#ts despair

[anesharem]

THESE R SO OLD😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭... I feel like roasted potatoes r better than fried

[kingofattolia]

"Do you miss it? The Order?" "I miss... the idea of it. But not the truth, the weakness. There was no future there." OKAY, THIS MAN MISSES THE ORDER SOOOOOOOOOOO BAD IT MAKES HIM LOOK STUPID

I'm serious. He's carrying the husk of his long-ossified grief so obviously. It is evident in everything he does and says that he was a young knight absolutely ripped to shreds by Order 66 and its lonely, dark aftermath. He allowed despair to be his comfort, convincing himself there's nothing to mourn because it's easier than dealing with the loss.

[grayewalss]

Sorry, but

"quick quick, tell me something awful

like you are a poet trapped inside the body

of a finance guy"

is very much Castiel and Dean coded imo

[sekai-kritical]

gghhhh… hghhhhh sorry for being dead *digs myself out a grave* who wants to see a paragraph of the prologue?

Thinking about it more, though, there are probably some other familiar faces here. Such as Aoyagi Touya, the “Ultimate Pianist”, Akiyama Mizuki, the “Ultimate Video Maker”, Shinonome Akito, the “Ultimate Beatboxer”, and even some that don’t ring a bell, such as the “Ultimate Artist” and the “Ultimate Motivator”. …The ultimate motivator? And I couldn’t even be the ultimate inventor? This school must be picky. I expected way more people to be here, seeing as this prestigious school was extremely popular. But I guess it really does accept the best of the best. Does that mean my inventions are—

[stydinskl]

stydia x colors x taylor swift

— this love is good, this love is bad, this love is alive back from the dead, these hands had to let it go free and this love came back to me

— i once believed love would be black & white, but it's golden, like daylight

— you drew stars, around my scars, but now i'm bleeding

— and isn't it just so pretty to think, all along there was some, invisible string, tying you to me

— i would always be yours, if we survived the great war

[pixies-and-poets]

Music of the Night - Chapter Seven (Final Chapter!)

Wow! I made it to the end!

WARNING!!!! All the body horror I've been hinting at this whole time REALLY CULMINATES HERE! This is NOT a pleasant ending, physically or emotionally! I know I normally write cute fluffy things but I am not kidding about this one! It's intense!!

There will be some thanks for certain inspiration/ideas at the end of the chapter, but I won't put them here at the beginning so as not to spoil things.

Chapter One - In Sleep He Sang to Me

Chapter Two - Do I Dream Again?

Chapter Three - Our Strange Duet

Chapter Four - To Glance Behind

Chapter Five - Those Who Have Seen Your Face

Chapter Six - Where Night is Blind

Close your eyes, For your eyes will only tell the truth And the truth isn't what you want to see. In the dark it is easy to pretend That the truth is what it ought to be. Softly, deftly, music shall caress you Hear it, feel it, secretly possess you Open up your mind, Let your fantasies unwind In this darkness which you know you cannot fight, The darkness of the music of the night.

Chapter Seven - Angel of Music

The Beast lumbered forward, huffing out great snorts of air, until his hairy face was only a few feet from Woodrow’s.

“TRESPASSER,” came a deep and distorted growl, through which was only slightly recognizable the old familiar voice of the woodsman. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING AT MY HOUSE.”

“Well,” said the poet, with the type of unflappable bravery only brought on by complete exhaustion of both body and soul, “You weren’t using it. In fact, I don’t believe you can even fit in the door anymore. Besides, you always let me stay over, in bygone days.”

“I WAS A FOOL THEN,” came the snarling voice. “A PUSHOVER. YOU… YOU ALWAYS THINK YOU GET WHAT YOU WANT… EVER SINCE YOU BECAME WARDEN.”

“Now, that’s not true at all-” protested Woodrow, but the Beast continued.

