breathed out. “Of course, I love you.” Tears pricked my eyes as I jumped into his arms, holding him tightly.

“Please forgive me,” He begged, his voice hoarse. “Please I would never do that to you,”

Tears streamed down my face as I buried my face in his shoulder, soft sobs shaking my frame. He pressed me tighter to him, cradling me to his chest. My fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.

“Mr. Malfoy! Miss Lupine!”

We both tensed as Draco turned, shielding me from whoever was coming, his wand in his hand again.

“Mr. Malfoy put your wand down, I’m not going to attack you,” McGonagall rolled her eyes. “From what I hear of your friends, the two of you have had quite a night,” She raised an eyebrow.

Draco didn’t answer her, instead he turned back to me, and timidly slipped his hand back into mine as if he were afraid that I would reject him.

“Is he gone?” Draco’s eyes met mine before turning back to McGonagall. “Is my father gone? Is she safe?”

“Your father is gone, yes. Her safety however, I cannot always ensure. May I speak to her?” A mischievous glint graced McGonagall’s look.

“How do I know it’s you?” I asked softly, stepping out from behind Draco tentatively. She raised an eyebrow at me but nodded.

“Very well, I understand your hesitancy. Very wise,” She spoke and then before me transformed into a small grey house cat, and then back into her human form.

I nodded and glanced at Draco, who gave me a small nod of encouragement.

“Miss Lupine, can you please recite the purpose of a wizard’s wand?” The House Head asked, a stern look on her face.

“To project a wizard’s magical ability. To hone it and direct it.” I frowned, giving her the answer.

“Very good, and I understand that your wand is not with you tonight?”

I shook my head, taking a small step back towards Draco so what we were pressed against another. His hands came to my waist and steadied me.

McGonagall nodded.

“Come you two, we have much to discuss,” She looked at the scorch marks along the ground in our wake.

“Professor,” I interjected. “Will all due respect, can it wait for morning?”

“My dear, you have just preformed a very powerful spell without your wand or the incantation, and you would like it to wait until morning?” She raised an eyebrow at me, giving a stern look.

Shock flitted across my face, but the pieces slowly came together. Why Draco asked me where my wand was, why we were on a grassy patch—that was now becoming covered in snow once more—in the middle of winter. I had performed a spell without my wand.

“What did I do?” I whispered softly.

“Do you have a Patronus? Have you ever summoned a Patronus?” She asked, keen on the answer.

I shook my head.

“Very well, I suppose it can wait until morning.” McGonagall decided. “And you both should know that Ms. Parkinson has been suspended until further notice. Head staff will review her case in the morning as well. Now, both of you, inside.”

We watched as she headed back towards the school, and now that the snow was falling once more and I was still not wearing shoes, I shivered. Wordlessly, Draco picked up his jacket from the ground, dusted it off and set it around my shoulders.

Unspoken words lingered in the air between us. 

“What just happened?” I asked no one in particular.

“Well, I do believe that I was just cursed, kissed Pansy, you ran, somehow summoned a Patronus, yelled at me for a bit and we told each other that we loved another.” Draco drawled, offering his hand, a light teasing air about his words.

I smiled warmly and took his hand, realizing just how far I had fled from the school grounds. 

“A Patronus,” I muttered. “I don’t even know what my Patronus is,”

“We’ll worry about it in the morning,” Draco chided softly, coming close to me, hovering, his hand delicately stroking my face.

We were inches apart, the familiar electric current running through us filled with potential. As he leaned in to kiss me, I turned my head softly, images of him kissing Pansy emerging to the forefront of my thoughts.

I heard him sigh softly and guilt tore through me. 

“Draco,” I tried.

“It’s alright,” He smiled softly, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. “Not until you’re ready again.”

“I love you,” I whispered weakly.

“I love you too,” He replied. “And I’m so sorry Y/n, it wasn’t supposed to be like this,” His voice was timid and repentant.

“I forgive you, you... you didn’t have control over anything, I can’t blame you and I won’t.” My hands rested on his shoulders.

“Come, let’s get you inside,” He murmured softly.

Looking back at the school, my adrenaline started to wane as reality set in and now that my body felt I was safe, all it wanted to do was drag me under to sleep. I didn’t know if Draco knew that or if it was by my posture, but he leant down and scooped me up into his arms, cradling me close. After all of the events of tonight, I was still in the ridiculously expensive red dress that my mother had sent wanting nothing more to be in sweats and a t-shirt.

“I can walk,” I mumbled protest, wrapping my arms around his neck for stability.

“You’re dead on your feet Y/n.” He rolled his eyes as we started the journey up to the school. “Rest now, my love, it’s over.”

It was hard to argue with him when he was so warm compared to the chill around us. My fingers played absentmindedly with the tails of his hair and with my head resting on his shoulder, my eyes gave in to my body’s demand and closed.

_______________________________

Draco made it to the school, and there was a crowd of students watching him as he carried you through the halls, all whispering rumors no doubt. He wanted to snap and explain what happened, but then he picked up on what the hushed voices uttered.

“He broke the Imperius Curse,”

“It was because she said she loved him,” 

“Have you heard anything more romantic?”

“Maybe Slytherin’s aren’t all bad after all, if someone can love Draco... and make him feel love,”

“Can you believe that a father would do that to their own son?” 

“I never thought I’d see the day I’d sympathize for a Slytherin,” 

“It’s like a true fairy tale, why does she get to be so lucky?”

Draco wanted to stop and ask what that person’s definition of lucky was, but he paid them no mind because you stirred in his arms as he began to ascend the stairs towards the Gryffindor Tower.

“Morning,” He teased softly, watching your eyes flutter open.

You gave him a heart melting smile and took a deep breath, clinging to him tighter.

“Don’t leave me tonight,” Your small voice begged. “Please,”

“I can’t just come into your dorm, girls dorms are hexed, you know that,” It pained him to have to deny this from you.

“Then take me back to your dorm,” You mumbled, your eyes slipping closed again. “Just don’t leave,”

He debated the idea, though he wasn’t too keen on you being anywhere near Crabbe or Goyle, not when you were vulnerable like this. He needed somewhere where you would be safe and where you could stay by his side... somewhere that he could rest as well.

Then a door appeared on the wall beside him and creaked open.

.

.

Part 14?

Tags: @un-limiteddd @geekysimmerthings @coffee-addicti @ilikestuffproductions @msmcsmutt @ravn-87 @artemismohr18 @whygz @crazywritingbug @dolphincommander @bisexualbumblebeesstuff @fuzzy-panda @bitemebro522 @zombiesnips-blog @jillanaholland @shookyungsoo @savingdraco @welcometomyworldwithoutrules @akari180 @slytherin-emerald @chaotic-good-gemini @memalfoy-spidey @theres-a-dog-outside-omg @queenfeatherwings @fanficflaneuse @go-whovian-universe @spicyshenanigans @darling-im-not-okay-i-promise @dietkiwi @katsukink @takemetothekingdom @strangerr-things @tmnt-queen @mccloudchloe @hxneybgb @justsomerandomgur @belcvayelena @moviesbooksandfandoms @howdycharlie @littlethingsinmymindla @xtrashmouthxtozierx @cocochanelthepupper @ninacotte @mccloudchloe @braelynn-j​

[owillofthewisps]

portraits hung in empty halls - prologue

notes: do i need another wip? no.  are y’all getting one? yup. i’m slightly lukewarm about this particular prologue, but it’s gotta happen for me to get where i want to be.  sometimes it just be like that. title is from Don McLean's "Vincent"  

rating: teen. 

pairing: geralt of rivia/female reader

word count: 1.5k

there is an odd little portrait tucked away in an alcove. at night, the canvas lies empty. most never notice it.

the Witcher does.

The Witcher appears without warning.  

His hair, the color of fresh cream, draws your eye to the door.  You think you are perhaps the first to notice him despite the way his broad frame fills the doorway.  His hair seems to you a rare thing, like snow capped mountains, a dusting of white over the stone of him.    

The inn is buzzing, the glow of the torches cutting through the velvet of the night, drawing patrons like moths.  You’ve been laughing all night, fluttering between your customers, all cheeky grins and soft touches.  Malinka has been grumbling behind the counter. She would be well within her rights to curb your wandering, to anchor you behind the bar, but she has always been soft for you. Besides, while the ale is good, the company is what keeps most of the men coming back.  It is selfish, you think, the little charm you paid handsomely for, but you always want the inn warm with chatter, to fill the rafters with laughter and argument and rambunctious humanity.  The cacophony is a promise of existence, and you drink it down like mulberry wine.  The coin is simply an added bonus.

The bedlam fades as the Witcher enters, a hush falling over the tables.  It makes your skin prick.  You’re just beginning to turn to Piotr, to make him kick up the fiddles again, when the bard next to the Witcher starts to strum on his lute.  The sound catches like kindling, his voice a reassurance, and though it takes a moment, the conversations start up once more.

The bard is a talented one, boisterous in his delivery.  Piotr finds the rhythm of his song and the fiddles join in.  The Witcher seems unmoved by the reception, the crowd parting for his hefty frame as he makes his way to the counter. You murmur Elias’s name, draw his incendiary gaze from the Witcher and back to your conversation.  

Your attention wanes, though, when you see Johan step to the counter, waving off Malinka.  There’s a sour twist to his face, something half-rotten lurking under his skin.  You curse under your breath.  

The Witcher is sliding coin across the bar when you catch his wrist.  “Johan,” you say sharply.

Johan murmurs your name.  It’s lined with challenge.

A simple flex of the Witcher’s wrist dislodges your grip, but that’s hardly your concern right now.  “Would you like to repeat the amount of coin you asked for to me?” you ask Johan.  You’d heard it as you were weaving your way to the bar.  You suppose you should be less surprised by Johan’s audacity, for his bravado is never tucked far from the surface.  

Johan grits his teeth, names a price almost triple what you charge.

“Out,” you say.  The snarl is barely hidden beneath your tongue.

“He’s a fucking Witcher, you cannot-”

“It is not our way,” you say, and the warning cannot be missed.

Someone at the bar snorts, the air thick with barely contained amusement at your scolding. The rancid twist of Johan’s lips spreads to his eyes.  You hold firm; you have faced far worse.

“Protected by a woman,” Johan spits at the Witcher.  “She can’t always save you, mutant.”

“Enough,” you say.  “Go.”

He growls a curse at you, but pushes away from the counter, storming into the back.  You hop the bar with a flurry of your skirts.  Your skirts hike high with the movement, baring your skin to those paying attention.  It garners you a whistle from one of the men at the bar. You tip him a wink.

Up close, the Witcher is the type of handsome that makes you want to trace your fingertips across his skin, circling lower and lower. You pour a mug of ale, press it towards him.  He has eyes of amber, and they are sharp on you, sliding beneath your skin like a stiletto blade.  It has been years since you’ve felt so stripped by a gaze alone.

“My apologies,” you say to the Witcher.  “That is not our way here.”

He grunts.  “Hard to agree.”

“It is not my way, then,” you amend.  

“That,” he says, his gravelly voice arrowing through you, “seems more likely.”

You smile gently; he does not return it.  Still, there is something in his gaze, and you wonder what you look like in his eyes.

He starts to push coin - less, this time - towards you, but you nudge it back.  “No coin needed,” you tell him.  “I’ll accept your name, though, should you be insistent on payment.”

He considers you for a moment. “Geralt.”

“Geralt,” you repeat, and your own name falls from your lips like an offering.  You want to ask him more, want to hear if the stone of him can be chipped away at, but one of the men at the other end of the bar calls to you.  “Pardon me,” you say to Geralt, and then you slide away.  You can feel his eyes lingering on you.

You are whirled into work, balancing trays of ale against your hip, laying kisses on the cheeks of the more familiar regulars, darting out of their grasp with a giggle when they try to pull you down into their laps.  The bard’s music spills over you, and you let Elias sweep you into a dance.  Malinka is swept up, too, until the clamor of those wanting drink overtakes the cheers of those watching you spinning, your skirts flaring.  

The night lengthens.  As patrons trickle out the door, the bard winds down, joins Geralt at the bar.  He’s immediately leaning forward at the sight of Malinka, of her tumble of onyx curls and her plush hips.  You are tempted to return behind the bar, as most have retired to their rooms or staggered home, but you mind Malinka’s glare and clear the tables.  

It is late when Geralt and the bard rise to follow Malinka down the hall of the inn, the torches burning low. You cannot help but follow them with your eyes.  The bard throws you a wink when he notices your attention; you tip one right back.  His delight lights his face, and you stifle a giggle.  

Geralt, however, pays you no mind, though you are sure he feels your gaze.  They are just about to disappear from sight when the Witcher slows.  He peers into a small, dark alcove, leaning into it just slightly, and ice trickles down your spine. You cannot remember the last time a patron even noticed the tiny nook.  You wet your lips as he tilts his head to better see the frame tucked back against the wall.

Malinka chews on her lip as she tries to urge him along.  Geralt cannot be moved, though, and you flex your fingers as he lingers there.

“Shit,” Rose says quietly, coming up behind you.

You can’t even make a sound.  

She twines her fingers through yours and squeezes.  You grip her hand tightly, enough to make her wince, but she says nothing.

Finally, finally, Geralt pulls away from the alcove.  He ignores the bard’s questions.  He glances back, those amber eyes finding you, and you tug at Rose, your fingers trembling against hers.

She curls an arm around you and whirls you into a dance, spinning you amid the tables with quick grace.  Those few that remain, all those who are haunted by the dark and cannot seem to find rest during it, whip up into a chanting song to give you a beat to twirl to. By the time she releases you, Geralt is gone.  

You lean forward and bury your face in her shoulder, inhaling the scent that lingers on her skin like a kiss, rosemary and rosemallow, roses for Rose. She presses a hand against your head, cradles you to her.  “Don’t fret,” she says.  “It makes you look old.”

“Thanks.”

She drops a kiss on the crown of your head.  “You’re welcome,” she says, her cheer blazing through the night’s quiet like a shooting star.

You pull away to let her tie her apron on.  The inn is empty now, all the travelers tucked away in their beds, sheltered from the cold of the night.  Rose fills the silence with bawdy jokes and the slap of the bread dough against the counter.  You settle in beside her, plait the ropes of sticky dough into loaves.  It is familiar, and comforting, and for now - it is home.

Dawn approaches.  You feel it in your bones, feel it in your marrow, something in you going papery.  You wipe your sticky hands on your apron.  You leave it splayed across the counter, brush your fingers against the clumsy stitching of it, the thread the color of a plum, though it has long faded to something lighter.  

“Must you torture yourself?” Rose asks.  She lays a hand across your forearm as you round the bar, her fingers forlorn against your skin.  

You do not answer; cannot answer.  The taste of paint has coated your tongue. You brush your fingers over Rose’s knuckles, over her soft skin, and then you are out into the waning night.

You had loved the night, once, had spent hours in the grip of the chill air, listening to the whisper of the wind as it threaded through the fingers of the trees, bark scraping like a melody.  

The night is not cruel, you know, but it feels cruel all the same, with the vastness of it gaping wide like a mouth, the stars little pinpricks against the void of it, like lanterns bobbing deep in the woods at night, little flickers of hope against an unruly dark.

The stars, though, are fading now, as dawn creeps over the horizon, long fingers of light starting to stretch across the sky.  You push to the tips of your toes.  The sun is still beneath the horizon, and you are so hungry for it.  You ache for it, your breath caught in your chest by the promise of it.

It grows lighter still, and just as the sun would peek over the horizon, as you crane towards it, desperate for the smallest glimpse of it - everything goes dark.

taglist: @fairytale07 @1950schick @nonamejustshame

[yutaya]

Iron Fist Rewatch: 1x03: Rolling Thunder Cannon Punch

That's so terrifying. You look an entitled asshole in the eyes and say "no" when he tries to pressure you into doing something morally corrupt that would actively hurt another person - one who has specifically asked you for help - and then armed home invaders break in in the middle of the night. Ward is basically the mafia boss that Colleen has just pissed off, from her POV. No wonder she hates him.

Wow, now I want the fanfic where Colleen keeps calling Ward a mafia boss to his face. "Just because I'm under your mafia family's protection NOW doesn't make that time you put out a hit on me any better, mobster." "'Mob-' I never put out any 'hit'. I'm not the mafia." "You don't need to bother with pretence here, mob guy." (Danny helpfully does not point out that Ward definitely put out a hit on him, but the entire room is still painfully aware.)

Danny: Sorry the people trying to kill me broke your lock.

Colleen doesn't for one second find it out of the question that the cops might be in on the whole "corrupt rich white man is doing shady illegal things and trying to have a 'problem' 'fixed'" thing. Danny does, ("I haven't broken any law?") because Danny spent ten years as a rich white boy and then the next 15 in a culture completely separated from the rest of the world's reality. Or: Danny, a rich white boy, trusts the police. Colleen, who tries to make her dojo a safe space for a bunch of underprivileged majority bipoc kids living in the "bad part of town", does not.

Possibly the reason they speedrun us through Ward going up to the penthouse again is to remind the viewers how obnoxious it is to get up there before we see Danny climb the building later?

I forgot about this freaky tube thing. What is that? High tech coffin? lol. There's an implied "you should be unsettled by this" vibe to Harold's whole "it's so peaceful in here, I can't help but doze off" but when I don't know what the tube is the context is kind of lost on me.

Again with Ward calmly asking for an explanation about such a seemingly insane business choice, especially one that he's going to have to explain to people, and Harold brushing him off. Infuriating. And let's just toss in a sprinkling of "Joy has always been and always will be better than you, who can't do anything."

Harold: "Doesn't it occur to you that I'm doing this all for you?" Me: "SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP I HATE YOU." He doesn't even just say "I'm doing this for you." No, he has to say "Doesn't it occur to you that I'm doing this for you?" Rather than simply lying, he just has to back Ward into that corner. Ugh. UGH.

Ward: closes his eyes, long huff of breath. I should start a count of how many times he does this.

MY SKIN IS CRAWLING. Freaking Harold. Ugh ugh ugh he's the worst.

Danny you realize you're both disrespecting Colleen AND talking about pretty sensitive subject matter right in front of her student?

Joy: "We need to do the right thing." Me: "You keep telling yourself you're a person who cares about that, Joy."

Joy used to do Ward's homework for him????

Like, what?

Seriously, what?

Was this supposed to be a cute exchange? Because my Asian American upbringing says it's NOT.

Joy: "In another life, this would have been romantic." Danny: "Gross, you're my sister."

"You and Ward, you're the only link to a life that I had. It kept me going under very difficult circumstances." ;___;

Joy talking about clinging to her dreams of Harold meeting her after school and holding her hand and smiling at her in her grief after he died is making me so miserable. To Joy, Harold means comfort.

Danny: *Starts talking about ghosts* Joy: Oh right, he's crazy.

Colleen: "You dishonor yourself when you fight for money."

Jeri, who has literally been mind-controlled, almost got murdered slowly and painfully, and brought a killer to her wife,

Young intern Jeri Hogarth calling the boss's secretary a "hatchet faced bitch" and then bribing said boss's 10yrs or younger kid not to tell is. Well. It sure is a thing.

I still want Danny inviting Jeri to Defenders friend group hangouts and Foggy and Marci both blanching. Jessica and Jeri can snark at each other and Danny can be like "You're friends too! I didn't know!! :D"

Honestly, I would have watched a whole show on the intricacies of classism issues, with the Elite like Jeri and the Meachums teaching Danny how to live and maneuver in that world and Colleen and the dojo and Big Al teaching Danny about the reality of life for the lower class, and our golden-hearted Danny in the center of it, consistently determined to do what's Right,

Joy: lol, isn't this such a fun, teasing, sibling-banter thing we do, me joking about how I'm going to close this deal and you would only endanger it?

Harold: punches trainer full in the face, then casually suggests weapons next time while the guy is still groaning on the ground

Is Gao terrorizing Harold and making him kneel on glass supposed to make me feel for Harold? No one deserves this but that doesn't make Harold magically not a monster.

Danny.... just taking over lecturing the class is not respectful to Darryl or Colleen either.

Danny: "What kind of soldier training is this? They're acting like kids!" Colleen: "That's the POINT! I am not training them to be soldiers, I am creating a safe space for them to be kids when they usually can't be in the rest of their lives." Danny's warped K'un Lun upbringing really shows here. It's heartbreaking to remember that Colleen isn't just some good samaritan either - that she was raised in a cult too and has her own warped upbringing viewpoints.

A line I need to appear in a Ward/Misty/Claire pov fic: "Colleen tends to seem normal because most of the time she's next to Danny. It's easy to forget that actually, she's completely batshit."

Colleen keeps throwing Danny out for bringing trouble to her doorstep and then not really fighting it when he sticks around anyway (Which: Danny. Danny, this is problematic behavior, Danny.) - it's when he becomes a danger to her students that she gets serious about it. Even if Danny wouldn't physically harm them again, he is now a drain on their mental health: he represents a potential danger, a reason to be constantly on guard, and a removal of their safe space.

Ward clearly has no idea what the heck Joy is doing. It's all very troubling and this family is so messed up.

The way Ward ever so slightly shakes his head at Joy as she bribes Patel with his nephew's actual life.

The blanket into snow is a great transition shot

Joy feels like Ward refuses to tell her things the same way Harold refuses to tell Ward things! But Ward doesn't actually have the ability to tell Joy anything because he doesn't know anything! Ugh!!

On Joy's desk: a photo of her and Ward toasting at some party. She also has a copy on her shelf at home.

Joy poured her blood sweat and tears into Rand. She's proud of it. To Ward, it's a prison.