“PATHETIC… POET… YOU DON’T EVEN WORK WITH ANYTHING REAL. JUST YOUR FANCY LITTLE WORDS… I SHOULD HAVE BEEN IN CHARGE…”

Woodrow swallowed, trying not to take it personally. He didn’t really think this, he told himself. Sweetlopek always respected you… he never WANTED to be warden… it’s the darkmess talking, it’s Cursa, it’s not HIM. Still, with those words, it was as though the creature had shoved a claw deep into the poet’s chest.

“YOU THINK YOU RULE THIS PLANET… YOU AND THAT BRATTY LITTLE FAIRY…”

“Sweets!” cried the warden in dismay. “Come now- speak of me how you like, but don’t talk of Dryad that way. You- she loves you. And you love her. Don’t… don’t you remember?”

“I CHOOSE NOT TO,” the lumberjack said. “AN EMBARRASSING TIME. I FELL UNDER HER SPELL. I SERVE A BETTER MASTER NOW. I’VE BEEN HUNTING THAT LOATHSOME…LITTLE…PIXIE… AND WHEN I CATCH HER… I’LL RIP HER APART.” 

Now the warden’s expression changed into one that was rare for him- one of deep fury. “Don’t you DARE say that,” he hissed, pushing himself away from the door and stepping forward. “You fool, Sweetlopek! Keep Dryad’s name out of your mouth until you come to your senses.”

“I’LL HAVE MORE THAN HER NAME IN MY MOUTH, WHEN I GNAW ON HER BONES-”

“MONSTER!!” cried the warden, losing control of himself. He lunged forward, grabbing the Beast with both paws by the beard, and glared into his yellow eyes. “You snap out of it right this instant, you-”

And then the giant woodsman wrapped a paw around the entirety of Woodrow’s slender body, picked him up, and flung him across the glade.

The warden skidded along the ground until he slammed into a tree. Dizzy, he staggered to his feet just in time to see the Beast thumping towards him on all fours.

“Sweet- my friend-” he wheezed, “Stop-”

But the woodsman picked up the warden and threw him again, this time directly into another tree. He slammed into the trunk with his back, and then slid down onto the leaves below, bark flaking off and splinters becoming embedded in his coat. During all this, Jinx rushed in a panic to keep up with him.

The monster galloped over to him again, seeming to make a game out of this and to be greatly enjoying it, like a dog playing fetch with himself. Woodrow, somehow both defiant and resigned, stared at the grinning, fanged face that was approaching.

“Kill me then!” he shouted. “O, kill me then! Let me die at the hands of my dearest friend!”

But just before the Beast could reach Woodrow to menace him anew, a black-and-white blur, almost as big as the creature itself, shot out of the woods and tackled the threat to the ground.

After losing speed, the blur resolved itself in Woodrow’s vision, and he gasped. It was… Phantom. He looked much the same as Woodrow had left him - pale and dripping with darkmess - only now he seemed to be filled with a wild energy, his hair flowing in a supernatural wind. The biggest change, however, were the two magnificent, globby wings of darkmess that shot out of his back. They raised up behind him majestically as he pinned the struggling Sweetlopek to the ground, like a painting in some grand chapel of an angel fighting a demon.

“T…Tom-” stammered the poet.

The ghost looked over at Woodrow. “Stay there,” he commanded- his voice was not only back, but clear and resonant. Woodrow nodded, and in fact crawled around the side of the tree, where he was partially hidden, but could peer out at the scene. His entire body ached, but - resilient creature that he was - he seemed to be intact, with no broken bones.

Despite his ferocity, the Beast was being held down by Phantom’s rotund body, weighty with darkmess. “WHO…ARE…YOU?!” snarled the woodsman as he glowered up at his aggressor.

Phantom gave a manic smile. “What, don’t you know? I’m a damned galactic treasure, and I’m here to save the man who saved me.”

With no patience for Phantom’s grandeur, the Beast snarled and made an effort to throw him off, tumbling over so that he was now on top and pinning Phantom to the bed of leaves and dirt below. But just as quickly, the ghost extended a wing, and used it to gain leverage and push himself back over, so that he was on top once more. “Ha!” he exclaimed.

Then suddenly, the Beast froze. He raised his head up as much as he could, staring, and sniffing at the newcomer.