Wait so their plan is that there's no record that Danny Rand ever existed? Like, besides. The city's collective memory? People know about Danny Rand, guys. You need to delete the ability to connect this adult man to Danny Rand, not young Danny's entire paper trail. I mean, anything linking them would be included in literally everything about Danny but still. Seems unnecessary and suspicious?? I know nothing about crime.

Jeri casually constantly reminding Danny that the Meachums are the corrupt villains of this story must be really messing with Danny's head. Not that she's wrong. Poor boy.

"Isn't it obvious!? I'm not your sister. He's not your brother. We don't want you here." brb crying forever

I have to appreciate that this fight moderator is actually trying to run a semi-safe tight ship behind the showmanship

"Cut the Floyd Mayweather shit." Floyd Mayweather: a former professional boxer, competed from 1996-2015. Often referred to as the best defensive boxer in history, as well as the most accurate puncher. Nicknamed "Pretty Boy" by his amateur teammates because his defensive technique left him with relatively few scars.

That whole Randy biting Colleen (breaking the rules about going too far laid out at the start of the fight) and then her climbing on top of him to keep on punching after he's down was really framed like one of those troubling "the hero loses control and it's bad" type scenes.

I am very curious about Jeri and the Meachums' history. Jeri and Ward snark at each other so much in this meeting. And they definitely seem amused while doing so. Also Joy was like "Hogarth" at Ward earlier, and Jeri described their relationship as "complicated" to Danny.

Ward slumps down in his seat so he's lower than anyone else in the room, despite probably being the tallest. This is probably meant as a show of dismissiveness: Danny's case is so insignificant that he doesn't need to respect them by sitting up straight - but it IS interesting, from a power dynamics in staging perspective.

Ward, who has a constant escape plan of stealing from his employees and running away with Joy, plus was literally talking about leaving and starting over with nothing earlier in this same episode: "It could have been easy. You could have taken the money and had a great life."

The elevator level can be controlled by the lobby man???

Another picture of presumably child Joy on Harold's desk, as a toddler this time. How many does he have?? This is cruel set dressing.

Harold playing on Ward's loyalty again. "I need you to help me. I don't have anyone else."

[brax-was-here]

A Gift From Scarlet: A Wintersday Story

For Tyrias Library prompt  “Traditions”

Written by: Braxxus and Arwen Darkblade

     The newly fallen snow gently blanketed the streets of Divinity’s Reach. The feeling of holiday celebration filled the air as children played and citizens decorated their homes for the Wintersday tradition. The Crown Pavilion was completely transformed into a winter wonderland as the people anticipated the arrival of Tixx the Toymaker and his giant Infinitarium. Ceara stood in front of a shop window that was filled with toys and gadgets for children. A small asuran golem hovered in the display, adorned with blinking wintersday lights. A light wind blew causing the snowflakes to dance playfully around her. The cold air didn’t bother her so much; she had endured worse living in a cave in the mountains of Lornar’s Pass for some months with a furnace that only worked periodically.

     “Wintersday,” she whispered to herself. She thought back to the last time she gave a gift to someone. It was actually a bomb sent to the dragonslayer. She closed her eyes for a moment.          

     “A gold for your thoughts?” a voice said next to her. Her eyes snapped open to see a gloved hand holding a gold coin. She glanced up to see who the hand was attached to – a light blue sylvari with purple foliage grown into two pigtails. Ceara narrowed her eyes, recognizing her. She glanced back at the window, noticing the reflection of the thief's twin, the warden Faelyn, standing not far behind them. 

     “Faeyin,” Ceara muttered, snatching the coin from the sylvari thief’s hand. 

     “Whoa, I think you burned my fingertips, secondborn,” Faeyin quipped, pretending to blow smoke off her hands. 

     “Money doesn’t come easy for some, thief,” Ceara replied, pocketing the coin. 

     “So are you going to tell me what’s on your mind? That was what I paid for.” 

     “Why do you want to know?”

     “Well, Faelyn noticed you standing here by yourself, looking like you were out of fruitcake.”

     “What do you make of this Wintersday tradition?”

     “It’s amazing!” Faelyn said excitedly. “Everyone is so kind and generous! Exchanging gifts freely. Helping the less fortunate!”

     “Less fortunate,” Ceara muttered. 

     Faeyin paused, looking at Ceara. “Yes, sister!” Faeyin held out her hand. “Come with me. I want to show you something!” she said beaming. Ceara looked at her, also throwing a quick glance at Faelyn, then back at the thief.       

     “Show me.”           

     Faeyin lead the trio behind the buildings, and began scaling some pipes. 

     “Hey now,” Ceara said, “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I haven’t become so desperate that I’ve taken up thieving.”

     Faeyin snorted. “Just follow me. There’s no crime involved.” 

     With some hesitation, Ceara began scaling the pipes as well, with Faelyn silently following behind. She was wary, but if the warden was following the thief, then this probably was the innocent excursion her younger sister had promised. 

     They reached the top of the pipes and crawled over to stand near the ledge overlooking the street they had been on just a few moments before. The city of Divinity’s Reach spread out before them in sparkling winter’s majesty. It was peaceful and a much-needed balm for Ceara’s nerves. 

     “What do you see, Ceara?” 

     “Um, the city.” 

     “No, look deeper.”

     Ceara drew a deep breath and slowly scanned the horizon. Not sure what the thief was getting at, she sighed and said, “Well it is peaceful and lovely.” 

     “That it is. But there is more. If you look closely, you can see the different architecture, dress, and even varieties of humans that make up this amazing place. Humans are an ancient race, and this city was founded by people who came from all over Tyria. Cantha, Elona, Ascalon. They have endured so much, and they have not only survived, they thrive. This bustling city would not be possible without the resilient nature of humans. Without their drive to overcome.” 

     “Well that’s, uh, really poetic of you. Why are you telling me this?” 

     “I tell you this because you need to know that what the dragon forced you to do is not the first, last, or even worse things that humans have or will endure. And there is going to have to come a time when you quit torturing yourself.” 

     Ceara was very quiet as she continued to look out over the city. The thief and the warden stood in silence, Faeyin with a satisfied smile on her face. She turned then, back towards the pipes. 

     “Come on! If the race that endured The Seering can find some cheer, so can you!” 

     Faeyin grabbed Ceara’s hand, which Ceara snatched away from her. Faeyin looked at her with playful disdain. “Now is not the time for grumpiness, secondborn,” she said, smiling widely. Faeyin led her down the street, stopping at a vendor along the way.       

     “A warm drink to soothe the chill for you young ladies today?” the vendor asked, casting a wary eye as he recognized Ceara.

     “Why yes, Merchant! I’ll have a hot cocoa for myself,” Faeyin said gleefully. “And you need not worry about my dear sister here. The past is past and she’s here to celebrate Wintersday,” she continued. “Now what will you have?”

     “A warm winterberry ale, please.”

     “Really? Ale at this time of day?” Faeyin chided.

     “Well, yes. Why not? You said I should celebrate.”

     “I’m sorry, miss. I don’t serve ale here,” the merchant said. 

     “Oh well, I’ll just have a hot cocoa as well.” 

     “And you miss?” the merchant asked over them to Faelyn.

     “A coffee for me. Dark, please,” Faelyn ordered. The merchant fixed their drinks, exchanging the mugs for coins that Faeyin produced from a satchel. 

      “The merchant recognized me,” Ceara said sipping from the mug. 

      “He’s not going to do anything. If the Seraph question, you’re here with us. Besides, I’m sure the Shining Blade already knows you’re here.” 

       “So where are we going?”

       “We’re going to visit some children.”

       “Children?” Ceara asked.

       “Yep!” Faeyin replied, as she started humming a playful tune to herself. Before long, the trio approached one of the gates to the Salma district of Divinity’s Reach. Ceara could feel the eyes of the Seraph guards watching her as they passed through the gate. 

        “And here we are!” Faeyin exclaimed as they approached a fenced off area that had children playing gleefully in the snow.

        “The orphanage,” Ceara muttered.

        “Mmhmm,” Faeyin said reaching into her satchel. “Priestess, please come here a moment,” she called out to a woman dressed in ornate robes who was watching over the children. 

        “Hail travelers, what can I do for you today?” she asked warmly, approaching the women. 

        “Here, use this for the children you have here. Try to find them the most wonderful gifts that you can.” Faeyin handed her a pouch that jingled when it dropped into the priestess’ hand. 

        “By the six!” she said, opening the pouch. It was full of gold and silver coins. She looked up at Faeyin as if in shock. “May the gods bless you!” Faeyin nodded and turned to Ceara as the priestess rushed off.

        “You steal from the rich to give to the poor. Seems somewhat ironic for a thief,” Ceara said to Faeyin. 

        “Does it?” 

        “And you let her get away with it, warden?” Ceara asked, turning to Faelyn

        “Sadly, yes, and technically I’m not a warden anymore. I stepped down from that post a while ago,” Faelyn replied.  

        “Now, dear sister, we have someplace else to visit,” Faeyin said, beaming. 

        “Your cheerfulness is somewhat disturbing,” Ceara said to her. 

        “Well, it seems the grump is vast in you this day, secondborn,” Faeyin smiled. Ceara heard a stifled chuckle from Faelyn behind them. “Now, let’s go!” Faeyin grabbed Ceara’s hand again, who instinctively pulled away. Faeyin shook her hand playfully, acting as if her fingers had caught fire.

     Before they could get too far from the orphanage, something solid hit Ceara on the back of her head.

     “Unfh!” Ceara grunted, startled by what just happened. As she reached behind her, she discovered that what had hit her was cold and wet. Her sisters were hooting with laughter, as were the children behind her. The priestess, however, was mortified. 

     “Children! That is no way to treat our guests! You apologize at once.” The children looked down, ashamed, and began to apologize to Ceara. Faeyin, however, raised a calming hand to the priestess, just as a snowball flew past her to hit one of the children.

     Faeyin turn to see Ceara flash an impish smile and a mischievous glance at her, and then Ceara turned to the children. “Oh, you’re all in big, big trouble now!” she announced playfully. She scooped up a snowball and threw it towards the children, hitting one of them on their retreating backside. Peals of laughter rang out from the yard as the three sylvari women had a rousing snowball fight with the children. Faelyn used a pile of firewood as cover, while Ceara and Faeyin dodged and rolled around the snow to the delight of the children. Once they were all exhausted, the women wished the children a Happy Wintersday and Faeyin waved over a hot chocolate vendor. 

     Slipping him a couple gold coins she said, “Give the little ones whatever they want. They gave us a good fight today!” 

     The children rushed to the vendor, shouting their thanks. Faeyin beamed with glee as they walked further into the Salma District. 

     “You really love the children, don’t you.” Ceara remarked.

     “Oh I do! They are extraordinary.” Faeyin was quiet a moment and said, “Can you imagine if it were that way for sylvari? If we were born as babies, and grew? And were able to have our innocence protected and embraced by older sylvari while we had a childhood under their watchful care?” 

     “Why Faeyin, what has you so melancholy all of a sudden?” 

     “I think of it often, especially when I am around human and norn children. I think of Riannoc, and other sylvari who had their innocence and naivete exploited. Who were betrayed by others for their cruel ends.” 

     Ceara was very quiet then, for she knew what her sister was thinking but not saying. She felt very warm then, and felt a fondness for Faeyin and her quiet twin that she hadn’t felt before. 

     “Thank you for the day. It has been lovely, and I enjoyed our time with the children very much.” 

     Faeyin smiled broadly, “Why look! You are capable of cheer!” 

     Ceara smiled and waved them goodbye as the trio split ways. She walked alone in her thoughts for several blocks through the twisting streets of Divinity’s Reach, the solemn song of a nearby caroling group echoed between the buildings. She paused momentarily, taking in the music. She thought of what Faeyin had said to her on the rooftop.

     “Maybe someday I’ll be able to, thief,” she muttered to herself. Sighing deeply she continued on her way until her hands were so cold she could hardly stand it. Spying an inn that she knew must have her beloved winterberry ale, she stepped inside. It was dark and quiet, quite a contrast to the festive nature outside, and it was just what she needed. 

     She chose a stool away from the others and soon the warm ale was filling her from fingertips to toes. She held the warm cup in her fingers, inhaling the heady perfume of the brew. She was contemplating ordering some dinner when a man, a young human man, sat down next to her. 

     “Excuse me, miss, I don’t mean to intrude. I was just wondering if you had a couple coins to spare so I could get something warm to drink.” He was shy, and Ceara could tell he was embarrassed. She could also tell he was shaking from the cold and possible hunger. 

     “Of course! Do you like warm winterberry ale?” He nodded sheepishly. “Barkeep, another for me and one for my friend.” 

     “I appreciate you very much, miss. May the six watch over you.” He gave a polite bow of his head. 

     “You’re quite welcome, and my name is Ceara,” she smiled warmly at him. 

     “I’m Nicholas.” He looked at her shyly and smiled, blushing on his cheeks. 

     The barkeep brought their drinks and Ceara said, “Good sir, my friend and I will also be dining here tonight. Give us two of whatever you have on special.” 

     “Oh miss, thank you, but you don’t have to do that….”

     “It’s Ceara and I will do as I please.” She winked at him and he flushed crimson.

     “T-thank you, miss, I mean, Ceara. You are most kind,” 

     Soon Ceara and Nicholas were feasting on crusty bread, soft cheese, and the best lamb stew she had ever tasted. They spoke little, but from his story she was able to gather that Nicholas had a business venture that didn’t quite work out for him, and now he was trying to get back on his feet. As he spoke, she took inventory of him. Tattered clothes. Holes in his coat. No scarf or hat. Gloves that didn’t quite cover his fingers. And judging from his condition, she assumed he had been sleeping outside. 

     She noticed the sign above the bar indicated that the inn had vacancies, and that it was only two silver a night to stay. An idea flashed in her head and she perked up. 

     “Nicholas, it has been a delight to meet you and talk to you.” 

     He flushed again, “Same here, and thank you kindly for your generosity.” 

     She cupped the gold Faeyin had given her and held it in her closed hand.

     “What’s that?” 

     “Give me your hand.” 

     He reluctantly held out his hand while she placed both of hers over it.

     “It’s a gift,” she said. “From me to you.”

[tunehummed]

THE JONATHAN LARSON PROJECT. — 458 sentences from the 2019 album the jonathan larson project, conceived by jennifer ashley tepper! change pronouns as needed. trigger warning for mentions/discussion of abuse, sexism, homophobia, and oil spills.

GREENE STREET.

‛ i found the sun on a midwinter day. ’

‛ on a backstreet down in soho, there was snow on the ground. ’

‛ instinct told me to get out and search for a day. ’

‛ there goes a chic, chic baby on her way to a coup d’état. ’

‛ there goes a fella like me lookin’ for his day. ’

‛ there goes a boy in his mama’s arms. ’

‛ you can say what you can say. ’

‛ there goes a lover sittin’ and writin’ this song. ’

‛ i’m sittin’ on greene street! ’

‛ and i don’t mean money, honey. ’

‛ watchin’ the world waltz by. ’

‛ laughing the day away. ’

‛ there goes a man with a camera whose sunglasses shade his eyes. ’

‛ there goes a man who seems that he knows a star. ’

‛ there goes a tourist who’s scared to answer me. ’

‛ there goes a dancer too scared to answer me, an artist who winked as she passed by. ’

‛ an artist who winked as she passed by! ’

‛ all these people out in the street, too bad that no one wants to meet. ’

‛ too bad that no one wants to meet. ’

‛ everybody i see walks right by. ’

‛ would someone please look me in the eye? ’

ONE OF THESE DAYS.

‛ another failure, another flop. ’

‛ i should try another hobby, this has gotta stop. ’

‛ i feel like a tightrope walker without the wire. ’

‛ one more disaster, one more dud. ’

‛ it could be worse! at least this time no flood. ’

‛ at least this time no flood. ’

‛ at least this time no flood, though it’s the fourteenth time that i’ve almost caught on fire. ’

‛ though it’s the fourteenth time that i’ve almost caught on fire. ’

‛ maybe it’s luck! what is luck, how could this be luck? ’

‛ no one’s luck could be this bad! ’

‛ maybe it’s fate, maybe it’s time… ’

‛ one of these days i’ll find a way. ’

‛ i’ll make it to the top, leave ‘em all back in the dust. ’

‛ one of these days someone will say, ‘that boy will never stop!’ ’

‛ that day’s gonna be one of these days. ’

‛ don’t understand it, it isn’t fair. ’

‛ every time i try to prove myself results just aren’t there. ’

‛ i feel like a mountain climber without the peak. ’

‛ my sister laughs at me, says i’m odd. ’

‛ my mom and pop think i’m a punishment from god. ’

‛ i get looks from my neighbors that seem to say, ‘there goes that FREAK!’ ’

‛ sometimes i wish - no, i don’t - yes, i do, i wish! ’

‛ i wish that somehow i’d been born dumb. ’

‛ then i feel that something may change. ’

‛ i’ll rise above the throng. ’

‛ they’ll be amazed at who they see. ’

‛ one of these days someone will say, ‘i knew it all along.’ ’

‛ one of these days that’s what will be. ’

‛ god, can it happen today? ’

‛ maybe there’s been a mistake. ’

‛ let’s trade a failure for one minor miracle. ’

‛ i’m gonna be number one! ’

‛ i’m gonna be number one, at least in some one person’s eyes. ’

‛ one of these days someone will say, ‘you are my only one.’ ’

‛ i’m gonna fly, i’m gonna touch the sky. ’

‛ i’m gonna win, i’m gonna sin, i’m gonna never die. ’

‛ gonna glow, gonna flow, gonna click, gonna stick. ’

‛ gonna gain, reach, conquer, gonna make ‘em sick. ’

‛ gonna triumph, prevail, sail, razzle dazzle, glitter gleam. ’

‛ gonna see my face in every house on every screen. ’

‛ i’ll be the hero, i’ll change the world. ’

‛ and maybe in the end i’ll even get the girl! ’

‛ gotta believe it. ’

‛ i can see through the haze. ’

‛ a miracle’s in for a landing, gonna get here, gonna happen one of these days. ’

BREAK OUT THE BOOZE.

‛ the wolf’s at the door and i hear talk of war. ’

‛ somebody break out the booze. ’

‛ let’s grab some hooch. ’

‛ let’s get goopy and smooch. ’

‛ forget all this sob sister news. ’

‛ the world’s gettin’ lousy, so let’s go get drowsy. ’

‛ yes, right here and now-sy. ’

‛ let’s bow-wow these blues. ’

‛ the stars look poetic. the moon’s copacetic. ’

‛ crank up your jalopy and then we’ll get sloppy. ’

‛ we’ll call up our bookie and say to him: ‘cookie, lookie, we’ve nothing to lose.’ ’

‛ the times ain’t so jake, every bum’s on the take. ’

‛ got no cake, got no steak, just this ache in my shoes. ’

‛ the moon’s looking cheesy. your eyes say, ‘i’m easy.’ ’

‛ oh – it’s swell to be alive. ’

‛ oh – it’s the real mccoy! ’

‛ oh – give a yell, we’ll survive. ’

‛ waiter! who needs a mug? give me a bottle or a jug. ’

‛ the government’s awful, so let’s be unlawful. ’

‛ throw out the compass and let’s make a rumpus. ’

‛ this town’s getting screwy, so let’s go kablooey. ’

‛ it’s true if we get boo-hoo-y, we lose. ’

‛ let’s make it strange – hell! let’s get naked, angel. ’

OUT OF MY DREAMS.

‛ out of my dreams. ’

‛ out all night, kisses on the street. ’

‛ sidewalk, dance, september heat. ’

‛ stay in bed, love all day. ’

‛ fire, passion, every single way. ’

‛ go to work, mind on you. anticipating what we’re gonna do. ’

‛ nasty words on the telephone. ’

‛ alarm goes off, i’m in bed alone. ’

‛ you left my life. stay out of my dreams. ’

‛ thursday, friday, 3 am. ’

‛ buses, subways. us versus them. ’

‛ winter chill, skies look dark. ’

‛ monkey business in central park. ’

‛ coffee, cocoa, more whipped cream. ’

‛ vodka, brandy. was it just a dream? ’

‛ window shopping, christmas day. ’

‛ i wake up, all that was yesterday! ’

‛ try to stay busy. hard to stay afloat. ’

‛ will i be sunk by this lump in my throat? ’

‛ can’t think, can’t act, can’t find new roads. ’

‛ think i see you everywhere, my heart explodes. ’

‛ will i ever laugh? will i ever be the same? ’

‛ i’m tossing, i’m turning, i’m calling your name. ’

‛ maybe you’ll come back. that thought makes me weep. ’

‛ the only thing i do is i go back to sleep. ’

‛ stay out of my dreams. get out! ’

VALENTINE’S DAY.

‛ he was a greeting card candy cupid. ’

‛ there was a blizzard, it was twenty below. ’

‛ she was 15, clean, lonely and stupid, and as pure as the virgin snow. ’

‛ he pulled her in from the storm and the fire was warm. she didn’t have the nerve to say no. ’

‛ she didn’t have the nerve to say no. ’

‛ beat her till she’s black and blue and gray. ’

‛ draw a little heart. draw a little arrow. draw a little blood. ’

‛ v-v-v-valentine’s day. ’

‛ red wine, waterford crystal. chocolate kisses and lace. ’

‛ knives and chains and a pistol mounted on a wall, like scars on a face. ’

‛ he said he liked to play rough as he locked the handcuff. she knew it’d be tough to escape. ’

‛ she knew it’d be tough to escape. ’

‛ february winter in her heart. ’

‛ i said i’d show her normal love. she said, ‘too late to start.’ ’

‛ she said, ‘too late to start.’ ’

‛ now her fashion is basically leather. favorite color is basically red. ’

‛ and her passions change like the weather, as she dances from bed to bed to bed. ’

‛ and she feels like a fool, but she likes her men cruel. ’

‛ i doubt she’ll be cool till she’s dead. ’

WHITE MALE WORLD.