“IS THAT… MY… SHIRT…”

Phantom’s unmasked eye widened in confusion. “Er-”

And in that moment, Sweetlopek roared, freed one of his arms, and slashed his claws across Phantom’s chest.

Leaves fell from nearby trees as the singer gave a scream of pain, three jagged claw marks having rent the shirt and the ectoplasm underneath, with streams of darkmess slowly leaking out from each gash, down the singer’s chest and torso and belly. The Beast lashed out with his other arm, and ripped the shirt clean off of him, tossing it to the side in his rage.

Phantom looked down at himself only briefly before staring back at Sweetlopek in white-hot fury; then he opened his mouth once more, and blasted out a note that to Woodrow seemed to contain the entire universe: deep and full, divine and demonic, echoing with beautiful terror.

The fragment of breath and song hit the accursed lumberjack, who flew backwards, crashing into one of the woodcarvings that decorated the glade and knocking it over.

Phantom fluttered over to the dazed creature and pinned him down yet again, his eyes ablaze, his hair flowing, and put his hands at the woodcutter's throat under his beard-

“Tom, NO!” shrieked Woodrow. “Stop- he’s my friend-”

Phantom looked back towards Woodrow, who was still hiding behind the tree. “But Tristan- he-”

Taking advantage of the distraction, the Beast rose again, knocked Phantom over, and towered above him. He drew his axe from the strap of darkmess on his back and raised it high in his clawed hands, his mouth full of hungry fangs, the beaver on his head squealing in terror, and-

Yet another giant blur shout out from the nearby woods, this one much more colorful. It jumped straight for the axe, grabbing it in its massive jaws, landed with a thud, and spat out the weapon several feet away. Then quick as a flash it leapt back again, knocked the Beast over, and they both rolled around on the ground for a moment, like fighting wolves.

Phantom looked on in confusion, while Woodrow quickly understood- the new beast was Dryad, in the form she sometimes took to protect the forest, a giant quadruped with a fierce maw and a fiery mane of foliage.

“YOU!!!” cried Sweetlopek, and it was impossible to tell if anger or delight dominated his distorted voice. “FINALLY…”

“I knew it would come to this, Sweetie,” said the other, and there was no mistake that her own voice, while strong and firm, was as sorrowful as dead brown leaves.

During this exchange, Woodrow had crawled from behind the tree, and reached Phantom, who was sitting there gasping and clutching at his chest.

As Dryad kept down the man she loved, so warped in both spirit and form, she turned her fierce head to the others. “Phantom!” she yelled. “Get Woody away from here. Far away.”

The ghost nodded. “But Dryad! Sweetlopek!” cried out the warden in dismay. “What will happen to-”

Just then, the Beast freed himself from the forest guardian’s grasp, and lunged again at the poet- who, for all his abnormal size, was so small and fragile compared to everyone else here; by far the easiest target. Before he could be harmed, however, Phantom quickly snatched him to his leaking chest, and flew upwards, out of the glade, and high over the forest.

As he flew, Woodrow looked back down as the two lovers recommenced their fighting, until the trees hid them from view. And he burst into agonized sobs, burying his face into Phantom’s neck. No matter who won, there was nothing but sorrow and pain and agony in whatever future he, and this planet, had left.

“...He was your friend, my dear?” said Phantom, as he kept flying at top speed, clutching Woodrow to his chest.

The warden did not answer, so powerful was his grief. Phantom did not press further, and after a few minutes, he found a small clearing. He gently drifted down to it, and set himself upon the grass. He opened his arms, and Woodrow attempted to peel himself off - only to find that his coat had become hopelessly stuck to the darkmess that leaked from his beloved’s wound. Without words, and with sobs that were gradually subsiding, he took off his coat, and then wrapped and stretched and tied the long sleeves around Phantom’s naked chest and back - it served as a bandage to stop the gushing.

Now Woodrow nestled back into Phantom’s arms, as the two of them sat there holding each other in silence, recovering from their mutual shock.