‛ bryant gumbel, decaf coffee, french vanilla ultra slim. ’

‛ pert shampoo with extra body, clinique, neutrogena. ’

‛ hey, madonna. ho, madonna, hey. ’

‛ stay-free, yeast-x, estee lauder. ’

‛ estee lauder, revlon, calvin klein’s obsession. ’

‛ advil, ultra-brite, no nonsense. ’

‛ diamonds are forever. ’

‛ it’s just another day. just another day. ’

‛ just another day in the white male world.  ’

‛ salad bar, no! candy bar. ’

‛ yes. candy bar, no! salad bar. ’

‛ diet coke, no! diet rite. ’

‛ cellulite or cancer? ’

‛ yes sir, no sir. ’

‛ holly hunter, melanie griffith, meryl streep. ’

‛ spandex, reeboks. ’

‛ taylor dayne, stairmaster, oprah winfrey. ’

‛ let’s cut down a jungle. ’

‛ let’s go start a war. ’

‛ let’s go rape a co-ed. ’

‛ what a lovely thing to do! ’

‛ let’s drink beer and bust some heads. ’

‛ let’s all vote for jesse helms. ’

‛ let’s string up a faggot and a black guy and a jew. ’

‛ evian water, black lace push-up, billiard table, dirty words. ’

‛ skinny blue jeans, skimpy t-shirt. ’

‛ husband hunting, binge & purge. ’

‛ open your mouth and open your legs and open your purse. now – where’s the trojan? ’

‛ now – where’s the trojan? ’

‛ wait! don’t stop! too late, he’s finished. ’

‛ what if men got pregnant? ’

LA DI DA RAP.

‛ we all should be drinkin’ to abraham lincoln and get stinkin’ drunk in his name. ’

‛ it’s a good thing he’s dead cause he’d cry his eyes red, hang his head if he saw this campaign. ’

‛ singing hey la di la di, hey la di da day. ’

‛ lincoln! here’s mud in your eye. ’

‛ are we past our prime? or is this the time to climb from the slime, make america great. ’

‛ are we so hollow that we blindly follow and swallow whatever they put on our plate? ’

‛ just sing no! ’

‛ to handlers, sound bytes, madison avenue, cynical hollywood, la di da pictures. ’

‛ tabloids, images, wrapped up facts in relation, slim control. ’

‛ la di da you drama la di da de da de la di da. ’

‛ pour some ales for old roger ailes and danny quayle’s his protégé. ’

‛ in ‘96 his looks, his tricks make tricky dick’s crime passe. ’

‛ i’ve had it up to here. ’

‛ here’s mud in your eye! ’

IRON MIKE.

‛ on a starry black night at the base of mount hogan, beyond horsetail creek and anderson bay. ’

‛ from the port of valdez sailed a ship, bound for long beach. ’

‛ over one million barrels of crude stowed away. ’

‛ to the left of the wheel in the bridge of the upper deck under the compass, was he. ’

‛ navigation computer, the captain and fisherman’s friend who could steer perfectly. ’

‛ they called him iron mike. ’

‛ in the dead of the night he steered the way through the darkness. ’

‛ iron mike didn’t see the red light on the reef. ’

‛ he’d been known to throw back one or two. ’

‛ yet no one thought twice when he set autopilot and retired below with the crew. ’

‛ from the two am stillness came the cry of the third mate. ’

‛ someone better go wake up the chief! ’

‛ yet by then it was too late. ’

‛ the starboard tanks had 12 foot gashes cut out by bligh reef. ’

‛ the forget-me-nots cried and the salmon all died and the fisherman wore black armbands. ’

‛ and the spokesmen from exxon said, ‘no major damage,’ though six million gallons remain in the sands. ’

‛ and from rocky point down to mount freemantle, you can still see the black film on the soil. ’

‛ and the echoes rebound throughout prince william sound of half frozen animals, choking in oil. ’

‛ who’s at the helm of this ship of state? ’

‛ we’ve in for some rough navigation. ’

‛ we have the power – the hour is late. ’

‛ gotta get tough and clean up the nation. ’

‛ black rainbows of exxon lightgrade again flowed, like hot fudge in a big apple spill. ’

‛ the detection machine had malfunctioned quite often, repair procedure so hard to enforce. ’

‛ and down on prall’s island, the cleanup begins. ’

‛ and the horror continues till we chart our own course. ’

‛ it’s the dead of the night. ’

‛ we can steer a new way through the darkness. ’

‛ we must see the light for relief. ’

FIND THE KEY.

‛ she’s walking, he’s sitting. ’

‛ he plays a dark c-minor chord. ’

‛ it’s like the keyboard is his heart. ’

‛ he hears the clock, he hugs the cat. ’

‛ he hugs the cat… no. he kicks the cat. ’

‛ he pumps the volume higher. ’

‛ a fire’s just about to start. ’

‛ why can’t, why can’t i? ’

‛ why can’t i, why can’t i find the key? ’

‛ why can’t i find the key? ’

‛ door closes – he freezes. ’

‛ he sees it’s hard to end duets. ’

‛ he lets his fingers feel the way. ’

‛ he loves her, he’s lost her. ’

‛ he’s hearing melancholy strings that sing the things that he can’t say. ’

‛ he can’t imagine what he should have said. ’

‛ it’s all been said and sounds cliché. ’

‛ he’s at the bridge between his head which says, ‘it’s dead,’ and his heart which says, ‘don’t let her get away.’ ’

‛ she’s gone now. he’s singing. ’

‛ he’s singing. he hears no two part harmony. ’

‛ he hears no two part harmony. ’

‛ he looks around – this can’t be real. ’

‛ this can’t be real. ’

‛ depression, a dark progression. ’

‛ why can he only sing it? ’

‛ what will it take to make him feel? ’

‛ and then somehow it ends. ’

HOSING THE FURNITURE.

‛ hello my lucite coffee table. someone spill a little milk on you? ’

‛ tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk. ’

‛ one – more – twist! that’s better now. ’

‛ silly little me, me, me, me, me, me, me! ’

‛ i’m singing in the living room. ’

‛ what’s the time? fifteen minutes. ’

‛ pour the bleach, put the finishing touches on the dinner. ’

‛ the dog – the dog – the dog. still outside. ’

‛ my nails! my god! a chip! ’

‛ tom likes wonder bread with turkey. ’

‛ tom was preoccupied last night. ’

‛ is it me? is it – ’

‛ do i have enough milk? ’

‛ oh stain stain, down the drain. ’

‛ i can see myself in the coffee table, pretty as i was on my wedding day. ’

‛ pretty as i was on my wedding day. ’

‛ i’m as pretty as the coffee table. we’re so pretty! ’

‛ we’re so pretty! ’

‛ ah! what? you scared me. ’

‛ who were you talking to? ’

‛ who? no one. ’

‛ what’s all this? ’

‛ why are you acting so weird? ’

‛ you know i’m hosing the furniture. ’

‛ and when i hose, i sing to myself. ’

‛ who do you think cleans up? some elf? ’

‛ no sweeping – no mops. in no time it’s wheeeeee! ’

‛ when i’m hosing the furniture i’m free. ’

‛ i’m free – i’m free! ’

‛ now run along and play – i’m concentrating. ’

‛ you know your father likes to come home to that ‘just decorated look’... ’

‛ raindrops are falling on my couch! ’

‛ what’s the time? thirty minutes! ’

‛ martinis, cut the flowers for the dinner. ’

‛ the dog – the dog – the dog. hasn’t been fed. ’

‛ my hair! my god! a gray hair! ’

‛ tom likes onion cocktails. ’

‛ tom nodded off again last night. ’

‛ i get treated like dirt! ’

‛ i can see myself in the drapery. ’

‛ am i pretty as i was on my wedding day? ’

‛ am i pretty as the drapery? are we pretty? ’

‛ are we pretty? ’

‛ don’t you care? ’

‛ do i look mad? my happiness grows! ’

‛ who needs dad when i’ve got the hose! ’

‛ this house is a reflection of me – modern, graceful, easy, simple – synthetic. ’

‛ modern, graceful, easy, simple – synthetic. ’

‛ in everything i see my reflection. ’

‛ do i really look so simply pathetic? ’

‛ what? pull the trigger! ’

‛ soon it’s gonna rain on the bookshelf. ’

‛ what’s the time? 120 minutes. ’

‛ dry turkey, look relaxed for the dinner. ’

‛ the dog – the dog – the dog. the dog died last year! ’

‛ my blouse! my god! a crumb! ’

‛ i can see myself in the television. ’

‛ i was pretty on my wedding day. ’

‛ i was pretty as a television. we were pretty. ’

‛ we were pretty. ’

‛ a minor flood never hurt anyone! ’

‛ sometimes i wish this hose were a gun. ’

‛ just joking – see, i’m laughing. ’

PURA VIDA

‛ we are the people. ’

‛ we are the people who float on the river. ’

‛ we run up to the hill, we run down to the water. ’

‛ birds laugh and the sun, she smiles. ’

‛ and the trees, they dance in the wind. ’

‛ we race against time. ’

‛ we race for pure life. ’

‛ we need the people. ’

‛ we need the people who live on the river. ’

‛ find a pace, find a speed. ’

‛ nowhere to stop in big water. ’

‛ fish fly and the rocks play games and the trees sing out in the wind. ’

‛ sing in harmony. ’

‛ can we endure this race? ’

‛ can this race endure? ’

‛ we need the people who live in the forest. ’

‛ ‘ust there be finish lines? ’

‛ can’t the world drum like the water? ’

‛ the rivers will dry, and the birds will die. ’

‛ and the ghosts of the trees will cry out in the wind. ’

THE TRUTH IS A LIE.

‛ the berlin wall wasn’t destroyed, it was dismantled brick by brick. ’

‛ it was dismantled brick by brick. ’

‛ it was dismantled brick by brick and reconstructed on capitol hill, on the congressional floor. ’

‛ the money spent on one stealth bomber couldn’t wipe out homelessness. ’

‛ george bush never said, ‘read my lips.’ ’

‛ the peace dividend didn’t pay for the war. ’

‛ don’t look out the window. don’t go to the mirror. don’t you know what you will see? ’

‛ don’t you know what you will see? ’

‛ martin luther king and the kennedys were fictional players in a mini-series, just like charles manson and princess grace. ’

‛ bensonhurst was a publicity stunt. ’

‛ aids is a myth, first amendment’s fake. ’

‛ the sun revolves around the earth and the holocaust never took place. ’

‛ the truth is a lie! ’

‛ love does not exist between consenting members of the same sex. ’

‛ two plus two is five. ’

‛ the human body is revolting. ’

‛ we always will thrive. ’

‛ children don’t learn to hate from their parents. they catch it like german measles. ’

‛ they catch it like german measles. ’

‛ the moon is cheese and everyone should own a gun. ’

‛ women ask to be black and blue and pregnant their entire lives. ’

‛ the earth is flat and the white man knows what’s best for everyone. ’

‛ don’t you know what you might see? ’

‛ don’t look at the picture. don’t go to the theater. don’t you know what you will see? ’

RHAPSODY.

‛ i turn a corner, see a rat in the rubble as i try with all my might to put it out of mind. ’

‛ as i try with all my might to put it out of mind. ’

‛ i step on some budweiser glass. a limousine drives by. ’

‛ a rich man turns a corner, sees a rat in the rubble. ’

‛ he raises his smile glass window and reads the wall street journal. ’

‛ sky’s not free. river’s not free. i’m not free. life’s not free. ’

‛ life’s not free in the city. ’

‛ i’m told i too must wear a tie or they’ll fire me from my boring nothing job. ’

‛ i guess a tie is the ornament of establishment. ’

‛ i guess a tie is the ornament of establishment, though it seems to me to be more of a leash than a bow. ’

‛ though it seems to me to be more of a leash than a bow. ’

‛ so many people hounded to the pound. ’

‛ so many people collared to the dollar. ’

‛ okay, freedom is a state of mind. i agree. ’

‛ but i need the elements to remind me why. ’

‛ but i need the elements to remind me why with all this steel and concrete and noise about money. ’

‛ with all this steel and concrete and noise about money. honey, you get tunnel vision. ’

‛ honey, you get tunnel vision. ’

‛ you forget that there’s earth below the subway and beyond the ‘scrapers, there’s sky. ’

‛ i plan a day in the country with you. ’

‛ having gotten home from work last night at 12:30 am. ’

‛ having fallen asleep last night at 3:30 am because i couldn’t shut down my mind. ’

‛ because i couldn’t shut down my mind. ’

‛ the city never sleeps. ’

‛ as the phone rang this morning, your sweet was calling, i looked at that clock. ’

‛ how i hate that damn clock. ’

‛ i excuse myself from our date. ’

‛ see, i had to be back by mid-afternoon. ’

‛ and i know these are lame excuses and i’m so damn sorry. ’

‛ i’m so damn sorry. ’

‛ i know it’s important, but i feel like i’ve gotten my priorities beaten out of me. ’

‛ but i feel like i’ve gotten my priorities beaten out of me. ’

‛ but i feel like i’ve gotten my priorities beaten out of me with a rolled-up new york times. ’

‛ and this leash keeps tanking on my tie. ’

‛ i love ‘rhapsody in blue’ too. it’s just that he was rich when he wrote it. ’

‛ it’s just that he was rich when he wrote it. ’

‛ and only the rats, the roaches, the rubble and the rich men are free in the city. ’

SOS.

‛ this may be my final message. ’

‛ this may be the final bow. ’

‛ i’m sure i don’t know what will happen. ’

‛ i’m sure i don’t know what will happen. does it matter anyhow? ’

‛ does it matter anyhow? ’

‛ i hear footsteps down the hall. ’

‛ don’t know how much they’ll allow. ’

‛ if you’re waiting for the last reel, i think the time is now. ’

‛ i think the time is now. ’

‛ sos, oh, savior! ’

‛ sos, oh, hero! ’

‛ sos, messiah! ’

‛ yes, oh yes, oh! ’

‛ sos, oh jesus! ’

‛ sos, oh buddhal! ’

‛ sos, emmanuel!  ’

‛ this may be my final hour. ’

‛ this may be the dying day. ’

‛ though they never taught me why in school, i think i’m learning how to pray. ’

‛ i think i’m learning how to pray. ’

‛ they are right outside the door. ’

‛ don’t know why they keep on stalling. ’

‛ i know you’ve heard this all before. ’

‛ i know you’ve heard this all before, but it’s the last time that i’m calling. ’

‛ but it’s the last time that i’m calling. ’

‛ sos, almighty! ’

‛ sos, oh yahwah! ’

‛ sos, oh mighty zeus! ’

‛ sos, oh allah! ’

‛ does anybody hear? ’

‛ does anybody hear? answer me now if you do. ’

‛ answer me now if you do. ’

‛ is anybody there? ’

‛ is anybody there? i need you. ’

‛ i need you. ’

‛ this may be the curtain call. ’

‛ does it matter anymore? ’

‛ i asked why. that’s why i say make a try. it’s only a play. ’

‛ that’s why i say make a try. ’

‛ it’s only a play. ’

LOVE HEALS.

‛ like a breath of midnight air. ’

‛ like a lighthouse, like a prayer. ’

‛ like a flicker and the flare the sky reveals. ’

‛ like a walk along the shore that you’ve walked a thousand times before. ’

‛ like the ocean roars, love heals. ’

‛ there are those who shield their heart. ’

‛ those who quit before they start. ’

‛ who’ve frozen up the part of them that feels. ’

‛ in the dark they’ve lost their sight, like a ship without a star in the night. ’

‛ but it’s alright. love heals. ’

‛ love heals when pain’s too much to bear. ’

‛ when you reach out your hand and only the wind is there. ’

‛ when life’s unfair, when things like us are not meant to be. love heals. ’

‛ when you feel so small like a grain of sand, like nothing at all. ’

‛ when you look out at the sea. that’s where love will be. ’

‛ that’s where love will be. ’

‛ that’s where you’ll find me. ’

‛ you’ll find me. ’

‛ so if you fear the storm ahead as you lie awake in bed. ’

‛ no one there to stroke your head and your mind reels. ’

‛ if your face is salty wet and you’re drowning in regret, just don’t forget. ’

‛ don’t forget. ’

‛ don’t forget love heals. ’

‛ love heals. ’

PIANO.

‛ when the world is a constant jumble and a wall or two decides to tumble. ’

‛ when i think i’m at the end of the line. ’

‛ when i think i’m at the end of the line, somehow i get to you in time. ’

‛ somehow i get to you in time. ’

‛ somehow i get through to you in time. ’

‛ oh piano, you saved my soul again. ’

‛ you saved my soul again. ’

‛ oh piano, you saved my soul, amen. ’

‛ you saved my soul, amen. ’

‛ i may not play like a concert man, but i got a song to sing. ’

‛ but i got a song to sing. ’

‛ i may not play like a concert man, but i got soul. ’

‛ but i got soul. ’

‛ piano, save my soul. ’

[imagitory]

D-Views: The Hunchback of Notre Dame

Bonjour, mes amies! Welcome, bienvenue, to another installment of D-Views, my written review series for films produced or inspired by the Walt Disney company! For more reviews for films like Enchanted, Star Wars Episode III, and Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, feel free to consult my “Disney reviews” tag, and please, if you enjoy this review or any of the others, please consider liking and reblogging! I look forward to writing more of these in the future for films like Wreck-It Ralph and Halloweentown, as well as Non-Disney films like Charlotte’s Web.

I recently put out a poll suggesting three Disney Renaissance films for possible review subjects, and although The Little Mermaid won that poll, this film ended up not far behind. (Thank you, @schifty-al and @mygeekcorner for your votes!) It’s one of my personal favorite Disney films of all time...The Hunchback of Notre Dame!

Victor Hugo’s classic novel Notre Dame du Paris, called The Hunchback of Notre Dame in English, seems like a very odd inspiration for a Disney animated family film, and that’s because...yeah, it is! When the Disney animators first brought Hunchback to the table, they were less inspired by the original Hugo novel glamorizing the architecture of Notre Dame cathedral, and more inspired by a graphic novel adaptation of the story, which was likewise much more influenced by the 1939 Hollywood film adaptation. Because of the historical context that 1939 adaptation was made in (premiering at Cannes during the rise of the Third Reich), themes of social justice were added to a story that originally was about how the “edifice” can outlast the flaws and sins of mankind. The “social justice” element is something that Hugo interestingly put more in his follow-up to Notre Dame du Paris, the epic brick book Les Miserables, but has since been similarly tied in the public consciousness to The Hunchback of Notre Dame, despite not existing in the original book.

The project was already an odd choice for Disney to take on thanks to the darkness of the book, but the political themes also were unique for a Disney picture as well. It clearly was a more “adult” endeavor, even though thanks to the success of previous projects like Aladdin and The Lion King, there were studio mandates demanding more comic relief, and even the marketing team was reluctant to advertise Hunchback as anything other than a family film. Rather than showing the artistry and darker scenes, the marketing almost entirely focused on the Feast of Fools and the gargoyles, highlighting the “Ugly Duckling” aspect added to the story and downplaying the more adult themes. In the end, it’s likely thanks to those poor marketing choices and the inconsistent tone of the picture that this movie failed to find its audience on first run. It only earned $21 million worldwide, compared to Pocahontas’s $29 million and The Little Mermaid’s $84 million, with mixed critical and audience reaction. Although it was nominated for an Academy Award for its music and won several others, it was noticeably less successful than other installments in the Disney Renaissance, and even now, Disney often doesn’t give Hunchback that much attention. Like Quasimodo, the film has been sort of locked up in its own tower...but now, today, I aim to bring The Hunchback of Notre Dame out of the shadows and give it the appreciation it deserves.

Our film begins in complete darkness, accompanied by resounding church bells and the amazing vocalizations of the English Opera Company, and from the very beginning, I’m just enveloped by the embrace of Alan Menken and Stephen Schwartz’s unbelievable score. Choral music in general has always been something special in my family. My mum and dad were in choirs a lot of their lives: they even first met when they joined the San Diego Master Chorale in the 80′s. Choral music remains one of my mother’s greatest loves and passions, and when I saw Hunchback, it made the choral music my parents loved so much, which focused around a faith I hadn’t been raised with and didn’t believe in, that bit more accessible to me as a child. Mum, who studied Latin in college, went on to teach me about all of the chants and phrases Menken and Schwartz added to each song so that I could more appropriately sing along. It remains one of those Disney soundtracks that cemented our close bond, and I’ll always treasure being able to see the La Jolla Playhouse production of The Hunchback of Notre Dame with my mum and getting to hear the amazing choir and instruments live.

The Bells of Notre Dame, as an opening number, cannot be matched in how it introduces us all to the story, characters, themes, and tone of the piece. In just a few minutes, the music and lyrics perfectly showcases our setting, the theme of what makes a man, the atmosphere of fear and injustice, our villain, and our hero. Menken and Schwartz previously worked together on Pocahontas, but Hunchback in my opinion easily outstrips their previous collaboration. The use of church bells of all sizes to convey the solemnity, mystery, and grandeur of the cathedral at the center of the proceedings, and the clever use of Latin phrases -- it’s just unbelievable! As one example, in the sequence where Frollo (a judge in this version, as opposed to the Archdeacon) chases Quasimodo’s mother up to the stairs of Notre Dame and she pounds on the door, crying for help, the choir sings “Quantus tremor est futurus quando Judex est venturus,” which means, “What trembling is to be when the Judge comes.” And sure enough, the line comes to a horrible, horrified halt when Judge Frollo snatches the woman’s child away and throws her to the ground.

After one of the most epic musical introductions in a Disney film, we meet our sweet, gentle hero, Quasimodo, voiced by Tom Hulce, who is just such a ray of sunshine. Although I loved hearing Michael Arden as Quasimodo on stage, Tom Hulce will always be my Quasimodo. When I was a teenager, I went through a horrible “hating the world” phase where I only ever saw pain and suffering and felt not only powerless to make anything better, but worthless as well. During that time, I turned my back on a lot of the things that had brought me joy, feeling almost unable to enjoy them anymore. One of the very few exceptions, however, was this movie and especially the character of Quasimodo. When I was at my darkest points, Quasimodo never failed to bring me some light, not because he was particularly funny, but because for all of the misery in his circumstances, he never faltered in being gentle, creative, and kind. Looking back on how I’d been, I wish I’d had just a shred of Quasimodo’s grace back then. I wish I hadn’t allowed myself to fall into despair and resentment. Since I can’t go back, however, I keep Quasimodo in my mind sometimes whenever I’m going through something difficult. He’s kind of become a guardian angel of sorts to me, reminding me that my life is a precious gift and I shouldn’t take anything for granted. And really, I couldn’t do that if not for Tom Hulce and Quasimodo’s supervising animator, James Baxter. I truly am grateful to both of them for giving me a character that even now can be a symbol of everything I wish I could be.

Unfortunately along with Quasimodo, we also meet the gargoyles, Hugo, Victor, and Laverne. As a kid, I actually liked the gargoyles all right, but as an adult...yeah, they really break the mood. Badly. The worst offender is easily Hugo, which is a shame because I like Jason Alexander as a performer, but he just goes way too over-the-top-obnoxious. It would admittedly not be as bad if it were clear that the gargoyles were all in Quasimodo’s head, but Djali sees Hugo come to life at one point and they later help Quasimodo fight off the guards. I greatly prefer the way the gargoyles are handled in the stage production, where all of the saintly statues have their own voices that nonetheless reflect what Quasimodo is thinking and when Quasimodo hits his lowest point before Esmeralda’s execution, he forcefully banishes them out of his head.

Even though the comic relief is handled poorly, I certainly cannot say the same for the villain. Judge Claude Frollo is easily one of the most evil villains in Disney history. Tony Jay’s vocal performance is just chillingly resonant, commanding your attention and making you subconsciously shrink in on yourself whenever he speaks. It makes for a despicable, cold, cruel man -- the antithesis of a father, the true embodiment of a monster. Frollo is often compared to Mother Gothel from Tangled in how they both lie to, control, and emotionally abuse their charges (Quasimodo and Rapunzel, respectively), but I personally find Frollo so much worse than Gothel, because he not only cuts Quasimodo off from everyone, but he indoctrinates a gentle, kind soul like Quasimodo in his racism and intolerance against those different from him -- including Quasimodo’s own people, the Romani. Mother Gothel hoards Rapunzel away like a dragon hoarding treasure -- Frollo treats Quasimodo like a burden, beating into him that no one else would want him and that Frollo was such a “good man” to take him in. It’s just vile.

And now we come to my single favorite Disney song of all time -- Quasimodo’s aria, Out There. From the time I was little, this song spoke to me like few others did. Growing up, I was an only child with a huge imagination surrounded almost entirely by adults and who had a lot of difficulty relating to kids my age. I often liked being on my own, but it didn’t change how I often felt different and detached from the people around me, and as I got older, that feeling only increased. I moved a lot in my childhood, making it difficult for me to plant roots, and I rarely followed trends or popular norms, so I constantly stayed in the fringes of the crowd, enviously looking on at those who could fit in more easily than I could. I always tried to hide my insecurities, but they were still there, and when those insecurities took hold, I would often imagine the world being a place where I could be myself, just like Quasi does. Quasimodo’s longing to be “part of them” and lamentation of people being “heedless of the gift it is to be them” has always resonated with me, and even though it’s hard for me to sing Out There without shifting octaves, my heart swells every time I hear it.

The Captain of the Guard, Phoebus, is easily the biggest liberty that Hunchback adaptations have made with the original novel. The book version of Phoebus was more like Gaston from Beauty and the Beast than how he’s portrayed here, but I frankly have no complaints. Kevin Kline is wonderfully dry and witty in the role -- he’s more than a match for Esmeralda, being brave, noble, and sarcastic with seemingly no prejudice for those different from him. And then yeah, as for Esmeralda herself...as Phoebus says later, “what a woman!” Esmeralda was one of my very favorite Disney heroines as a kid, and she still is. The character of Esmeralda is often rather saint-like in her incarnations, but here we see both the “angelic” and “demonic” sides of her -- she’s fiery, but kind; rebellious, yet noble; anti-authority, but patient; distrustful, yet loyal. In the musical adaptation, when Esmeralda is first revealed, we hear Frollo, Phoebus, and Quasimodo sing this about her --

Frollo: She dances like the Devil!

Phoebus: She dances like an angel --

Quasimodo: An angel!

Phoebus: -- but with such fire!

Frollo: Such fire!

All Three: Who is she?

This is Esmeralda’s characterization and her relationship to the three male main characters in a nutshell. Quasimodo only sees the best of Esmeralda; Frollo only sees the worst of her; and Phoebus sees her for everything she is...as a person. And this is why she ultimately chooses Phoebus, unlike in the book where she solely chooses Phoebus because of his looks.

When we reach the Palace of Justice, I’m reminded that I have yet to accent how absolutely stunning every single background is in this movie. Yes, the animation overall is wonderful, whether in the character animation or otherwise, but there are few Disney films that have more atmospheric and beautiful backgrounds than this. It serves to give the movie such a wonderful depth and makes the setting feel that much richer and deeper. Admittedly one weaker aspect of the animation is the now-slightly-outdated CG background characters. They were made by taking a handful of templates and then mixing up their clothes and colors, so as to multiply them ad infinitum and make the crowds of Paris look bigger and more colorful. Even with that, though, you do sort of have to look carefully at the background crowds to notice, as there are lots of hand-drawn characters sprinkled in in front of those CG models that help obscure their repetition and awkwardness. Those CG crowds also make the city of Paris look appropriately overcrowded and huge, so I’m glad that they used the technology even if it was still so in-progress at the time.

Even though Topsy Turvy starts off so fun and festive, however, it soon devolves into a terrible riot where Quasimodo is bound and tormented by the crowd. I admit, the transition is a little abrupt, but it still works for me, as people can be so easily swept away by mob mentality and those in power -- namely, Frollo’s guards -- sometimes flaunt their authority by putting down others. Fortunately Esmeralda is there to save Quasimodo and give Frollo a much-deserved verbal smackdown. The following scene, though, is another example of the mismatched tone, stretching out Esmeralda’s escape with a lot of comic “hijinks” that don’t really add anything to the film and kind of serve as a big time waster, especially after it abruptly cuts off and turns much more solemn and sad as Frollo silently confronts Quasimodo and Quasi returns to Notre Dame in shame.

Hunchback’s focus on religion is, in my opinion, one of the things that made producing an adaptation of Hugo’s novel such a bold decision. I’m not a religious person at all (Agnostic and proud), but it was still really meaningful to me to see both the good and bad associated with religion, represented by the Archdeacon and Frollo respectively. Frollo, along with Pharaoh Seti from The Prince of Egypt, taught me as a kid that evil is not always self-aware and, more importantly, how much more dangerous evil is when it garbs itself in godliness and righteousness. That’s a valuable lesson, regardless of your religious faith. God Help the Outcasts may invoke God’s name, but it could just as easily be a prayer to the world, or even just to you as an individual. The Christian faith preaches that we are made in God’s image...so when Esmeralda asks God to help her people, maybe she’s in truth asking you to try to be the loving God they need.

Something unique about Hunchback is the wonderful friendship that develops between Esmeralda and Quasimodo. From the time I was very little, I made friends with both boys and girls, so it was so wonderfully refreshing to see a story where a girl and a boy became such close friends and supported each other so much. Yes, admittedly, Quasimodo is romantically interested in Esmeralda, but when he sees how much she loves Phoebus, he both accepts their relationship and treasures Esmeralda’s friendship all the same. He doesn’t wallow in bitterness upon Esmeralda not choosing him; he loves her all the same as the first real friend he’s ever had. Esmeralda truly loves Quasimodo and treasures their friendship too -- her choosing Phoebus romantically is never framed as her teasing Quasimodo or leading him on; she simply loves Phoebus and Quasimodo in different ways. And that I find so unbelievably cool. I also like that in Esmeralda’s and Quasimodo’s conversation on the roof, there are some strains of the deleted song Someday in the instrumental accompanying the scene -- you can hear a R&B variation of Someday in the film’s credits, but originally it was meant to replace the more religious God Help the Outcasts, only for God Help the Outcasts to be chosen over it. I agree with the filmmakers’ decision, but I still like Someday too. Quasimodo’s helping Esmeralda and Djali escape Notre Dame by climbing down the towers also beautifully foreshadows Quasimodo’s dexterity in climbing down to save Esmeralda at the end of the film.

Quasimodo and Frollo are both enthralled with Esmeralda, but as mentioned previously, they each only see the angelic and demonic sides of her, which is best encapsulated by the dual numbers Heaven’s Light and Hellfire. Heaven’s Light is appropriately sweet and pure, but I can’t beat around the bush here: Hellfire steals the show, not just from Heaven’s Light but from all other villain songs in Disney history. The song starts with a choral chant praying for forgiveness, which then segways into Frollo’s demented, mad raving about his lust, fear, and hatred for Esmeralda. The words are almost terrifying in their level of conviction and paranoia, which then devolves into vindictive, destructive mania, framed by the mournful echoes for “mercy” from the choir.

Right after Hellfire, we get one of my favorite instrumentals on the soundtrack called Paris Burning. The choir’s bustling, dramatic cries trimmed by the tense strings and horns of the orchestra just evokes fear and horror as Frollo terrorizes Paris. Then Phoebus finally takes a stand, refusing to set fire to the miller’s house and then, after Frollo does it himself, leaping in to save the family from the flames. In the musical, this whole sequence is accompanied by the amazing musical number Esmeralda (which honestly, every fan of this movie should listen to, it’s really worth it), but the film handles it unbelievably well with only a short scene and an instrumental that sears the final “Kyrie Eleison” into the audience’s ears like a fire brand.

Sadly, after this amazing, epic sequence, we once again are subjected to tonal whiplash when we return to the bell tower and the gargoyles decide to sing Quasimodo a song to cheer him up. Although I maintain Hunchback has one of the best soundtracks ever recorded, what stops it from being flawless is this song. A Guy Like You is not an inherently bad song on its own, but when combined with the rest of the soundtrack, its melody, tone, and out-of-place pop cultural references are just ridiculously jarring. It’s like we’ve been transported into a completely different movie, one less inspired by a classic French novel and a critically acclaimed film about social justice and one more inspired by Disney hits of the day like Aladdin and later projects like Hercules. As sad as it is, it’s kind of a relief when it’s over and we’re brought back down to earth by Esmeralda carrying a close-to-death Phoebus into Quasimodo’s tower.

Frollo’s arrival after Quasimodo agrees to hide Phoebus is excellent in its suspense. We can sense Frollo’s suspicion, and all the while, we’re so worried for Phoebus hiding under the very table he and Quasimodo are sitting at. Then Frollo, who we’ve only ever seen as cold, conniving, and controlled, bursts into a rage the kind of which we’ve never seen before, and for a second, he’s a demon himself. After his rage is spent, he sets his cruelest, most terrible trap yet: using Quasimodo’s feelings for Esmeralda so that he can capture her and the rest of the Romani. And at first, Quasimodo almost doesn’t take the bait, thanks to a short-lived pang of self-pity. At first he’s bitter about his heart being broken and considers not helping Esmeralda, as there’d seemingly be no “reward” in him doing so...but the feeling is quelled in seconds by the memory of Esmeralda and how much her friendship means to him. Quasimodo’s selflessness and goodness wins out in its struggle with his more selfish instincts...and this, in the end, is what makes Quasimodo a hero in my eyes.

All right, I guess with our entrance into the Court of Miracles, I should address the elephant in the room. I’ve called Esmeralda’s people “the Romani” in this review, but throughout the entire film, the term is substituted for the admittedly-period-appropriate slur “Gypsy.” I knew nothing about the Romani culture when I first saw this film and I profess no intimate knowledge of it now, but even with that, I have to acknowledge that this movie doesn’t always showcase the Romani in the best light. Although Quasimodo’s parents, Esmeralda, and (to a degree) Clopin are given relative sympathy, the sequence in the Court of Miracles doesn’t do much to endear them to the audience. These victims of persecution are not really given the focus they deserve: we never learn much about their culture or about why they’re persecuted, and we don’t really get to see how they live their lives as ordinary people. To someone who doesn’t know anything about the Romani, I don’t think this film would be the best introduction to their culture and heritage.

Our climax is accompanied by the best instrumental track in the film, Sanctuary! Whenever I hear this piece, I have to stay completely silent, drinking in every single line and note, so as to properly absorb its brilliance. The track has accompanied a lot of my writing in the past: it’s always helped me when I was writing a powerful, emotional climax, whether through the emotion it wrought from me or just from wanting to write a new scene to the music. This entire sequence, from a musical, writing, animation, and character point of view, is I think what made Disney decide to make this film in the first place. The pacing -- the character animation of Quasimodo tearing down the pillars -- the drawn backgrounds of Notre Dame -- the camera whirling over the never-ending crowd’s heads and up onto the cathedral as Quasimodo hoists Esmeralda over his head -- this is the heart of why the movie was made and what the entire film was building up to. This resistance against injustice and the protection of our sacred, historical institutions from hatred and cruelty is what Hunchback is and should be all about. Occasionally this battle scene is inter-spliced with comic bits that once again aren’t really necessary and kind of stick out (Laverne’s Wizard of Oz reference and Hugo’s impression of a fighter plane in particular are out of place), but it doesn’t ruin anything for me. Fortunately as the climax grows darker with the arrival of Frollo and the transition from Sanctuary! into And He Shall Smite the Wicked, the gargoyles take a backseat, and we get focus where we should’ve always had it: on Quasimodo, Esmeralda, and Frollo. Thanks to his love for his friend Esmeralda and the realization of his own self-worth, Quasimodo finally stands up to Frollo and breaks free of his poisonous influence once and for all. This line of Quasi’s has always stuck with me --

“All my life you’ve taught me the world is a dark, cruel place...but now I see the only thing dark and cruel about it is people like you!”

Even now this line is just so powerful. There was a point where all I saw of the world was its cruelties and injustices...but like Quasimodo, I’ve come to see that those cruelties are not inherent to the world or even to mankind as a whole. Humans are capable of both great evil and great good, but as long as the evil people of the world are allowed to seize control and exert their toxic influence over everyone else, the world and mankind overall will never become better. Like Quasimodo, we must stand against those who’ve embraced cruelty and hatred over acceptance and love. We must protect the brighter parts of the world that evil so wishes to snuff out. It’s a moral I think has only become more relevant and important over time.

Unlike in the book and musical, Esmeralda survives, and as much as I’ve heard people try to argue Esmeralda living is not true to the spirit of the original novel, I think it really suits the story being told and really feels just for both characters. Quasimodo deserved happiness; Esmeralda deserved happiness; and most importantly, this all the more highlights how different Quasimodo is from Frollo. Frollo says to Esmeralda, “Choose me or the fire” -- basically, if he can’t have her, he doesn’t want anyone else to...but Quasimodo doesn’t think that way. He cherishes Esmeralda and her friendship without any caveats or conditions: therefore him losing Esmeralda, whether to Phoebus or to death, doesn’t prompt him to commit suicide like he did in the novel. It’s not only a more uplifting ending, but I think a lesson in the selflessness of love, even if it’s just platonic love. And because Esmeralda loves Quasimodo just as much as a friend, she leads him out into the sun, where he finds even more of the love he deserves from the city he wished so much to belong in. Quasimodo doesn’t get the girl, but that was never what he wanted in the first place: it was merely to be accepted as he was.

The Hunchback of Notre Dame was one of the most formative films of my childhood, right up there with Beauty and the Beast, The Prince of Egypt, and Anastasia, and it remains my second favorite Disney animated film of all time. With time, I’ve seen more and more of its flaws, but those flaws don’t ruin what in the end is one of the most daring, revolutionary projects Disney Animation has ever tackled. Its artistry, from the backgrounds to the character animation, is exceptional; all of its major human characters are multi-faceted, complex, and real; its themes are eternally relevant and powerful; and its score and nearly all of its songs are just through the stratosphere in their quality. Hunchback, along with Beauty and the Beast, made me fall in love with France from afar as a child, a love affair that has only become more and more intense through the years, and Quasimodo and Esmeralda even now are so close to my heart. I wish so much to be as kind and gentle as Quasimodo and as brave and noble as Esmeralda, and I can only hope that at some point, if I ever visit Disneyland Paris, I might finally meet them. The Hunchback of Notre Dame may not have gotten the appreciation it deserved when it first came to theaters, but I’ll always be happy to hear Disney fans remembering it as fondly as I do. Who knows? Maybe someday, the world will be wiser and will give this film its time in the sun at long last.

[secoyahmedicine]

Redwoods Poetry

I went to the Redwoods in Carbon Canyon Regional Park and was filled with rhymes.  The poems came, and I often didn’t even know where they were going until I’d written them all down.  Apologies for the lousy punctuation, I wrote it as I heard it, and haven’t edited it.

#1 Wind blows And throws Shadows From the trees Onto my knees Where before Only the core Of the trunk had I noticed. The branches play And the needles sway; I’m forced to smile At the shapes on the wood piles Beneath my feet That feel Mother’s heartbeat She inhales My exhales Drinking my poison I no longer feel frozen In fear of a past That no longer casts Such a large shadow on my life. The fire Is higher Within this planet I hadn’t Realized was so old. Perspective shifts I realize my gifts Aren’t for me alone So I go home To where the real me Sleeps. Wake up Good luck On a mission With permission To reveal Instead of conceal And fly Instead of hide Reach new heights Realizing my plights Were just branches On a tree That was me. A tree only dies There are no lies That’s why we can see All that they’ll be As they become What no one Else can decide Or inscribe, Totally free. Under attack There is no lack Of opposing forces Like horses Pulling away Where?  No one can say We don’t ask the right questions About our destination So we’ll never know Where we’ll go Until we get there It’s only fair. This wisdom comes at an age We can never gauge How long we’ll stay So we slay Al the demons we can With our bare hands We walk And we talk Because wind is not meant to stay In one place For too long. It’ll be gone For it would be wrong To tame a creature With such wild features Giving us all hope That even without soap We can wash All the ash From the fire As we tire From the fight We live As we give All that we have Making a salve To heal What we feel. Out of control In total Darkness with a light So bright At the end of a tunnel We squeeze through like a funnel Only to find A kind Of darkness That offers escape From the hate Of a world full of lessons Which lessens Our ignorance Of our insignificance And meaningfulness That transcends mindfulness Into a realm Where at the helm Is a being beyond comprehension That exists in a place of perpetual suspension Where it is only Black that fully Envelops and surrounds With deprivation of sounds You have found peace. For only when good and evil end Can we send What defends A way of life Full of strife To begin Again anew. In the beginning There is no finding For all is where You dare To display It cannot stray You know Where it goes Because you dreamed The light that gleams Where it is seen And who can enjoy Its coy And playful nature Which is greater Than anything you’ve known before. When the rules Aren’t cruel Because you designed And assigned Them that way We can say That life is a curve And justice has been served. The old creeps in So the new gives in To begin again What is familiar to us Until we trust We can do What we need to For us to survive And thrive Having brought Change that was bought With the blood, sweat, and tears Of our fears Of what we endured That couldn’t be cured Giving way to compassion That through our passion To love we finally find A sign That we have made A grave That we can be proud Of the crowd That celebrates our Every hour On the earth That gave birth To the final dream of our own truth That blew On a wind That was never Meant to be forever. The leaves blow The cold knows Where the heat greets We meet With causes unknown But at least we’ve grown To recognize How trees mesmerize Our eyes To the top of the tree Where I find simply, me.

#2 Unashamed And untamed I dream for Those who came before. My hair in a dance As I glance Toward the new wind Who is a friend To my skin. I let my hair grow Long again, because I know It will never become A weapon for someone To use against me In a tiny Box turned office. A little girl Unsure of the world Looking for answers From a man who instead is a cancer To her fine soul Her breath in a bowl Full of poison. She destroys Him at last from her mind Which ripples through the shrine That should have been her body. The crows Caw what they know In a language I learn So I can earn My place among the many faces Of my ancestors Who were resistors To the square Hole it is unfair To force our round Beings through without a sound Of complaint For the senseless hate We perceive for trying to liberate A society With no propriety For anything past the 5 Senses:  touch, taste, smell, hearing, and sight. Interpreted by a mind Given to use to form ego Wherever we go To experience the wonder As we plunder Through a world full Of beings who see our soul and say null And void. This world destroyed The unbridled Potential I idled Toward as a child. With such little value I place on people who see you Without knowing What you’re showing Is a pain beckoning Beyond reckoning. I know I am better off Away from people who scoff At someone whose art Is to see with the eyes of her heart. The wisdom we share Is for people who care Enough to perpetuate Instead of retaliate Against a path Where you may crash Into your own knowing Like a car when it’s snowing, Because you insisted And persisted To keep using, Sometimes abusing, The eyes That lie In your skull Where your skillful mind Has been designed To overlook What it took In without meaning to. It is between the lines Where we find The treasures Of forever.