After a moment, Woodrow spoke up. “Thank you, Tom. Thank you for saving me. You look beautiful, now. But… what did you mean, I had saved you? Clearly, I haven’t. You are still afflicted, you still bear the poison of Cursa…”

The ghost smiled down at him, and raised the poet's chin so that they met each other’s eyes. “Tristan Woodrow,” he said, “When you found me, days ago, in this forest… I was soon to die. I know I would have, perhaps that very day. I am still dying, but now my last thoughts shall be happiness and peace, not confusion and regret and sorrow. My love, I have lived a new lifetime with you in these past few days.”

“But Tom,” said the other, gripping a handful of his darling’s hair in anguish, “You can’t die!! We didn’t- we didn’t ACTUALLY live a lifetime together- there’s so much we have to do- the walks alongside the river, in the cool breeze of our long autumn… our visit to the moon… your singing competitions with the birds… you promised…”

Phantom smiled, and a single line of darkmess began to emerge from behind his mask, like a tear. “You are a poet, mon cheri, as am I. Ask yourself: are not words real? We spoke it, and we imagined it, and so it happened, in every way that matters. When we talked about such things, I felt as if I was there. That is the best that either of us could hope for, in these days. On a stage, the play is reality. And that cabin was our stage.”

Woodrow had no tears left, but instead gazed up at the other defiantly. “But what about me?!” he demanded. “You can’t leave me. You may die in peace and contentment, but you leave me here- with what?”

Phantom stroked his companion’s cheek. “Lo siento, my love. What am I to do? I can’t help it. I shall leave you with everything you had before, and then some-”

“I have nothing!” cried the warden, his voice cracking. He stood up and spread his naked arms to the forest. “Look around us. My planet is dying too, and I cannot stop it. The creature you fought - he was a man once, a rabbid, my best friend, and Dryad’s beloved. I could not save him, nor could she. Now who knows what will happen between them - if Dryad dies, the forest will be without hope, and if Sweetlopek dies- why, both me and Dryad will be without hope and the forest will be devastated regardless. I could not save him, I could not save you, I could not save Palette Prime, so tell me, WHAT DO I HAVE?!”

Phantom’s blue eye was wide and sorrowful with empathy, as he rose himself up to hold his beloved, who was shaking with anger and grief.

“Tristan,” he said, “I am sure you have done your best. Nothing but your best. There are some battles that cannot be won, but… we must keep fighting.”

“Then YOU keep fighting!” choked the other. “Don’t you give up, don’t die, don’t- don’t leave me, Tom, please, I- I love you, I need you, my soulmate… I will be nothing without you, nothing… just dirt and mud and crumbled leaves-”

Phantom picked up the poet’s whole body into a bridal carry, and sat back down with the trembling bundle of emotion. “Dear Tristan, portafortuna,” he said in a singsong. “How lucky we are! How kind of the universe, to show me my soulmate before I died, even if so briefly…”

“It isn’t lucky at all!!” cried the other, grasping madly at the ghost’s arm. “It’s-it’s perfectly unlucky, as befits my destiny! My whole life! Don’t you see?! To come to know you, the person whose soul fits with mine like a lock and key, only to have him ripped away so cruelly, so quickly- it’s the worst thing the Fates have ever done to me.”

“Sweet poet, my darling,” sang the other. “Perhaps in another world we are together, in brighter days, without Cursa...”

“But I don’t live in that world, Tom… and neither do you…”

“For a moment, we can,” said Phantom.

And he began to sing, softly. A lullaby in some language Woodrow did not know. The poet let himself be held and sang to- finally, the voice he had yearned so desperately to hear was his to enjoy, all his, accompanied by the crickets and the rustle of leaves in the gathering night. How could he do anything but remain silent, and try to enjoy every note to the fullest? His ears perked up and tilted towards his darling’s face, and he nestled into his chest, kissing him tenderly on the neck and down his chest above his wound. Between verses, Phantom too bent over to plant a kiss on his beloved’s cheek or forehead.

And so it lasted, through several verses, until Phantom gradually seemed to struggle with keeping himself upward- suddenly his entire body jolted, as if trying to keep himself awake from a doze.

“Tom- Tom, are you-”

Phantom said nothing, and trickles of darkmess began to run from his mouth- then he suddenly collapsed backwards, with Woodrow on top of him.

“TOM!!”

The singer blinked, and shook his head, and looked up at Woodrow.

“Tristan-” he said quietly, “It’s time. Now’s the time. You must take my mask off.”

“But, but why- that may kill you, indeed- I cannot hurt you like that, not again…”

“I am dying regardless. Please, Tristan. You must take it off… I do not wish to die with her mark upon me. I wish to die with my own face.”

The poet swallowed back his tears. “Tom, my... my dearest, my darling love… I… there is no face back there. I’m so sorry. Your face, it’s been eaten away behind that mask… I should have told you, but-”

“I know,” said the other, with a weak wave of his paw. “I… guessed as much. But I do not care. Half of a face is still better than a mask. Just, please, take it off of me…”

Woodrow nodded, and positioned himself on top of Phantom as before. Digging his paws under the edge of the mask again, the warden pulled. He pulled, and pulled, giving no heed to the screams that resounded throughout the woods, for he knew what must be done- he tried to ignore all his senses, and his own pain and sorrow, and then before he knew it, the last strands of darkmess had snapped, and the mask was severed. He tossed it away towards the trees.

As before, the thick and oily sludge bubbled up out of the hole in Phantom’s head, with nothing to stop it.

“Thank you, my love-” murmured Phantom, looking up at the face above him, as the substance began to spread over his own face like lava from an erupting volcano. “I will die free. You have-”

Then Woodrow pressed his lips down onto Phantom’s.

“Mm-Trstn-” moaned the ghost in protest from behind their locked mouths, and with all his strength, forced the poet up. “You can’t- you must leave me now- this will kill you, you’ll-”

“I am already dead,” said the poet, and met his lips again. This time the ghost relented, and they kissed each other hungrily, passionately, like starving men who were eating for the first time in ages. Their hands were on each other’s faces, bodies, and hair, until they were both quite covered in darkmess, and Woodrow felt a tingling and burning on his flesh, and a rancid nauseating taste as plenty got into his mouth, but none of this mattered, none of it stopped him-

Then suddenly Phantom gave a sharp cry of pain, and his passion stopped short. Woodrow stopped as well. “Tom, what’s-”

The ghost cried out again, his half-face distorted in agony, and he pointed down towards his belly. Woodrow looked backwards, and then slid off of his lover to the side. Phantom’s body, with the loss of so much of its fluids, had become somewhat deflated - and now, for the very first time since their meeting, Woodrow could see that within Phantom’s stomach were two masses, two clumps of darkmess that stood out solidly amongst the remaining liquid. One was smaller, and had the distinctive shape of the gramophone - which indeed seemed likely to have been the source of the trouble this whole time, as even now, a small river of fresh sludge was pouring from its horn. And the other was some kind of rounder mass, indistinguishable, and very large…

Phantom continued to moan, and Woodrow lifted his head onto his own lap, in helpless fear, not knowing how to ease his pain. “Tom, how can I-”

And then, with a quiet pop, Phantom’s belly burst, like a water balloon, spilling its contents out over the forest floor. Out poured the darkmess, and the gramophone, which began to shed its coating of goop, and the other lump, which - as excess darkmess dripped from it, began to seem… almost… fuzzy…

Woodrow gasped in horror, feeling far more nauseous at this sight than at the darkmess he had swallowed. His mind was still reeling from Phantom bursting, when, from the rounded clump of darkmess, sprang up two tiny insectoid wings. They were bent and corroded, but still recognizable… just as the whole form itself, despite being largely stained black, and eaten away, was becoming more recognizable… ears, paws, a face...

“Holy stars. Mother of Rosalina,” swore Woodrow in terror. “Oh stars. Oh stars-”

Phantom groaned, and looked down weakly at the mess before him. “Oh, Tristan…” he moaned. “I… I remember now, I-”

The poet’s hands were over his mouth, trying not to throw up, and the last of his tears were streaming from his eyes. He could not look Phantom in the face.