[lickstynine]

Misadventures of Kit: Chapter Twenty-One

written with @ocsickficsideblog

~tw death mention~

At this point, Kit was convinced his biological clock was aware of his birthday. He always woke up feeling heavy as wet cement, with a strange hollowness in his chest. The only thing that got him out of bed was Alistair’s prodding, and it took a good bit of bickering to get breakfast into him. He’d actually been doing well with eating lately, and had gotten a good report when he last checked in with the doctor, but today every bite just tasted like sawdust. Alistair knew it was a tough day for him - pretty much the toughest in the year - and sat by him as he ate, cuddling up.

Kit leaned against his cousin, prodding his food with a fork as he searched for the will to take another bite. He went completely still for a moment, then asked, “When are we going?”

“Whenever you’re ready. Now, if you like.”

Kit hastily shook his head. “No, not yet. I need to get ready.”

“As in, get dressed, or like...mentally?”

“Both.” Kit sat back in his chair, pushing his glasses up to rub his hands over his face.

“Yeah,” Alistair sighed. “I get it.”

“What if I can’t do it?”

“Then that’s okay. We can try again soon.”

Kit sighed, shoving his chair back and standing up. “I want to do it. I just… I don’t know.”

“I know,” Alistair sighed. “Trying it seems a start.”

“I feel stupid for being so scared.” Kit said, staring shamefully at the floor.

“Why is that stupid? It’s fucking tough, Kit. You’re doing fine.”

“I feel stupid for waiting so long to see her. And for being scared when I know nothing there is going to hurt me. It's not like… not like Father has ever been bothered to visit her.” Kit shifted where he stood, anxiously twisting his ring.

Alistair drooped. “Poor Auntie… That’s partly why I hated the idea of going for so long. I didn’t want to think of her under a slab of stone. I liked to picture her as a free moving spirit. Watching over you.”

“It's hard, because I know she was too practical to believe in that, so I feel stupid considering it.”

“I don’t see why not. Besides, your mum liked it when we were fanciful. She always encouraged us to play.”

Kit looked up at Alistair, a flicker of hope in his eyes. “You think?”

“Definitely,” Alistair said. “That’s what she’d want to do. You were her baby…”

Kit nodded, though he had to clench his jaw to quiet a sob. He shuffled off to the bedroom to get dressed and cry in peace. Alistair had a quick weep with his head in the wardrobe too, though he felt a bit of an idiot when Isabelle caught him, looking for a belt to borrow.

Kit was still hiding in “his” room, having spaced out sitting on the edge of the bed. He'd stopped crying only because he ran out of tears, and was still making tiny sobbing noises. Alistair eventually went off and found him, once Isabelle told him Kit was crying and the house was full of crying boys and it was worse than an entire flat of PMS-ing girls.

“Kit…”

He startled at the sound of Alistair’s voice, looking properly fearful for a split second. As soon as his focus latched on his cousin’s face, Kit relaxed, hastily swiping at his eyes. “Sorry, I… I’m trying to get ready. Can’t find an outfit.”

Alistair just sat on the bed with him and wrapped his arms around the older boy. Kit slumped against Alistair’s chest, struck with a new wave of dry sobs. Alistair held him tight, stroking Kit’s hair. It was one of the few times he didn’t feel like he needed to fill the space with conversation. They understood the grief in silence.

When he finally settled a bit, Kit opened his mouth. He wanted to say something, talk about what had been weighing on his mind all morning, but he couldn’t bring himself to start. Eventually, he just sat up, sighing and reaching for the shirts he’d laid out: a delicate blue button-up, with a dark navy jumper over the top. The colour scheme was off from his usual, but Alistair recognized it at once.

“Like Alice..?”

“I have a white sweater somewhere in my bag. I couldn’t find it…” Kit didn’t mention that was what had started him crying.

“I don’t have anything white… You could borrow Isabelle’s. I could ask her?”

Kit nodded. “Please.”

“Isabelle!” Alistair called. “Can Kit wear your white sweater?”

Isabelle came to lounge in the doorway, in the process of dragging a brush through her thick hair. “Yeah, sure. Wear what you like, it’s left in there ‘cause I never use it.”

“Do you think it would fit?” Kit fussed.

“Probably. It used to be my sister’s… She was bigger than me.”

He sighed, but nodded gratefully. “Thank you.”

She rummaged in her wardrobe, taking out the sweater. She gave the soft wool a stroke, as if it was a pony, before handing it over. Kit forced a smile, but his eyes were still teary. He traded his blue sweater for the white one, settling instead to put navy slacks and a blazer over top.

Alistair’s eyes were wide. He nudged Kit when Isabelle left. “Kit! That was her sister’s!”

“Al!” Kit mimicked the same urgency. “You’ve never told me why that would matter!”

“She’s dead!” Alistair hissed. “Like, kind of recently too. Only just over two years.”

“Gee! I wonder why I didn’t know? Oh wait. It’s because you never tell people these things, like when you realized you’d never told Julie about my mum!” Though Kit’s voice was a hissy whisper, it wasn’t sharp. He was choking up, struggling to even try to sound harsh.

“Don’t, Kit!” Alistair looked upset. “I wasn’t trying to criticise you. I was just thinking she must like you to lend you her sister’s jumper.”

The older boy deflated at once, hanging his head. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s my fault. I’m such a bloody pain,” he sighed. He wrapped his arms around Kit. “I wish she was here too.”

Kit sniffled, pulling a handkerchief from his blazer. “Not your fault.” He mumbled.

“Do you still want to go?”

Kit nodded right away. “I do. I want to go.”

“Good. Me too,” Alistair said. He squeezed Kit gently. “I’m proud of you.”

“Don't get excited yet. I don't trust myself to not fuck this up.”

“I’ll still be proud of you then.”

Kit smiled weakly. “You’re too nice to me.”

“I’m not nice. Just honest.”

“Alright, we… we should go. Where did I leave my coat?” Kit asked.

“God knows, but I bet Jules put it on the stand.”

Kit nodded, going to check the stand, where his coats indeed were. He layered them both on over his blazer - it was only getting colder, and he could barely step outside without getting frostbite. Alistair supervised like Kit was his toddler, throwing him a pair of thick thermal gloves like you’d wear for an expedition in the arctic.

“I can’t read my book with these on.” Kit argued.

“You can take them off for that,” Alistair said, rolling his eyes.

“Fine.” Kit was gathering his Alice book, his journal, and his pen into a bag. Alistair grabbed his sketchbook and art pens, not letting Kit see what he’d drawn just yet. The older boy was slow on the stairs, partly because he’d get winded otherwise, and partly because he was still nervous. Alistair reached out and held his hand like they were both little kids again. Kit squeezed it tight, his shoulder nearly touching Alistair’s as they walked.

It was particularly cold that morning, with faint white glitter on everything - it had been frosty overnight, but not properly snowed. The clouds flew across the icy blue sky, carried by a powerful wind that made Kit shiver even through five layers. Alistair had given his own hat to Kit, and was stuck wearing Julius’s pink furry ear muffs, but at least they did their job. He led Kit across town to the graveyard.

As they drew close, the sun was swallowed in grey clouds, cold wind tickling the back of Kit’s neck. He stopped at the gates, rubbing his hands together nervously. Alistair took a deep breath, his nose red. “You still want to do it?”

Kit’s face was grey under the red of his chilled cheeks. He was still for a long moment, but he nodded. Alistair nodded, his hand resting on the stone wall by the entrance. It was clear it took a lot for him to start walking too. The wind shifted a bit, and Kit forced himself inside, the trees and the stones providing some shelter from the harsh weather. Fox had been buried (to her family’s dismay) with the collection of Raycrafts past, under stones so grand Kit could have spied them without his glasses. They passed Victor’s grave on the way to hers, and Kit paused.

“I haven’t thought about Grandfather in ages…”

“I still have that amber elephant he left me in his will somewhere,” Alistair mumbled.

“I'd forgotten about that.” Kit said. “He was actually rather nice, wasn't he?”

“Yeah. A bit posh and that. But he wasn’t cruel.”

Kit nodded. “He used to share his desserts with you…” His face suddenly lit up. “Do you remember the time he grounded our parents in the middle of a party?”

Alistair snorted hard. “Oh my Lord, yes. He sent them to bed and let me and you stay up.”

“I could hear Father stomping around like an angry child all night.” Kit grinned.

“And Mother ranting. They bickered all night,” Alistair laughed.

“And they both blamed each other for weeks.”

“Nothing new there.”

Kit sighed and shook his head, straightening up from where he’d bent to look at his grandfather’s grave. He looked around the towering tombstones. “How many of my middle names do you think are buried here?”

Alistair snorted, a hand over his mouth. “Don’t, I shouldn’t be giggling in a funeral. Why can’t I ever behave right? Remember Great-Aunt Sophia’s funeral when you were about six? I needed to pee all the way through and I couldn’t concentrate on anything else.”

“I try to forget that one.” Kit couldn’t help grinning a bit, his eyes flickering around the graves as they walked deeper.

“God, that was actually painful. Felt like the longest service of my life,” Alistair said. He was trying to sound lighthearted too, but he squeezed Kit’s hand tighter. Kit’s hand squeezed his through the glove. They turned a corner in the path, and suddenly the scene was so familiar, Kit’s chest tightened.

A knotted willow perched on the edge of a tiny pond, the bare, stringy branches dancing in the wind. Nestled next to the trunk was a delicately carved granite headstone, the flecks in the rock catching what little light crept through the clouds. The neat letters in the center of the stone were all too legible even from a distance: Sinéad Dáiríne Raycraft. Kit was overwhelmed with emotions, but a flicker of confusion briefly cut through his grief.

“Al… there are fresh flowers up there.”

Alistair frowned. “Maybe they have a card or something. We can see who left them.”

Kit nodded, but he hesitated as he walked forward, as if it might be a baited trap. The wind made him shiver again, and he paused, nerves getting the better of him. Alistair ventured closer instead, though he was tentative as well, squinting curiously at the flowers.

The bouquet was chiefly made of gladiolus blooms in an array of warm hues, soft pink statice and tufts of Queen Anne's lace surrounding them. Wrapped in a shawl of off-white paper, the flowers were held in place by a wide peach ribbon; tucked into the ribbon was a small card, with gold embossing on the thick white paper. Alistair plucked it out tentatively, peering at the swirly writing.

Happy Birthday was inscribed on the front, and everything inside was handwritten with a pen.

45, huh? You’re really getting along now. I’m sure you would still look better than I do. You always did. I’m doing well enough, I suppose. I visit all the time, I just don’t always leave notes. I don’t really know where you are, but I hope Mum is with you, too. You both deserved the best. I think about you every day, even if I don’t show up for a while. I hope you like the flowers.

Love you always, Máire

Alistair read through it in silence, his shoulders slumping with grief. An image of Máire swam into focus; she’d often come to care for him and Kit if Fox was sick. “They’re from Auntie’s sister, Kit.”

The older boy ran up to see at once, reaching out for the letter. Alistair handed it over, and Kit quickly scanned through the words. He tried to keep his voice steady when he spoke. “I… I haven’t heard from Aunt Máire in years…”

“I doubt the family were too friendly to her. We should message her.”

“How would we do that?” Kit asked.

“She’s probably on Facebook. Technology is really wasted on you, Kit. Didn’t you have any awkward teenage years in your bedroom with internet porn?”

“I… no. No, I didn’t. And don’t talk about that stuff in front of Mum!” Kit huffed.

Alistair blushed. “Sorry, Auntie. But I’m sure you’d laugh anyway.”

“I want to sit down, so I can write.” Kit said. He stepped carefully around the grave, sitting by an exposed side of the tree. Alistair sat beside him.

“Are you leaving a letter?”

“I think I will, yeah.” Kit nodded.

“I will too then. To go with my picture.”

“Do I get to see your drawing yet?” Kit asked.

“If you want.” Alistair flipped through his big fancy sketchbook, shyly flashing the page at Kit.

He must have worked on it all night; it was a portrait of Fox, the scene one from Alistair’s memory, though he’d used photographs to capture her features properly. The lines were soft and gentle, like caresses, and the picture had been ever so painstakingly coloured with paints, the watercolours making Fox appear young and rich and vibrant.

Kit looked stricken; he hadn’t seen a picture of his mother since the night he was flicking through photo albums - the night he put on the dress. Tears filled his eyes, but he smiled weakly, reaching a hand out gently for the sketchbook. “Can I hold it?”

“Yeah, of course,” Alistair said, handing it over.

Kit held the book as carefully as he could, swiping his tears away before they could drip on the paper. “It’s beautiful…”

“You think it’s okay? I didn’t have as much time as I wanted.”

“It’s lovely, Al. She would be honoured.” Kit said quietly.

Alistair bit his lip, closing his eyes. “I hope so.”

Kit handed the sketchbook back to his cousin, leaning on Alistair’s shoulder. “Stay close. It’s cold.” He begged, already shivering as he took off his gloves to write.

“We could sit inside the church to write?” Alistair suggested. “Though it’s always freezing too.”

“I… I don’t want to go in the church.” Kit mumbled.

“Okay,” Alistair said, remembering the funeral. “We’ll do it here.”

Kit nodded, trying to steady his pen as it touched the paper. He was still for a moment, but then started to write.

My Beloved Mother,

It’s our birthday already. It feels so long since I’ve seen you. Al made the most gorgeous painting of you, it was absolutely surreal to look at. Seeing your face only makes me miss you more, but I would rather miss you than forget. I wish I could hear your voice again.

Aunt Máire left you flowers. I haven’t seen her in ages. Al said we should try to find her on Facebook. Part of me wants to, but I’m nervous. I haven’t really amounted to much. I don’t want her to be disappointed. I don’t want to disappoint you, either, but I think it’s a bit late for that, sadly.

Kit paused his writing, sniffling and wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket. Alistair peered over and looked at his page. “She wouldn’t be disappointed, Kit.”

The older boy instinctively hid the page with his hand, staring sheepishly at the ground.

“Sorry. But she wouldn’t.”

“I know she would still be kind, but… I can’t help thinking she would’ve thought I could do better.” Kit sighed.

“Auntie would be content so long as you were happy. And it’s not as if you’re sixty, is it? There’s plenty of time to do stuff,” Alistair said.

Kit nodded, but he mostly just wanted to end the conversation. “Yeah, I guess.”

Alistair rolled his eyes, going back to his own letter. Kit stared at the page for a bit before going back to writing.

I wonder sometimes where you are, that is, if you are anywhere. It’s confusing, because I know you didn’t really believe in an afterlife, but I can’t help hoping you were wrong. I can’t stand the idea of you being completely gone. Maybe not in Heaven, per se, but some sort of spirit world where you can watch over us. Actually, I don’t know if you’d want to watch me right now. You’d probably just worry. Sorry. The more I write, the more I’m confusing myself. I’ll get back on topic.

I hope wherever you may be, you’re having a good birthday. I’m going to read Alice in a bit. You can join me, if you want. I’ll try to hold the book steady, but I’m shivering pretty badly out here. It’s freezing, literally. I can’t stand the weather this time of year. I’m glad I came to see you anyway, though.

I think I’ll come back when the weather is better. You’re in a lovely spot, you’ve got a pond and a willow tree. It’s on a slight hill, so you can see all around. Yes, I think I’ll definitely come back.

Have a splendid birthday.

Love, Kit

He set the pen down with a sigh. Alistair smiled at him, but his own eyes were full too as he wrote and scribbled little pictures. “I’ll show you mine if you show yours.”

Kit hesitated for a moment, but he eventually lifted his hand from the paper, handing it to Alistair. The younger boy gave Kit his own in return. Kit forced a smile, but he was shaking from more than just the cold as he took his cousin’s letter to read.

Dear Auntie,

Happy birthday, I guess. Seems a bit churlish to say that now, eh? Although maybe you have ghost parties somewhere. That’d be pretty cool. Anyway, it’s the first time I’ve had Kit over at my place for your birthdays. It’s hard to see him sad, of course, but I’m glad I can be with him. I get worried when he’s on his own. I bet there was a time when you did too, right?

He’d drawn a picture of himself panicking when Kit was just in the other room.

It’s a nice spot here. I bet there’s foxes at night. I’ve tried to come here twice before, but I was always alone and I couldn’t. I suppose I was scared about what I’d find. If you were hovering above, I bet you shook your head and gave me that fond, exasperated smile. Like you used to.

He’d scribbled himself and Kit as kids here, Kit very neat and placid, Alistair roly-poly and dirty, his hair tousled.

I don’t have any blooming money for anything, so I had to draw you a picture for your birthday. It was kind of short notice, but I hope you like it anyway. I miss you. It’s a bit too real, seeing that headstone, the turf. Maybe up until now I could just about kid myself you were on a very long exotic holiday or something. Or went to live up north somewhere, maybe back home in Ireland.

The handwriting grew even worse in the last paragraph.

I’m making myself cry and I don’t want to cry, not when poor Kit is holding it together. I know I’m supposed to be celebrating your life and everything that people say, but it’s not fair. You deserved more life.

Alright, I’d better shut up now - Kit says I babble. But I’ll come back, with Kit too if he wants, and I’ll leave more letters. I won’t leave you lying alone with all these stuffy assholes anymore. I love you.

All my love, Alistair x

Kit sat quietly for a while after he finished. He felt stupid sobbing now that Alistair had said he was staying calm, but the swelling grief in his chest made him want to wail. Eventually he swallowed down the scream building in his throat. “What… what does the X at the end mean?”

“It’s a kiss. You put them on the end of messages,” Alistair said quietly.

“Oh… that makes sense.” Kit actually smiled a little, but his lower lip was wobbling. “Do… do you want to give her our letters now, or… or when we leave?”

“We may as well give them now. I brought those plastic sleeve thingies that go in binders, so they won’t get wet if it rains.”

Kit smiled properly at that. “Really? I would never have thought of that…”

“Leave it to the artist,” Alistair joked, grinning. He handed Kit a plastic sleeve, and slipped his picture and his letter into two separate ones. Kit fumbled for a minute, his fingers half numb from the cold. Eventually, though, he slipped the paper into his own sleeve, setting it carefully by the headstone. Alistair put his beside Kit’s, weighing them down with a few rocks from the footpath.

Kit walked back to sit by the tree, reaching into his bag for his book. He was shivering pretty badly by now, but had no intention of leaving yet. Alistair was looking worried. He took his coat off and wrapped it around Kit. The older boy frowned.

“Al, don’t. You still need that.”

“It’s alright, I’ve got my jumper on,” Alistair said. He was cold, but he’d rather Kit be warm.

Kit sighed. “But… we still… I…” He gave up, unable to argue when he was so cold and miserable. “Stay close to me.”

Alistair cuddled up against Kit, positioning himself like he once had when Kit read to him as a kid. Kit held the book where his cousin could read, but he couldn’t bring himself to read aloud. His hands were shaking as he flipped to the first page, and he had to grip the book firmly to keep from dropping it. As he continued to read, he slumped down the tree, sniffling and fumbling through the pages. It took all of his self-control to keep reading, and at this point he was really just skimming. Tears flooded his cheeks and he didn’t bother to wipe them away, letting the bitter drops collect on his scarf.

Kit was in too much of a mournful stupor to notice, but Alistair had seen the light gradually fading, and he frowned when a white fleck landed on his cheek. Snowflakes drifted gently between the bare branches of the willow, landing in Kit’s hair and lashes. He had stopped turning the pages of his book, just staring blankly at an inky illustration as a delicate layer of frost accumulated on the page.

“We should go, Kit,” Alistair said quietly. “You’re starting to look like the Little Match Girl.”

“I don’t want to leave.” Kit mumbled. He’d drifted off into thought a while back, and now he dared to voice it. “What if she is watching, but she’s tethered here? What if she thinks I haven’t been bothered to visit till now?”

“She’ll understand,” Alistair said. “She’s seen you here now.”

“But I waited so long. What if she waited for ages and stopped watching?” Kit’s voice was wobbling as he tried not to wail.

Alistair put an arm around Kit. He couldn’t feel his own fingers and toes. “She wouldn’t ever give up on you.”

Kit leaned into Alistair, suddenly letting out a proper sob. “Why would she keep caring when even I don’t?”

“You do,” Alistair said, his voice wobbling too. “That’s why you’re here right now.” He hugged Kit tight, looking up through the flurries of snow in a sudden mad hope that his aunt might manifest herself. Kit let his book fall to his lap, clinging to Alistair as he continued to cry. He was shivering again, even with his cousin’s jacket over all of his, and his nose and cheeks were as red as his hair.

“We should go, Kit. You’re going to freeze. We can come back as often as you want.”

Kit didn’t argue, despite how much he didn’t want to leave. He allowed Alistair to pack up his book and writing things and pull him to his feet. For the first few paces, he walked obediently, but he paused in front of Fox’s grave when a fresh wave of guilt hit him.

“I’m sorry…” Kit mumbled, kneeling down in the frosted grass. “I’m sorry I didn’t come more often. I’m sorry I let you go so soon. I’m sorry I’m not the son you wanted…” That seemed like the crux of his rambling, and Alistair was ready to drag Kit on out of the graveyard when the silence was broken by a wretched sob.

“I’m sorry I kept you trapped with him!”

“It wasn’t your fault, Kit,” Alistair said, weeping too. “She loved you.””

“She didn’t deserve it. I wasn’t worth it. She could’ve had a life without me, Al…” Kit was hunched over, practically hugging the tombstone as snow gathered on his shaking shoulders.

“You were her life. She was stuck with him when she married him, you weren’t to blame, Kit,” Alistair said, going to put a hand on Kit’s back. “You were a kid.”