“I could not remember until this moment," Phantom began, fighting hard for each word, "but… before I came here… I went. To Terra Flora. Looking for a cure… when I first became able to fight Cursa off, it’s... the first place I tried, because… I thought… Bea, I thought she-” he coughed up a burst of darkmess - “I thought she could help. And- and she did. She tried, despite everything I had done to her. She took pity on me- but… but Cursa overpowered me again, and- and we overpowered her… and I, we… we absorbed her…”

Woodrow looked down at Phantom again, his eyes wild and red with tears, then glanced up at the ruined and darkmess-riddled body that had once been Bea, then back down at Phantom. “She- she’s been here the whole time- she’s been INSIDE YOU-”

“I did not know,” said Phantom, and every broken word was agony. “And yet, somehow- I could still sense, I- I knew that I was a danger to you- I suppose I remembered, vaguely… that something had happened…”

“And then you came here next, to get me?!” said Woodrow, his voice thin and jumpy with horror and revulsion. “Working your way down the warden line? Well, you succeeded!”

“Perhaps Cursa brought me here for that reason, I do not know. I have… no memory… of how I came here. Even still. But it was I who fell in love, Tristan. It’s only ever been me. Since the moment I awoke… in that cabin… with you by my side. Since the moment… I heard you humming in my dreams. It’s only ever…been me… it’s only ever been… you…”

He reached up to touch Woodrow’s face, and the warden let himself be caressed; then he kissed Tom’s paw. “I believe you, Tom,” he said, crying softly. “I’m sorry, it’s just- it’s all so horrible-”

“I know,” said Phantom. “And that is why I have to die. There is no happy ending for me.”

“Take me with you,” said Woodrow softly. He took off his glasses, and smiled down at Phantom with his gentle green eyes, red around their rims from crying, his thundering raincloud forming a halo. “Let us go together into the night. There is nothing left for me in this world.”

“No, Tristan, mon cœur, ma vie… You deserve far better. I cannot rest in peace, knowing I had killed two people, two that I had loved… leave me, and run far away…”

“You didn’t kill me,” said the warden. “Let’s say my own poems did.”

He caressed the cheek of his lover, who now only had half a face, and half a body, and had already spilled out darkmess all over the ground and onto Woodrow, and said,

“I’ve been working on something for you. It’s deeply ironic now, but… listen.

You came to me a stranger In a time much stranger yet, And you carried me from danger, Aye, the danger of regret.

Your soul was made of fire, Kept me warm throughout the night, Lit my path throughout the mire, Taught me how to seek the light.

You were made so wondrous, That you sing without a word, Your voice is loud and thund’rous Even when you are not heard.

Your presence is itself a song And tho' your mouth be sealed, Your melody has greeted me And left me whole and healed.

Indeed one day you shall break free, The darkness cannot claim you, And your defiant melody Shall break the bonds that tame you.

Oh, my darling! What a joy it's been To know you as I do, The darkness shan't destroy, my friend, The light that lives in you.”

As Woodrow spoke, caressing Phantom’s hair, Jinx had started to rain upon them both. It washed away the darkmess from their faces for a time, and delayed the inevitable. But ultimately it was no use, this time. The darkmess was too strong, and too thick, and too plentiful. As the poem went on, they grew ever more covered in it. It dripped out of Phantom’s face, and by the final verse, his visage was completely hidden- save for his eye that peered out, and the vague form of a smile that could be seen as Woodrow recited his work. And so too were the warden’s paws, and his lap and his knees and legs, overtaken by the ever-growing puddle.

There wasn’t much left in Phantom’s deflated body, but from a few feet away, the gramophone had continued to spill out a new surge as well. It poured like a sluggish waterfall, forming a puddle that connected the lifeless body of Bea to the two lovers nearby, all united by the same ominous pool.

Woodrow looked down at his beloved and finished his poem, heedless of the darkmess that had begun to encase his legs from above and below.

“It was beautiful, my dear,” Phantom said, his voice barely audible and distorted as the darkmess ate away at what was left of his face. “I’m glad I got to hear it.”