Kit shook his head, shriveling under his cousin’s touch. “But she could’ve left if she didn’t have me. She should’ve just left me with him, like… like I deserved.”

“She’d never do that. You’re worth better than that, Kit! If she was alive, she’d be telling you this too.”

“It’s my fault she’s not alive!” Kit sobbed. “She wasted all of her energy caring for me instead of taking care of herself.”

“Oh come on, you were never any trouble! If we’re going by that logic, I probably killed her more than you,” Alistair said.

Kit might’ve laughed on a better day, but he just sobbed harder. “Don’t say that!”

“Neither of us killed her, Kit! She died, and it’s really fucking horrible and bloody unfair, but it’s not your fault,” Alistair said, holding Kit’s shoulders. The older boy clung to the tombstone, sniffling quietly. It took a long time for him to settle enough to speak again.

“I… I don’t want to leave… to leave her again…” Kit mumbled.

“We can't stay here, Kit. Not tonight. It’s freezing.”

“You can go, then. I can’t.” Kit shook his head.

“I’m not leaving you here to freeze to death. Kit, please, you’re shaking already,” Alistair begged. “You can’t really stay with Auntie. She’s not here, Kit. That’s just her headstone…” He was sobbing too, the tears freezing on his face.

“That’s all I have!” Kit wailed, but his grip on the granite loosened in defeat. Alistair fell to his knees beside Kit in the settling snow, wrapping his cousin in his arms.

“Don’t you have pictures?”

“I… I did. At home. I don’t… I haven’t looked at them… in… in a while.” Kit realized that sounded stupid without context, but he didn’t have the energy, physical or emotional, to elaborate.

“You can hold onto those, can’t you?”

“I suppose, yeah… But they’re… they’re not at your house. They’re at Father’s.” Kit sighed, letting go of the tombstone to cling to Alistair instead. He was barely even shivering anymore, but he was freezing to the touch.

“Fuck, we need to get you inside… Where’s your phone, let me call Taddy…” Alistair sent him a text, his frozen fingers moving laboriously. “And I have a little handful of photos. Only about four or five. Will that do?”

Kit nodded meekly. “You.. you never told me you had pictures.”

“I thought you might be mad. I pinched them out the photo albums when I was little.”

Kit sniffled, actually managing a laugh at that. “I wouldn’t be mad…”

“You can have them if you like. If you don’t want to go back to your father’s place,” Alistair offered.

“No, they… they’re yours.” Kit argued. “I just want to see them.” There was less conviction in his voice now; he didn’t sound desperate, just sad and tired.

Alistair nodded, picking Kit up when he spotted Taddy’s car. “Come on, you’re frozen.”

“You’re warm.” Kit nodded, leaning on his cousin. Alistair was still warmer than him, despite having four less layers on. Taddy waved in greeting as the boys approached, getting out to open the door for them.

“Afternoon, sirs. It’s a bit cold to be out, but I do have the heater on.”

“Thank Christ,” Alistair mumbled, pulling Kit inside and slamming the door. He quickly pulled Kit’s gloves off, rubbing his pale hands between his own. “I can’t feel my fingers and toes…”

“Sorry…” Kit sighed, sinking back in the heated leather seat. He was vaguely aware of the melting snowflakes dampening his hair, but didn’t have the energy to complain.

“Back to your place, then?” Taddy asked Alistair.

“Yes please. I’ll toss you in the bath, Kit,” Alistair said. “Heating the water up slowly. I know what to do, we were taught that in first aid.”

Taddy nodded and drove off down the slick grey road, but Kit whined at his cousin. “I don’t want a bath. I want to sleep.”

“You’re cold! Look, you can doze in the bath while it’s happening. I used to do that when I got a bath before school. Almost bloody overslept all the time.”

“Blankets are warm. I want to go to bed.” Kit pouted.

“You will. Eventually. Look, you might need those fingers and toes some day,” Alistair said.

“Don’t want them. Want to nap.” Kit said, drooping sideways across Alistair’s lap. Taddy snorted from the front seat.

Alistair rolled his eyes, but he was grinning too. He stroked Kit’s damp hair. “We’re soaked…”

“How long were you two outside?” Taddy asked.

“A few hours…”

Taddy looked horrified. “What on earth for?”

“It’s our birthday…” Kit mumbled into Alistair’s legs.

“He wanted to stay,” Alistair said quietly.

“I see.” Taddy shook his head quietly. While he understood the boys’ logic to an extent, he still didn’t think anyone should be sitting out in the snow longer than necessary. He didn’t lecture them, though; he knew it was a rough day. When they reached the block of flats, Taddy pulled up as close to the door as he could. “You two go inside and get properly warm.”

“Thanks, Taddy,” Alistair said, picking Kit up again.

“Of course. Have a good night, sirs.”

[yuletide-fehstivities]

@tomestobetold (Maggie) wrote a drabble for @solitaryblade (Sayl)!

Happy Yuletide and a Merry New Year!

The Future is Bright…

The wind was chilly this time of year, and Ferox was covered in snow. Lon’qu could see his breath in the evening air, wafting up in a small puff with a single exhale. He liked the way the air felt still here. 

Ferox was a huge country, but it was not crowded. The cities were modest, the people spread out. A country of provinces, territories, and plains. No one liked to gather too close together all at once. It was unlike Ylisse in that way. Ylisse had its capital city, where there were so many people, Lon’qu could barely think. Too much noise.

Here, it was quiet. With some small trees on the hills, the faint glow of candlelight from the neighboring houses. Lon’qu’s own abode was at his back. He stood beneath a small porch awning that was covered in a layer of new winter snow.

The front door opened and a shuffling of feet and furs drifted towards him. Soon, a second puff of breath joined his in the night air, and without having to look, he held up his arm, inviting Lissa to come settle beneath it.

“Cold,” she mentioned quietly, her eyes drifting up to his face. They had just gotten home a few days ago, after spending a warm and inviting Yule with her family in Ylisse. The new year approached quickly though, and despite the threat of a Feroxi blizzard, Lon’qu was glad to be back. “What’re you up to out here?”

“…Just thinking,” he mentioned with a thoughtful shrug.

The winter in Ylisse was a lot colder than usual. It was common for it to snow a bit around Yuletime, but it had never been this frigid before. It made for a cruel kind of nostalgia. Lon’qu wished they were in Ferox–

But. Then again. Nothing was as it used to be anymore. Ferox… was likely in ruin.

He huffed out a breath through his nostrils, with the air creating a stream that made him look the picture of a coiled dragon on the castle’s marble balcony. Despite Ylisstol castle still functioning with a modest staff of servants and guardsmen, it felt empty. Hollow. Far too quiet.

His ears pricked at the sound of Lissa’s firm footsteps. She carried herself much sterner now. A front of confidence even though she lacked it.

“…Do you see anything?” Lissa asked as she joined him on the balcony.

Lon’qu glanced to her and felt his heart drop. She was frowning. He hated seeing her frown.

“No. Don’t worry. I just needed air,” he told her.

Lissa took a breath and exhaled another puff of warm air.

“Did Lucina fall asleep?” he asked.

“…Yes. Owain’s down too. For now, at least,” Lissa’s voice hushed then. Her hard edges ebbing away quickly in his company. “But Luci will be up again soon… She has nightmares.”

Lon’qu sighed and nodded, reaching out a hand to find hers in the night. “I know… I know.”

Lissa’s voice cracked. “She’s just a kid, Lon’qu… She’s only ten, and Owain’s only eight, and they have nightmares! They shouldn’t be going through this–”

His hand squeezed hers tighter as her eyes began to prickle with tears.

“I know.”

Lissa nestled her head against his shoulder. Her hair was braided into an orderly bun on her head. Unruly waves stuck out in little tufts, though, and brushed against his jaw. It brought a small smile to his lips as he hugged his arm closer around her, bundling them both in his cloak.

“What’re you thinking about?” Lissa asked in a sing-song voice, placing one hand against his chest. Right over his heart. 

“Not much,” Lon’qu answered, leaning his cheek against her head. It was a small, subtle movement, but one that he had taken up since their marriage after the Valmese war. “The future, I suppose.”

At that, Lissa smiled too. “Eye always forward, huh? Isn’t that one of Basilio’s mottos?”

That earned a chuckle. “Yeah, it is.”

“Has he demanded that you celebrate the new year with him in the Khan’s Hall yet?” Lissa asked. It was a tradition in Ferox, to skip Yule and celebrate elaborate, bombastic new years. Raise the spirits, they said, and begin the new calendar with rowdy noise and exploits. 

Basilio, of course, was known for throwing particularly spectacular feasts, and as the Khan’s right hand, Lon’qu was compelled, every year, to attend. Lissa had grown quite fond of them since she’d come to Ferox. It wasn’t much like Ylissean celebrations, but it was exactly the kind of excitement she enjoyed. 

“Yeah,” Lon’qu sighed. “He’s already planning our seats at the head of the grand hall. He calls us his two most honored guests.”

Lissa smirked at that and tucked herself a bit closer in against Lon’qu.

“Two? I think the Khan’s counting wrong.”

Lon’qu’s arms wrapped around her in a tight hug. Lissa’s shoulders shook and she kept her head bowed against his shoulder. He hated it when she cried. He hated being unable to do anything for her.

“I d… I don’t know what to do,” she admitted between whimpering tears. The weight of the world was on her shoulders these days. Chrom had gone to fight off the Grimleal, but no one knew if he was still alive. He probably wasn’t. It made Lissa the new Exalt, until Lucina was of-age to lead.

Lon’qu wrapped her in his coat, because Lissa might be a queen and a mother now, but she was still so small. His beautiful little wife, who needed to be protected.

“I wish Emm were here,” Lissa sobbed as Lon’qu rubbed circles against her back. “She always knew what to do…”

“I know…” Lon’qu murmured. “It’s ok. Just… think about the future. Always keep your eye pointed forward…” Lon’qu winced just thinking that old phrase. The man who had declared it was long gone. 

“…Is there a future?” she whispered.

“There’s always a future,” Lon’qu told her. Even if he couldn’t believe it himself, he had to make sure she did. Because Lissa’s light should never go out. “Just think about what you want in it… Tell me what you want and… I’ll make it happen.”

His eyebrows pursed together. “Huh?”

She smiled up at him, looking a touch nervous. “I count for two now…”

The quiet, peaceful air around them went very still. An icy breeze rustled the thin tree outside their house, and Lon’qu looked at her. The fire inside cast a dim light to them, and it was just enough for him to see the green-blue of her eyes, looking hopeful and scared and a bit excited. 

He breathed out, another puff in the air, and smiled hesitantly. “…Do you think?”

She nodded. “Maribelle looked me over last week. I know I should have told you right away, I was just… I was nervous.”

Since the Valmese War had ended three years ago, they had not seen the young man who called himself their son. No one was sure what had become of him, but they knew that someday, they’d have a baby of their own.

Maybe it would be a boy.

Lon’qu took a breath, but found himself smiling. He was terrified of fatherhood. Terrified of doing something wrong. Of Lissa being hurt during labor. But there was a light of happiness too.

“You told your sister first, didn’t you?” he asked. There was a certain kind of smile in Emmeryn’s eyes when she’d said goodbye to them after the Yule party. 

“Guilty,” Lissa admitted. “I should I have told you, but…”

“It’s fine,” Lon’qu chuckled. He understood. Emmeryn wasn’t just Lissa’s sister. She was her mother too. There were certain things that felt right for them to share. “I’m just… wow.”

Lissa smiled up at him, wrapping her arms around his middle. “Yeah. Wow.”

“I want it to be just us… Us… and the kids… A fireplace and a house. N… Not the castle. It’s too big,” she muttered, sniffling as she told him the things she hoped for. “Chrom would come home and… everything would just be calm again.”

Lon’qu kissed the top of her head and nodded. “That sounds nice. I like that future.”

The air was quiet around them, and then Lon’qu blinked. something floated down from the sky. A light flurry of–

He tensed and held her tighter. “Let’s go inside,” he offered. “It’s getting cold out here.” And without letting her go, Lon’qu pulled them both in from the balcony, closing the door behind them. He didn’t want her to see.

This time of year, it should have been snow falling. But they weren’t flakes of ice in the air, it was the dust of grey ash. Somewhere else in the kingdom, not too far away, a village was burning. Its remains were carried on the winter wind to Ylisstol… to mock what remained of Naga’s chosen family and falling like snow from the sky.

Lon’qu wouldn’t let her see it. Instead, he kept her tight in his arms and brought her upstairs. He tucked her in bed and held onto her tight and murmured visions of a future where the sun would shine again until she fell into a thin, fragile sleep. 

Then he made his way downstairs to find Frederick and come up with a plan to defend the city. He could find his own rest later.

Lon’qu wrapped his arms around her, smiling against the soft braid of her bun and swaying ever so slightly from side to side. Lissa held onto him too, and her shoulders relaxed completely as they held onto each other.

“You know if we don’t tell Bailio at the feast he’ll be insulted,” Lon’qu mentioned, halfway exasperated and halfway joking. The Khan was nothing if not enthusiastic in his friendship. 

“He’ll figure it out when I refuse to drink the ale.”

“Gods, you’re right, I hadn’t thought of that.”

Lissa laughed, looking up at Lon’qu and standing on her toes to kiss his chin– it was about all she could reach on her own. “It won’t be that bad.”

“You underestimate him,” Lon’qu snorted.

“Ok, so it will be just as bad as you think, and he’ll make everyone toast to our unborn baby and the whole room will look at us and make jokes and wink at you,” Lissa declared with a slightly huffy tone and a smirk. “But.”

“But what?”

“But then its over,” she reminded him. “And its just us again. No one else to draw attention. Just you and me. Like this.”

That, he liked. Him and her, in the calm quiet of their little house. Planning for a new future filled with hope and a baby that they’d made together.

“…That, I like.”

[pokeasleepingsmaug]

Endure

A mother/son piece that begins the day Sihtric’s mother is captured, and ends the day Sihtric swears his oath to Uhtred. Follows the book’s timeline, where Sihtric is about fourteen when he swears to Uhtred, and where he wasn’t born in Dunholm because Kjartan had only held it for a few years at that point. Her name, the manner of her death and the reason for it, and the place where she grew up are all from the books. Everything else about her, I created. She grabbed hold of me and just wouldn’t let go.

TW: slavery, rape, kidnapping, abuse, major character death. This is not a happy story.

AO3 here

Elflaed is fourteen years old and ripe for marriage when the Danes come and pluck her instead, throwing her—soot-stained and screaming—belly down across the back of a horse. A dirty rag in her mouth muffles her cries, and the horse’s withers against her belly with every jolting step is a constant, bruising ache. She does not know if her parents survived the slaughter and she cries enough silent tears that she thinks she will not piss for days.

They take her to a stronghold in the wild wooded hills, and although she’s never seen a Danish hall she knows what horrors await her there. She’s presented to a man with long fair hair and a tangle of bushy blond beard. He speaks, and his language is close enough to hers that she understands most of it. Kjartan has done well and she is to be his reward. The fair-haired man shoves her toward a man with long dark hair and a cruel, leering mouth. His fingers are bands of iron around her thin, bound wrists, and he drags her toward a waiting horse. He hoists her onto the broad back and climbs up behind her.

His house in the nexdt valley, smaller than the hall but larger than her father’s house. A blond boy with a broad, flat face like a toad greets the man. He possesses the same twist of cruelty to his thin lips. The man pushes her toward a skinny back at the hearth, stooped, turning bannocks so the edges don’t blacken. The familiar smell makes Elflaed’s mouth water around her gag. The woman turns a deeply-lined face to her, clucking in sympathy, and cuts the cords digging into her wrists with a small knife from her belt. Elflaed cries when she pulls the filthy cloth from her mouth, but even the steaming bannock and fresh ale can’t chase the sourness from her mouth.

That night is the first that hard hands tangle in her hair and drag her, cringing, to a bed covered in musty, stinking furs. She doesn’t know how to quiet her squeals until a fist like a stone fills her mouth with blood, and he only laughs when she spits out two teeth. She’s finally quiet as he grunts atop her like a fat, rutting boar. She rubs her face into the furs before he can notice the tears glistening like silver on her cheeks. He shoves her from the bed and his seed leaves slug-trails on her blood-smeared thighs as she stumbles to a ragged blanket in the corner. She lies down near the other woman, whose name is Rhona, and this is the first time she dreams of Kjartan’s death.

Elflaed vomits when she realizes Kjartan’s seed has taken root in her. She stumbles to the shadows of the trees and vomits again, finds the bitter black berries that can end this all, and tucks them into the kerchief that covers her dark hair. When Rhona and Sven are sleeping and Kjartan has chased her from the stifling furs, she rolls the berries around her palm before popping them into her mouth. A quiet voice cries out in her bones, echoing within her like the creaking of old joints: endure. She spits the berries into the embers of the banked fire and watches them sizzle as their firm skins burst. They spill their poison harmlessly into the ash, and Elflaed sleeps.

The mercy of her growing belly is that Kjartan stops forcing her to his bed, but his son stares at her with open hostility in his wide-set eyes and she knows he’s thinking of beating her until the child leaves her body in a spill of blood. His name is Sven and she shies from his malevolent gaze, and this pleases him enough that he does not trouble her.

Elflaed cries the first time the child moves in her because he is as familiar as her own self and in that kick she hears the voice that ordered her to endure. The child kicks again like the hand of God in her, and for the first time since the Danes took her, she prays. She carries the child like a plea and a promise both: endure. And somehow, for him, she does.

Kjartan’s snarling face is inches from hers and his spittle splatters against her skin as he growls at her to shut her useless mouth. Elflaed bites back another scream as Rhona half-carries, half-drags her to the shed behind the house where the ewes birth their lambs in early spring. It is midwinter and the shed is freezing but Rhona steals a few small logs from the woodpile and makes a fire on the dirt floor. Elflaed crouches in the straw and listens to the pattering of her blood, smells the iron tang of it, and tries only to endure the rhythmic tightening of her belly and back. Rhona leaves, only to return a few minutes later with a large kettle full of sloshing water, a bundle of clean rags, and a few thick blankets. It is hours later, hours of crouching in the straw smelling her own blood, hours of Rhona’s prayers and hours of enduring before she pushes the child from her body.

There is no malice in his mouth as he suckles her, only a sweet hungering for life. His eyes are bleary and tired as he squints up at her, and her own laugh surprises her. He does not cry, only burrows against her skin beneath the thick blankets Rhona has bundled them in, and drops off to sleep on her chest. Elflaed explores his damp dark hair and small, pale limbs. She marvels at the sweetness of his cry when he awakes. Elflaed is fifteen years old and yet feels as though this is the first moment she’s come alive.

She calls him Sihtric.

When Elflaed enters the house the next morning, Kjartan only holds out his cup for her to fill. Her hands are shaking and some of the ale sloshes onto his sleeve. His hand is flying and she curls around the baby huddled on her chest. Kjartan’s palm strikes her forehead hard enough to send her reeling. Sihtric cries and Kjartan towers over her, dark eyes narrow and unreadable as they scour the boy’s red face and wailing mouth. He grunts in some vague approval or at least acceptance before muttering at her to shut the boy up. She sighs in relief, still shaking, and offers her son the breast. He quiets. By afternoon the shaking has worsened, her teeth chattering even as Rhona drapes another quilt about her bony shoulders. She brings Elflaed tea sweet with honey and broth thick with floating herbs but still she shakes. Although Sihtric cries, Rhona won’t let her hold him. She gives him a cloth soaked in milk and water to quiet him. Elflaed shakes and Sihtric cries and Rhona prays and finally Kjartan looks over to their corner. “Tomorrow morning we throw her to the beasts. Keep the fever from spreading.” He glances toward the door as if he’s considering doing it now, but he fears the creatures that walk the night.

Rhona washes her with hot water, then waits for it to cool and washes her again. She traces a cross on Elflaed’s burning forehead, then the hammer of Thor on the loose skin of her belly, and she prays to any god who will listen. The shaking has stilled by sunrise, and by midmorning Kjartan sends her to gather firewood in the swirling snow. He makes her take Sihtric, and she sees the savage triumph in Sven’s eyes. But Elflaed’s son does not sicken. He endures, like his mother, and he grows.

They are in the woods one fall day, Elflaed gathering acorns and chestnuts to dry for winter and Sihtric swinging a stick like it’s a sword. Elflaed knows he’s a slave and he’ll never wield one but she cannot tell him that, cannot extinguish the light in his clear eyes because he’s a good boy. Elflaed is nineteen now and her son is only four but he’s kind and has a smile that warms her like the sun on her face.

Elflaed pulls Sihtric against her chest and melts into the shadows when the horsemen thunder up to the house. The leader’s long fair hair streams behind him and he’s bellowing like a bull for Kjartan. There’s a tall fair-haired boy on the horse before him and she thinks he must be the man’s son, and she strokes Sihtric’s fine black hair and doesn’t allow him to watch as Kjartan appears. They’re too far away to hear but even from their hiding spot Elflaed knows the horseman is furious. Kjartan turns and opens the door and Sven emerges from the gloom. She doesn’t flinch when the huge swordsman slams the hilt of his sword into Sven’s face. She only remembers the horrible weight of his mean eyes on Sihtric, the way her son never wavers beneath Sven’s harsh slaps, and she smiles as he falls to the grass. She waits until the horsemen leave and Kjartan retreats into the house, carrying Sven like he’s a child smaller than Sihtric. She kisses her son’s temple, sets him on his feet, and follows as he scampers toward the house.

Sven is moaning and Kjartan is cursing at his side. Rhona hurries to Elflaed and whispers that they must pack quickly; Jarl Ragnar has dismissed Kjartan from his service and they’re to be gone by nightfall. Sihtric ties his clothes into a bundle, shoves his sword-that’s-really-a-stick into his belt, and scrambles to help his mother and Rhona pack as much as they can carry.

They leave as the sun sets, Kjartan and Sven on horseback, Elflaed, Shitric, and Rhona trailing behind, burdened like mules. Sihtric stumbles under his load and Elflaed adds it to her own. He protests but she never returns it to him, even when she feels her back must break beneath it. Sven is ever whimpering on his horse’s back but Sihtric does not cry even when his bare feet blister and blood marks his small footsteps along the dusty track. Elflaed washes his feet every night. He tries not to wince.

Elflaed could almost cry from relief when Eoferwic looms into view, a dark, low smudge against the horizon. Sihtric is thin and pale and his once-tender feet still weep blood as they finally enter the city’s walls. By morning he’s vomiting. Elflaed doesn’t want to leave him but Kjartan has sold her to another Dane for the night. His grip is like iron as he drags her, but he doesn’t dare hit her. “Men might pay less for a bruised whore,” he sneers.

The man grunts and snorts atop her that night, bad as Kjartan, but he presses some silver into her palm as she leaves and tells her it’s for her master. Elflaed ducks into an apothecary on the way to the small house Kjartan purchased with the last of his silver. A half-piece of the money she earned buys a sachet of powdered herbs that she dissolves in water and helps her son drink. When Kjartan counts the silver she gives him, he flies from the house in a rage. He beats her brutally when he returns because he’s discovered her theft. He’s all growling mouth full of yellowed teeth and a flurry of fists, and although she bears the bruises for weeks she doesn’t feel the sting of them when Sihtric smiles at her. He’s thin and pale but his feet don’t bleed and the vomiting passes. He regains his strength and good cheer, although he weeps in her arms when Sven snaps his stick-sword in half and spits that he is a slave and will never be a warrior.  But the next day he smiles again, and Elflaed and her son endure, and he grows.

Kjartan works the garrison at Eoferwic and Rhona minds the small ramshackle house that barely keeps the spitting rains out. Elflaed is twenty years old and Sven walks her around the city, selling her body to any man who wants it. The fever she took after Sihtric’s birth keeps her from conceiving another child, and Sihtric is five and he runs errands for the Danes of the garrison. Every day there’s new bruises on his fair skin but he only grits his teeth when his mother asks how he came by them. She sees before long. Kjartan’s fists are heavy as stones, even to the son he whelped on her. Elflaed is screeching, begging him to stop, Sihtric is just a child and before she can blink those hard fists are turning to her instead. Kjartan roars that she’s the one who’s taught Sihtric his defiance. Sihtric howls like a storm, his small fists beating uselessly against Kjartan’s thick legs. One blow with the flat of his sword against Sihtric’s temple and Elflaed is screaming as her son crumples. She scrabbles to him in a blind panic through the dirty rushes that cover the floor and finds him dazed, and after a few moments he’s retching and she’s so relieved she’s crying.

In the still night, Elflaed sits with Sihtric, rocking him in her lap like she did when he was a babe at the breast, and rouses him when he slips into sleep. She listens to Kjartan’s snores and imagines the way his breath will shudder to a stop when she kills him.

When Kjartan worms his way into the Saxon puppet-king’s favor, Sven goes to work with his father in the king’s household guard and stops peddling Elflaed throughout the city. She cares for the weapons and mail, rubbing them with sand Sihtric fetches from the river’s bank, and lets her son heft the swords when no one else can see. He’s growing tall although he’s still thin, but finally there’s enough to eat and slowly the sharpness of his cheekbones softens as the hollows beneath them fill. He’s not as big as most boys of his age but he’s fast now, dodges Kjartan’s heavy blows swift as a bird on the wing. Kjartan prospers, and Eflaed and her son endure, and there is finally enough to eat, and Sihtric grows.

Elflaed is twenty-five and her son tells her there’s no lady in Eoferwic half as lovely as her, and Sihtric is ten and tall when Kjartan’s silver tongue wins him the fortress of Dunholm. He has enough wealth now to pay men to follow him there, and he’s in such good spirits he buys Sihtric a pair of sturdy leather boots for the journey. Rather than Elflaed and Rhona carrying Kjartan’s possessions on their backs, they lead packhorses. Sihtric is fond of the big, gentle creatures, and each night he rubs them with fistfuls of straw until their sleek hides gleam. Dunholm is a dark, formidable place but Elflaed’s heart soars in her chest as they approach it because she knows this place. To her left she can see the small houses and the smoke of cooking fires, the silver ribbon of river familiar as the back of her own hand even after ten years. The path is narrow, they lead the horses in single file up the steep slope and thus pass through the gates. While everyone is milling about in confusion in the courtyard, she hisses into Sihtric’s ear, jerking her head toward the nearby village. “Hocchale,” she tells him, “where I was born.”

Kjartan orders a feast to be given that night, and Elflaed, Rhona, and three new servants rush to prepare it. Kjartan falls deep into his cups and finally calls Sihtric to him. Elflaed’s belly clenches in some terrible fear and there’s arms around her like iron bands as the blows land and Sihtric does not cry out but his mother screams curses like a fury. She promises Kjartan death and curses him to his half-rotten corpse-goddess and men laugh and jeer at her as Kjartan only hits her son harder. He grunts at the boy to whimper, to give in, and promises that will stop the beating. Elflaed suddenly understands he despises the raw courage in her son when Sven has shown nothing but a spine made of jelly. Kjartan tires of the beating long before the bloodied boy breaks.

Sihtric is wincing although her hands are gentle as doves and a man clears his throat behind her. He says his name is Tekil and tomorrow he’s going to offer to buy Sihtric. He promises never to beat him and he offers Elflaed a piece of silver to lie with her. She promises to lie with him whenever he asks if he keeps his word. Kjartan demands an outrageous sum for his bastard whelp and Tekil pays him every silver piece without protesting. Elflaed feels something foreign when Tekil seeks her company that night, and after he’s done with her she recognizes it: gratitude.

Sihtric’s savage purple bruises are fading to sickly yellow and nearly every day he’s beyond the walls of Dunholm, driving cattle. One night she whispers to him how to get to Hocchale and where her parents lived. She still doesn’t know if they survived the raid. It’s nearly a full cycle of the moon later when Sihtric slips her a piece of bread encrusted with dried fruits and she cries. He holds her tight and whispers quickly into her ear that her parents still live where they did, that her mother wept when Sihtric walked in looking so like the daughter she’d thought dead. He fears being caught and so he doesn’t go back often, but every time he does, he brings her the same bread. Her mother remembers even now how much she loved it as a child.

It’s so early the sun hasn’t cleared the mist from the river when Elflaed steps outside to gather wood for the cooking fires. Voices carry through the stillness and she halts beside the woodpile, melting into the shadows so she doesn’t disturb what’s happening. Sometimes Kjartan’s men take the slave girls back here; she’ll wait until he’s done and go help the girl. She recognizes the voice of one of the younger girls and her heart breaks at the wobble of tears in her voice. She remembers being so young and scared. The answering voice is gentle, soothing, and familiar as her own self.

She peers around the woodpile. The girl’s back is leaning against the woodpile, and though she can’t see her face, Elflaed knows she’s crying from the shaking of her shoulders. Sihtric squats before her, holding a small bowl of water and a rag that comes back red after he strokes it gently down the girl’s thighs. Elflaed steps from her hiding spot and Sihtric shoots her a smile that she’s sure is for the girl’s benefit, but she sees the distress in her son’s eyes. She crouches beside her son and inspects the girl. Sihtric has cleaned away most of the blood, but her simple wool dress is torn and her hair is falling from its plait. Her dirty face is tear-streaked but the tears have stopped pooling in her blue eyes. Sihtric empties the bowl of pink water and Elflaed hurriedly braids the girl’s hair and wipes the tears from her face. Sihtric heads toward the cattle byre to start his day, glancing back over his shoulder with a warm smile as the girl calls out a timid thanks.

The girl’s name is Hilde and she tells Eflaed how Sihtric found her where one of Kjartan’s men had left her once he was through with her, how he told her not to be afraid and that he would not harm her. That evening, Hilde approaches Elflaed with a small loaf of still-steaming bread and asks her to give it to Sihtric. Usually the bread the slaves get is days old and hardened. Sihtric’s face lights up in a grin when Elflaed tells him it’s from Hilde, and he splits it in two and holds half out to his mother. It’s the best bread she’s eaten in years.

Tekil seeks Elflaed’s company often and afterward he does not rush her from his bed. He doesn’t care that she’s the mother of a bastard or that Sven whored her in Eoferwic; he’s tender with her. Sihtric is growing taller and Tekil is gentle with them both. Elflaed is twenty-six and has endured for a dozen years; Sihtric is eleven and has endured his entire life and grown strong despite his hard lot. He’s a good boy, kind and calm and gentle, brave as any warrior, but sometimes Elflaed still sees the ghosts of purple bruises on his skin or the raw, determined courage of enduring behind his still-bright eyes. She decides her son has endured enough.

Gathering herbs outside the wall one day, the cattle Sihtric is tending a mere stone’s throw away, Elflaed finds the black berries. Her son sees her picking fruit and wanders over to steal some but she slaps his hand away. He blinks at her in shock, she’s never struck him before and his eyes are wounded. “Poison,” she explains, “for Kjartan.” The shock fades from Sihtric’s eyes and Elflaed is smiling as she tucks the berries into the kerchief that covers her dark hair. Elflaed kisses her son’s cheek and love is shining in her eyes like the sun as she promises, “Soon, Sihtric, you’ll endure no more by Kjartan’s hand.” She takes the handful of berries and squeezes their juice in Kjartan’s ale that evening.

Kjartan emerges from his bedchamber the next morning pale and shaking, and Sven finds Elflaed in the kitchen with some other slaves. He’s already dragging a silent, glaring Sihtric by his ear. Her son’s eyes are sharp as daggers on Sven as he grabs his mother by the hair and drags the pair of slaves to his father. Kjartan is screaming, “this useless bitch has poisoned him after all I’ve done for her, after I’ve given her a fine son and sheltered her and fed her ungrateful mouth. She dies!” He bellows. “This useless whore and her son die now!” Elflaed starts to deny it but Sven silences her with a harsh jerk on her hair. Kjartan remembers she screamed death at him when he beat her son and he is a cruel, fearful man. He takes Elflaed and Sihtric from Sven and drags them from his hall. The building nearby is where he keeps his hounds, the savage and half-starved pack that guards his hoard, and that’s where he’s taking them.

Savage Kjartan is, cruel and fearful, but he is not creative. Everyone knows the fate that is to come. His dogs are half-wild and obey no one but his huntsmen and Sven’s mad whore, and Kjartan fears her for that. It was the only time his dogs failed him, when the mad bitch sang to them and they lay down and howled Thyra’s grief to the roof of their dirty hall. Since then he keeps them half-starved so they’ll tear into any intruder’s flesh before they have a chance to find their voice.

Tekil breaks from the crowd. He reminds Kjartan that Sihtric belongs to him now and insists that the boy is innocent of any plot to kill his own father. Elflaed doesn’t add her own pleas. She knows she can help Sihtric the most by biting her tongue. She clutches Sihtric’s hand and he clenches back, so hard she can feel the bones in her hand grinding together. It’s the only time she’s ever seen abject terror in his eyes, and she tries to tell him without words that he’s the only reason she’s endured for so long. She doesn’t take her eyes from her son. She can hear the snarling and barking of the vicious hounds within the nearby hall but for Elflaed, in this moment before Kjartan opens the door, there is only Sihtric.

Elflaed’s screams echo across Dunholm and the hounds growl and bay their death-song and Sihtric screams and screams. Rhona and Hilde are holding him upright, and Kjartan sneers at them to take him from his sight before he shoves him in the hall with his whore mother. Tekil pries Sihtric from the women’s arms and carries him away from the hall, away from the snarling and the weakening shrieks. Elflaed is twenty-six and she has endured for a dozen years until she could endure no more. Sihtric is eleven and for the first time he feels broken and Tekil cared for Sihtric’s ever-enduring mother and so they drink until they vomit and then they drink some more. Sihtric is eleven and has endured his whole life and his mother is dead, but he will grow, and he will endure. And somehow, for her, he does.

Sihtric does not know it but he is fourteen when Kjartan learns an old enemy is nearby. He sends Tekil and six other warriors to capture the man called Uhtred Ragnarsson, and of course Tekil takes Sihtric. They ride for two days and Sihtric is ashamed in this company of warriors because he alone carries no weapons and wears no arm-rings. He scrubs Tekil’s sword with sand when they stop to make camp and he remembers when his mother did the same, when she let him hold swords when no one else was around. He can think of her now without pain, his mother who loved him like the constancy of the sun rising and who taught him to endure.

They reach the army of King Guthred. Even Sihtric, who’s no warrior, knows this pathetic rabble of men and priests, headed by a corpse in a wooden coffin, should not be called an army. He does not understand the Christian religion although his mother spoke often of Christ. Sihtric accepts him as just another of the many gods who exist, and his mother first despaired and later said she did not think Christ would mind. Sihtric doesn’t much care what Christ minds or doesn’t mind, anyway.

Sihtric sees Uhtred, the man they are to capture, and thinks their mission is doomed to failure. He’s fair-haired and tall, arms thick with rings and mail gleaming in the sun; a lord of death in shining war-glory. Sihtric thinks this is what a lord should be, not Kjartan cringing behind his walls and sending other men to face his enemies, but a man who leads warriors. He doesn’t know his mother saw Uhtred once from the woods on a fall day long ago, but he knows he doesn’t want Uhtred to reach Kjartan. He is sick of hearing people screaming under the jaws of half-starved hounds.

The day after they arrive, Uhtred and the king go to the stream, unaccompanied by anyone else. Tekil orders them to attack now and it’s six against two but the king is no warrior. Sihtric is disappointed by how easily Uhtred is defeated, but he sees the defiance in his eyes and hopes there’s some trick forthcoming. Tekil calls for the manacles and Sihtric is fumbling them out of the sack he carries when there’s a scream of pure animal rage. The household guard is attacking, and although they’re inexperienced and half-trained, Tekil’s small band is surprised and outnumbered and three of them die before Uhtred bellows that he wants them alive. Sihtric is still holding the shackles when Uhtred storms over and rips them from his slack hands. He delivers a ringing blow to Sihtric’s head but Elflaed’s son doesn’t flinch. He has endured far worse than this. Uhtred looks at him, angry and expectant, and hits him again. Sihtric feels the skin split at his temple but he only looks up at Uhtred with defiant eyes. His blood drips to the ground as Uhtred turns away.

They’re bound and guarded and Uhtred takes Tekil into a tent that night and talks to him. The night falls cold and passes slow, and Sihtric has never been outside in the dark and he fears the sceadugengan from his mother’s old tales. They don’t come to steal him away in the darkness and he finds a strange, uneasy peace in the silence of dancing shadows.

When morning comes, men in gray robes and heavy wooden crosses are clamoring for Sihtric, Tekil, and the others to die. Sihtric has seen many priests at Dunholm, for Kjartan welcomes them only to send them to the same fate as Elflaed. He’s confused because his mother always told him priests are men of mercy and the Christ-god but these men want him to hang. That doesn’t seem like mercy to him but Sihtric is the son of Kjartan the Cruel and so maybe he misunderstands what mercy is. The king proclaims that they will die their way, by the sword, and offers to fight them. Uhtred steps up with a shake of his head and says he will fight all four of them. Swords and shields are brought and a square is marked by hazel branches stripped of leaves.

Tekil steps into the square and he’s a good fighter, but Uhtred kills him quickly anyway. He’s like a god, his blows so swift they’re mere flashes of silver in the sunlight. The other two die even faster than Tekil and Uhtred is barely sweating. Sihtric can see the bloody trails in the grass where the other bodies were dragged away, and the sword and shield are handed to him.

He is fourteen although he doesn’t know it, and he has endured for fourteen years but he doesn’t want to die. He hasn’t touched a sword since he was a a child in Eoferwic but his old childhood dream will come true and he’ll die with one in his hand. Although he is fourteen and strong the shield is a clumsy, unfamiliar burden and he doesn’t know how to hold the sword properly. He’s surprised he’s crying, because what reason does he have to want to live? He should fear enduring more than dying and yet enduring is all he knows. He’s even more surprised that his legs refuse to hold him once he enters the branches. The priests are screaming that he must die but Uhtred is only watching him with a sword-Dane’s eyes and Sihtric hates to disappoint him.

Sihtric accepts his death, the end to his lifetime of enduring, and that allows him to control his breathing. He stills his tears and although his legs are still shaking his will is iron and he commands them to hold him. They do. He hefts the ungainly shield, sniffs one last time, and meets Uhtred’s eyes with all the dignity he can muster. Uhtred gestures at the sword in his hand and Sihtric obediently raises it above the shield like he’s seen warriors do. He wonders if the Valkyrie’s hands will be soft or callused. A breath, then two, and Uhtred asks his mother’s name. Sihtric is so surprised his response is a quiet stammer, and Uhtred repeats the question. “Eflaed,” he tells Uhtred. Uhtred corrects him but there’s nothing unkind in his voice, and Sihtric rephrases his answer. “She was called Elflaed, lord.” He asks if she was a Saxon and Sihtric says yes and remembers to call him lord.

When Uhtred asks if she tried to poison Kjartan, Sihtric nearly denies it before he remembers she can’t be harmed by the truth of it anymore. He tells Uhtred about the black berries. Uhtred asks if his father loves him, and Sihtric looks at him in disbelief and parrots back the question to make certain he heard it correctly. He tells Uhtred he hardly knows his father, but does not say that he knows his fists and his cruelty too well. Sihtric feels tears start to rise again when Uhtred asks about his mother because he misses her like half his own heart is gone and he can barely stop the wobble in his voice when he tells Uhtred he loved her.

Uhtred takes a step toward him and Sihtric’s sword dips as his arm begins to shake but he raises it quickly. “On your knees,” Uhtred orders gently and Sihtric grips the sword tighter.

“I would die properly,” he protests. He’s ashamed of the fearful squeak his voice has become but he doesn’t waver. Uhtred snarls the command again and Sihtric obeys with the instinct born of a lifetime of slavery. He flinches as Uhtred extends the hilt, expecting he’s going to suddenly become one-eyed like Sven.

“Clasp it, and say the words.” Uhtred waits, hilt extended, and Sihtric can’t drop his sword and shield fast enough. He clasps the hilt and Uhtred’s large, callused hands cover his.

Sihtric looks up at him and his voice is steady, “I will be your man lord, and I will serve you until death.”

“And beyond,” Uhtred adds.

“And beyond, lord,” Sihtric echoes. “I swear it.” Uhtred removes his hands, takes back the sword, and Sihtric rises. He is fourteen and he is free and he knows looking at Uhtred that he will be a warrior just like he always wanted. He does not know that at fourteen his own mother became a slave. He just knows that he is free and that his mother, feasting with Thor and Freyja and Christ, is glad that her son will no longer endure anything by Kjartan’s hand.

[defyingthelawofgravity]

baby, you’re so cruel (but I’m bound to you) you

SOOOO this has been a long time coming, and its been sitting on my desktop for a while and so I decided to post it. (sorry if there are weird grammar or vocabularies used in this story, english is not my 1st language :))

So this fic is based on this prompt by @beyondmythought-s : Sansa just wants to make her arranged marriage the love match her parents had, but her husband seems to prefer swordplay and ale with knights than spending time with her. Jon never expected a wife nevertheless a wife as beautiful as Sansa. He figures she never wished to be saddled with a bastard prince and does his best to avoid her. Uprisings nearby and threats to Sansa’s safety change their dynamic and they realize they want very similar things

Thanks for giving me this prompt, and sorry if it’s not up to your expectations (I’m totes an amateur so i can’t write even a grain of smut :’)) I hope you enjoy it nonetheless! :D

***** 

Sansa loves stories and songs, especially the romantic ones. She used to beg her mother or her Septa to read at least one story everyday. Her greatest goal was to live a life like one of them. Or at least share the same love between her and her husband like what her Father and Mother had.

But as she grew up she realizes that stories aren’t real and the real world was so much different from what she has read as a girl. As a Stark and a Tully, she was bound by honor and duty to her house, she could not fathom why the lady or the knight could easily shrug their responsibilities. But that doesn’t mean she hated them now, she grew to respect them. She understood that stories and songs have deeper meanings other than the love between the characters, there are also consequences of abandoning duties and how it would affect the people around them.

That’s why when she was called one evening before her sixteenth nameday celebration by her father, Lord Stark, and was told that she was betrothed and soon wed to the second son of King Rhaegar, she accepted without a complaint.

“Listen! You need to go to the wolfswood and hide in that cave you told me, remember you must not be seen by anyone. Run to the nearest house you can find, and send word to Father and Mother.” Sansa wheezed between her breaths. “Take Bran and Rickon with you, we don’t have much time until the army breaks down the gates.”

“But what about you?” Arya gripped her shoulder, “We should all just hide together.”

“We can’t, they’ll know we are hiding somewhere if we do. I’ll stay here and tell them that you went with father and Robb to King’s Landing and Bran and Rickon are with mother in Riverrun. Here, take this.” She handed Arya a knife with an uncharacteristic ease. “Protect yourself, and your brothers.”

“I won’t leave you,” Defiance and worry shinning in Arya’s eyes. She wanted to cry because she doesn’t want to be left alone too.

“I’ll be fine, they need me to be a leverage.” Swallowing her tears she hugged Arya tight. “The Boltons won’t hurt me.” Her voice sounded doubtful to her own ears.

He was wondering how things were in Winterfell, specifically the Starks left behind, (specifically a certain red headed, blue eyed Stark with the most beautiful smile that never were directed at him for most of their married life) when a jarring impact of steel against steel brought him from his musings and back to his smirking cousin. “Distracted are we, Prince Jon? Are you so bored in Kings Landing without anyone to bicker with?”

“Don’t call me that, Robb, it’s weird enough I have to bear it from everybody else. Besides, I don’t bicker with Sansa, we like to exchange…compelling arguments, that’s all.” If compelling arguments can also mean arguing with each other each night and avoiding each other the next day until the sun sets. Jon thought bleakly. I wonder if we could ever have a civilized conversation that doesn’t end up with another shouting contest. Robb’s face split into a wider smile.

“A-ha!” he shouted while pointing his blunted steel sword, “I didn’t even say a name, yet her name was the one who popped into your mind! You actually WERE thinking of her!”

Jon staggers slightly in his steps, “What no! I mean…”

“Excuse me, Prince Jon, Lord Robb. Pardon me for disturbing your training, but Lord Stark has required your presence immediately, Lord Robb, if you would please follow me to his solar.” A male servant was waiting outside the ring.

“Probably regarding the supplies we needed to bring back home. Well, see you later, Jon.” Robb clapped his shoulder before jumping the fence in one quick motion.

“And don’t think I will ever forget this conversation!”

It’s been three months since the Boltons sieged the castle. The first week was frightening to say the least, they were constantly interrogating her for the location of her younger siblings (as she expected), thank the Gods they believed the lies. But it seems the longer it is without any replies from either her parents, the thinner their patience with her becomes. She was not permitted outside her rooms, and when she did (often by the Bolton bastard, Ramsey, requests) her hand was tied and she was dragged around Winterfell for all the people to see. To let them know we’re in charge, he once said while stroking her cheek (she shudders to remember).

They even deliberately forgot to feed her, and just threw a piece of stale bread once in a few days. She was planning to store a part of her food, but once Ramsey’s hounds sniffed them out from her hiding place she was slapped and starved for three days. It was agonizing, she was always cold and hungry, she couldn’t think of any plan to escape, her energy was utterly spent after each of her walk with the bastard and all she can do is sit or lie down. Even reading a book or sewing makes her head spin.

Suddenly a commotion erupted from below but she doesn’t have the strength to walk to the windows. Probably just another fight between soldiers.

Gusts of winds rattled the windows and entered the room, I’m so sleepy, maybe it’s the Old Gods trying to carry my soul away. Please take me away, I’m so tired. Funny, she smiled to herself, in the end she thought of his Gods instead of the Seven, maybe because I miss him so much. She closes her eyes and remembers her family faces, Father, Mother, Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon, I hope you all know I love you all so much. Jon, I’m so sorry for being an insufferable wife, I know you must be so disappointed marrying me, I’m sorry I didn’t try harder.

Heavy steps brought her mind from her reverie and she opens her eyes just as the door swings open. A familiar, bone chilling voice reverberated from the shadow crowding her door. “Come, my lady, I have something prepared for you.”

The ropes around her wrists were tighter than usual and his steps seemed rushed as they walked through hallways and up the stairways. Everybody else in the castle seemed busy, they blurred past her eyes, she thought she saw soldiers wearing armor and bearing weapons, I must be hallucinating.

“Where are we going?” her voice sounds grated and unused.

Ramsey didn’t answer. They’ve arrived to another stairway, she knew where this leads, to one of the battlements. He’s going to kill me, he’s going to throw me or hang me from the towers!

Sensing her wariness, he pulled the rope harder forcing her to climb the stairway, “Come, my lady, you’ll love the view.”

“CALL OFF YOUR MEN, STARK! OR I WILL SLIT YOUR PRETTY SISTER’S THROAT TO PAINT THE SNOW!” The bastard was holding Sansa to his chest with a knife to her neck.

She looks pale and thin, her cheek bones was more pronounced than ever. He knew the bastard wasn’t bluffing, his raving mad eyes told him as much. But he knew they got the upper hand, but it’s still a gamble.

Jon was hiding somewhere behind one of the towers, the bastard seemed to not realized a grown dragon was no longer a part of the battle happening in the courtyard. He only got one chance to save both his sister and his home, he held up his hand, and when Ramsey was momentarily distracted by a screech and a looming dragon, he shouted “SANSA JUMP!”

It seemed like time was moving so slowly, first the horrifying screech and the sounds of leather flapping was all too much, even for Ramsey, it even got him to momentarily lift the knife off her throat. She took a full breath, and then her brother shouted for her to jump, her feet moves on her own and she jumped hoping for a quick death if Robb doesn’t catch her. And then she felt a blast of hot air from above, when she turned her head, all she can see was red and orange it was scary and beautiful she felt free and weightless, and then everything went black.

She first thing she felt was heaviness, all over her body, like she had spent her whole day running around the castle and when she stopped all her aches came all at once. She’s scared to open her eyes but when she remembered the last thing she saw, she relaxed. Ramsey was dead, at least. Burned to a crisp, I hope. That thought brought an involuntary smile to her face.

When she opened her eyes, she was surprised. Jon is here, he’s half lying on her bed and half sitting on a chair. She moved to sit up on the bed before realizing her hand was caught in something. That something is him holding her hand, clutching it tight even in his sleep. A warmth blooms in her chest.

“Jon.” He stirred and mumbled her name, “You’re awake.”

“I am,” before she could finish her sentence he clutched her to his chest. “You’re awake, I thought I lost you.” She was shocked but she felt so safe and warm in his hug, she slowly circled her arms around him. “I’m okay now, I’m safe, you’re here.”

“My heart stopped the moment the letter was sent to your father, I know it doesn’t seemed like so, Sansa, but,” he took a deep breath, “I care about you, so much. I was so scared to lose you. I’m sorry I’ve been an arsehole for the span of our marriage, but I promise I’ll try harder. I’ll be a better husband to you, the kind you deserve.”

Tears sprang from her eyes and she hugged him tighter, “I care about you too, when I thought I was going to die, the one thing I regret was being awful to you. I’m sorry for everything, the stupid fights too.”

Jon brushed the tears with the back of his hand, “I wish to start again.” “Me too.”

***** 

[dinosrpg]

Nerevarine: The Reprise - Chapter Three

Wrapped in a few furs that had generously been lent to her for the duration of the trip, Sheev-La simply did what she could to stay relatively warm while snow began to fall.  She silently cursed that the cart had no covering over it, wondering how Nords could even stand this weather, let alone live in a clime that featured it year-round.  Worse still, the Argonian couldn't seem to rid herself of a low tone in her ear, despite her efforts to spare what shred of sanity she had left.

Her head pounding, Sheev-La was about to try to sleep off the rest of the journey before the cart pulled up to a roadside tavern, the snow getting worse by the minute.

"Let's get inside," the driver told her as he produced a large burlap cloth.  "Storm's comin', and I don't intend to drive through it."  The Argonian gladly complied, hoping alcohol could lessen her pain.  Climbing out of the cart, Sheev-La left the furs behind, the driver covering the cart with the cloth to protect his goods before he guided his horse to a nearby stable.

Entering the tavern was a welcome reprieve from the cold, the open hearth in the middle warming the whole building quite amply, but did little to spare her of that cursed tone in her ear.  She'd experienced a similar sensation long ago in the Dwemer ruins, no doubt a byproduct of their unusual machinery, but there seemed to be no obvious source, only serving to annoy Sheev-La further.

She sat down at the bar, head in her hands, while the innkeeper walked up to attend to his new customer.  "You wouldn't happen to have sujamma, would you?" she asked, hoping against hope.

"Sorry, ma'am.  Got ale, mead, and wine.  Couple specialty wines and meads, too," the innkeeper offered, wiping down a tankard for her to use. "Wine, please," the Argonian sighed, setting down a handful of coin on the bar.  While the innkeeper produced a green, near-spherical bottle for her, Sheev-La couldn't help but notice a sheet of paper further down the bar, its border bearing a red design that typically outlined warnings.  "What's this, bandits?" she asked no one in particular, reaching out to grab the sheet.

"Ah, no.  Just a notice to keep travelers heading to that blasted altar up north," the innkeeper answered, waving to the driver as he came in to warm up and bunker down for the storm.

Sheev-La blinked as she read the letter, her lips forming the words ever so softly.

"To all travelers and adventurers, The mountain north of here has an aging monument on top of it containing a strange dwarven hammer.  Under no circumstances should you touch it, as it has claimed the lives of many already.

-a concerned sightseer."

The Argonian's hands trembled as her mind raced.  "No," she whispered, suddenly setting the letter back down and looking to the innkeeper.  "Do you have torches?"

"I... yes, but--"

"I need a bundle of three.  I'll pay double."

"But why--"

"Just give me the damn torches, man!" Sheev-La shouted, slamming down more coins as she panted.  Her whole body was tense.  She felt like she'd been punched in the gut.  She needed to know.  Had to know.  The tone played on, only making her more fearful of what this all could mean.

The innkeeper fearfully complied, handing over a set of torches that Sheev-La snatched out of his hand.  Pulling up her hood, she stormed for the door, the driver nearly leaping from his seat at a nearby table.  "Whoa, whoa, you're not going out there, are you?"

"I have to," she replied, opening the door to a flurry of snow and a gust of wind.  "I'm borrowing a couple furs, too."

"But... the storm--!"

"Bugger the storm.  I'm tougher than I look."

"Lady, don't just wander off when--"  Sheev-La turned and glared at the driver, baring her teeth in a growl that made the scrawny Nord take a step back and throw his hands up defensively.

"I... need to go.  You can't stop me.  This storm won't stop me.  The gods can't stop me.  I'm going."  The wind whipped up behind her as though to punctuate her point, snow briefly clinging to her armor before melting away before the hearth's radiant heat.  Ultimately, the driver gave her a nod, understanding there was nothing more he could to convince her.  And with that, the Argonian stepped outside, closing the door behind her, and raided the cart for furs that would keep her from succumbing to the cold.

It took her a few minutes to line the inside of her armor with fur, but she was grateful she did, the clouds overhead blocking the midday sun enough to drop the temperature even further.  Grabbing one last pelt, she draped it over her shoulders, using it as a cloak before she began her trek to the north.

"Don't you dare," she threatened, gritting her teeth as she began her ascension through a crunching layer of snow.  The tone grew louder as she made her way up the mountain with torch in hand, making each step closer all the more difficult, but she pressed on, determined to know.  "Don't you dare," she snarled, squinting as the storm began to pick up further, now turning into a dangerous blizzard.  The wind whipped at her exposed face, threatening to chap and crack her hide, before she turned her impromptu cloak into a mask to shield her muzzle.

The journey was agonizing, taking what felt like centuries to her as each step was a battle won against both the elements and the head-splitting tone deafening her.  The Argonian perservered, reminded of her trek through the ash storms of Red Mountain.  Back then, she nearly lost heart, the dusty, disease-carrying clouds whipping around her and concealing the mad, infested pawns of Dagoth Ur.  Thankfully, there were no immediate threats other than the storm, and possibly the deafening tone, reminding her of how far she'd come since those dark days of destiny.  And when at last she stood upon the peak, the storm seemed to pass for the moment, the sun shining through a brief break in the clouds.  The tone, too, fell silent.

At the summit was a Dwarven monument, a brass face emulating who they could only assume to be Dumac, the Last King of the Dwarves whom they had befriended in her previous life and subsequently went to war against for his apostasy.

Tears ran down their cheek, memories of the pain they had felt both at the declaration of war and at the Battle of Red Mountain.  They had been good friends, and were it not for Almalexia's hesitance could have been lovers.  Perhaps it was for the best that his betrayal was not complete, for it was Kagrenac, his Chief Tonal Architect, that drove their people to war with his insistence on creating the blasphemous Brass God.  Indoril Nerevar, as they were once known, begged Dumac to reign in his subject, but Kagrenac held the power in their hierarchy by the time they had learned of this.  His stubborn ambition drove the Dwemer to their ultimate fate, leaving a hole in Nerevar's heart that Almalexia couldn't fill, even with all of her love for them.

Falling to their knees, the Nerevarine sobbed and shook, their clouded eye's gaze falling down to the cursed hammer the noticed had warned of.  It laid, defiant, upon a brass pedestal, as though it were to be worshipped.  It was such a small thing, but the skeletal remains that laid around it testified to its allure and deadly power.

"No..." Sheev-La sobbed, their fears confirmed.  "This can't be...  I tossed you into the fires...  How can you be here?!" they suddenly shouted, jutting an accusing claw at the artifact.  "You shouldn't be here!  Why?!" they snarled, rising to their feet.  The wind moaned and whipped around the Argonian, snow flurrying at the buckles of their boots.  The air grew colder, too, rime crackling nearby as the Nerevarine drew their sword.

Turning to face the noise's source, Sheev-La spotted a ghostly, almost crystalline serpent, hissing as its fangs dripped with icy malice.  It flowed with the wind, slithering on air toward them as they thrust the steel blade forward.  Its tip chipped at the wraithlike snake's icy composition, its essence coating the sword and the Argonian's glove.  Its blood was so cold it burned like fire, the leather doing little to shield their hand.  Hissing, the old warrior bashed it with their torch, making it recoil in what they could only assume was pain from the flame.

Reeling into another lunge, the snake bared its fangs once more, intent on sinking them into the Nerevarine's neck.  The Argonian deftly sidestepped the strike, snarling as they dropped the torch to bring their blade down in an overhand chop onto the monster's neck.

The ice wraith crumbled without its head, forming a pile of shattered ice lain atop a puddle of its frostbite-inducing essence.  Panting, Sheev-La gritted her teeth, brought back into the moment now that the danger was gone.  "Bugger me," she breathed, her eye locking onto that infernal tool Kagrenac had forged so long ago.  It saddened her, it pained her, it angered her that it was still here, despite her efforts to destroy it.  It looked unfazed by everything, even bereft of snow as though it shunned anything that touched it other than Wraithguard.

What if the other tools had survived?  What if her efforts had been utterly fruitless?  What if all of the tools were here, as though waiting for her to reclaim them?  Was she doomed to carry them, to bear them as a monument to the sins the Tribunal had committed?  These questions and their implications made the Argonian's stomach turn.  She felt light-headed, dizzy, as she knelt once more to regain her composure.  Could the gods be so cruel?  Was fate to be so heartless?  Why, after everything they had done to fulfill their destiny and right so many wrongs, were they still being punished?  Nerevar had been betrayed, slain by those they loved and cared for in a bid for godhead, and yet, millennia later, they were still made to suffer.

This place is miserable, they thought.

[catching-fire-analysis-blog]

Violence and War: Dystopian Societies Today

The Mockingjay symbol 

Peacekeepers in Catching Fire drag a man from the crowd to shoot him.

Sudanese troops

Sudanese citizens running in terror. 

By: Erik Espinoza Jr

        Our society today is filled with hope, even over little things. We hope our favorite team wins the championship, we hope the character we love survives in the movie, and we hope we get what we asked for for Christmas. However, not every society is like ours. There are some whose idea of hope is much different from ours; they hope for another drink of clean water, they hope for their next meal, they hope to live to see another day. That is going on right now, today, in places where controlling authoritarian governments are in charge; places where people are deprived of food and basic needs. This is why Catching Fire has a significant message to us today. Catching Fire displays an oppressive government that fears rebellion of it’s citizens, as well as shows the consequences of war and the effect that it has on the people involved.          First of all, a background of the story in Catching Fire. It is the sequel to the first book, The Hunger Games, written by Suzanne Collins. These books are based on a dystopian society where war destroyed the world we know today. The country is now separated into twelve districts, where the job of the district is based on geography. This society is run by one president, President Snow. He runs an authoritarian government. Seventy-five years before Catching Fire, a thirteenth district rebelled, causing a huge war. The most shocking part of this story is what is called The Reaping: two children, ages 12 to 18, are chosen from each district to fight to the death until a lone victor survives. This is done as a reminder of the rebellion, and to threaten the districts against another rebellion. President Snow continues as an intelligent, ruthless dictator throughout the Catching Fire book as he throws previous victors back into the Hunger Games. This includes the main characters Katniss and Peeta, who won the first Hunger Games together and therefore defying the Capitol. They know that this time they will not be allowed to survive. The loved ones of Katniss and Peeta, and anyone else who seems as if they just might rebel against the Capitol, suffer threats and harsh violence.           Many questions that arise with dystopian books and movies like Catching Fire: Why do these stories matter? How do they relate to society today? Do they depict what our future may actually look like? Look no further, because I will be answering all of these questions.           The oppressive government of The Capital is similar to that of authoritarian governments today. In Catching Fire, The Capital is run by the authoritarian President Snow. He makes the rules as he pleases, and changes them to fit his needs. This is shown when he changes the usual rules of the games to have only victors being put into the games that occur in Catching Fire. This is extremely relevant to many countries in the world today because many are run by cruel dictators. One example is Sudan, which is currently run by an authoritarian President as well. His name is Omar al-Bashir, and the country has been at war for most of his presidency. It was in the midst of a civil war when he began his presidency, and although he signed a peace deal for it, there has still been another civil war waging. al-Bashir has been accused of genocide, various crimes against humanity, and war crimes. Sudan currently has a freedom house score of 7, which is extremely high and is evidence to the oppressive government. Although we do not face this type of government in America, countries with people just like you and I are stuck in a society like this. To them, the horror that is the society in Catching Fire is the reality that they face everyday.               Catching Fire reveals the consequences of war that occur today. Many people are harmed and manipulated, such as the characters Cinna, Mags, and Wiress. These are just a few of the tragic deaths that occurred in this text. The two main characters, Katniss and Peeta, have to give a speech to each of the children’s districts that were killed in the last Games. The government forces them to do this, to show the districts the power that they have, and to shove the ones who won in their faces. This is used as a tactic to further control the districts, and basically turn their fear into submission. During one of the speeches, a man delivers a symbol of rebellion to Katniss and Peeta. He is shot on sight in the middle of the crowd just for this. This is a violent act of war, in response to the impending rebellion that was building up. Unfortunately, this is a common consequence that occurs in violent, war-stricken and rebellion plagued countries. Sudan is yet again a real life example to show the relevance of this. The country is currently in the midst of a civil war, and the consequences of it are becoming apparent. Sudan has had a long history of revolutions, to the point where citizens are more scared of another revolt than they are of the unstable, so-called democracy that they live in. Either way, the country is in a state of violence. Women face violence that is twice the global average, experiencing rape, sexual abuse, domestic violence. 65% of women in Sudan interviewed reported some form of sexual violence. It has been increasingly worse, while the perpetrators are not punished. This is exactly what occurs in Catching Fire, when the Peacekeepers continue to kill and harm citizens of Panem, but receive no repercussions. In these books, readers mourn the loss of characters when they die due to the violence of the war, but in real life there are people mourning the loss of loved ones every single day because of real war. Living in America, we may not see it but it is a real problem. Again, these are people just like you and I, who are being tortured, kidnapped, raped, and murdered. One woman was gang-raped by government soldiers after she left her camp for firewood. This is why the story in Catching Fire should resonate with you, because it represents global issues and brings these problems to the limelight.            Lastly, Catching Fire shows us real emotions that people face everyday. Love, sorrow, hope, all of these are timeless and will be felt forever by people. Hope is a huge theme in Catching Fire, as the mockingjay becomes the symbol for hope in Panem. As Katniss and Peeta travel around the districts, Katniss begins seeing the mockingjay symbol in various places, hinting at thoughts of rebellion. She has given the country something to hope for, because in the previous book she defied the Capitol by convincing them to allow both her and Peeta to survive the Games. Citizens see this, and begin to believe that they too can defy the Capitol. This breaks a small part of the Capital’s armor, allowing the districts’ hope to shine through to the other side. Small revolts began breaking out and little symbols pop up here and there to show this; there is an uprising in District Eight, a young man and women display the three fingered salute that has come to represent rebellion as well, and Katniss and Peeta are taken off stage due to a chaotic crowd. All of these add fuel to the fire of hope that is spreading through the districts. Furthermore, the sorrow of Katniss when she loses Cinna, her beloved stylist that helped her fight back against the Capitol, is so strong the reader can feel it radiating off of the pages of the book. This feeling is felt intensely when citizens in Sudan lose loved ones, due to the violent acts mentioned earlier. One young man has suffered the loss of his brother, sister, and mother and has been forced the create makeshift graves rather than the traditional ones he would normally use. This is just a small peek inside the reality that Sudanese people are facing. They feel this sorrow, and it can either lead them to want a better world or push them into a further hole that they think they cannot get out of.  Love comes through this as well, as people are more focused on their loved ones in a time of war than usual. Katniss is desperate to save her family members; in one chapter the Capitol uses her love against her to make her think they are torturing her loved ones. She ends up using this love to direct her energy into fighting the Capitol, knowing that if she wins she will be able to save them. In a time of war, people realize the impending risk of death to anyone, and many use love to fuel their hope. In Sudan and any other war stricken countries, love remains a prominent factor in a citizen’s will to survive, as well as the reason that many are willing to sacrifice anything to save the ones they care about.           It is important to notice and understand the connection that dystopian books like Catching Fire has with our world today. While we may not see the carnage, starvation, violence, and chaos of war in our everyday lives, it is a real issue that has occurred throughout human history and will continue through the rest of our history. Sudan is not the only country in war today; Iraq, Somalia, Democratic Republic of Congo, Central African Republic, and more are currently facing civil wars similar to the one that ended the previous society in Catching Fire. Unfortunately, this is a sad recurrence in mankind’s history, and the finish line is not visible. While there may not be a simple solution, a significant change can be made by helping provide these countries citizens with hope. After all, Suzanne Collins said that, “hope is the only thing stronger than fear”.