“And I’m glad I got to say it,” said the poet. With something of a struggle, he pulled himself free of the puddle amassing around him- just enough to lay his body down next to Phantom, on the ground, intimately connected in that moment to both the planet and the person he loved above all things. He pulled what remained of Phantom towards him, and fought through the sludge to kiss his lips. The darkmess surged into his mouth, down his throat, and he felt searing pain from within and without.

But the pain, to him, was a divine blessing. He was dissolving, he knew, into the same undistinguished mass that Phantom and Bea would become. A venn diagram of poetry and song with Phantom at its center. It’s better like this.

Phantom’s wings, which had laid still and become part of the puddle, fluttered again, just enough to wrap around Woodrow and pull him ever closer into the dark embrace.

The last words uttered in the glade that night, softly under the bubbling and roiling sound of the terrible sludge at work, were "I love you," and "I love you too. Forever."

And so it was that the poetry went silent, and Woodrow’s last work was never heard by another soul - no one, except a certain cloud which, having rained itself out in one last act of grief, allowed itself- for the first time in decades- to fully dissipate, back into the air of the planet from which it had been formed.

THE END

[So! Here are my thanks-

Dryad's beast form comes from @minnesotamedic186 !

The general direction of the ending, and Bea being involved, comes from @hostess-of-horror's distressing concept for Phantom in Sparks of Despair. I've been working towards a conclusion that honors her vision this whole time, so here we are!

Thanks to YOU for reading this, even though it might have broken your heart as it did mine. The terror of this story, the monster at the end of this book, lived in the back of my mind for over a year, and as hard as it was to finally write down, now I can finally put it to rest.]

[naminethewriter]

What did you think this trip was for?

It's already the last day of Loceit Week! So sad for it to be over already, but I had lots of fun and I hope you did, too! @loceitweek

Masterpost | Loceit Week 2024 Masterpost | Ao3

Prompt: It was probably what everyone should have expected to happen, but they all still acted surprised.

Summary: Janus and Logan invited all their friends out on a trip with them. There must be an ulterior motive, right?

Content Warnings: None

~~*~~

“Alright everybody, shut up and listen!” Remus called as he burst into the room. Gathered there were Roman, Patton, Virgil, Remy and Emile who looked at him with varying degrees of worry.

“What did you do now?” Virgil groaned, leaning back into the cushions of the couch. “We’re on vacation, can’t you just chill for a day?”

“Nope, not possible. And it’s your hosts who are requesting your presence in the garden.”

“Oh, do we finally figure out why the hell they paid for all of us to accompany them out to the middle of nowhere?” Remy quipped but got to his feet, as did everybody else.

“Maybe, maybe not~!” Remus singsonged before leaving the way he came.

“Alright, any last-minute bets?” Roman asked around, pulling out a small notebook. “Patton?”

“I’m sticking with it, kiddo!”

“Sure. Emile?”

“Same!”

“We’d have said something if we changed our minds, princey. Get moving,” Virgil complained, shoving him forward.

“Alright then we have Remy and Virgil on them moving away and Patton, Emile and me on wedding announcement.”

“Yeah, and the suspension is killing me babes, so let’s go out,” Remy called, already halfway through the door.

Out in the garden they found enough chairs for each of them in a half circle and in the middle stood Remus, grinning at them.

“There you are! Took your sweet time too! Sit down before the grooms manage to arrive before you.”

“Wait, grooms?!” Patton squealed. “They’re getting married right now?”

“Yeah.”

“You can’t be serious,” Remy balked.

“What did you think this trip was for, boo?” Remus laughed. It was probably what everyone should have expected to happen, in his opinion, but they all still acted surprised. They were all staring at him with wide eyes.

Wait.

“Did you really not think this might happen?”

“No!” Roman shouted. “Why would we? Logan and Janus aren’t really the type to—” He cut himself off, thinking for a moment. “Well, Janus would but I didn’t think Logan would go along with it! I thought this is like a bachelor party or something and they were going to tell us when the wedding is going to be, not that this is the wedding! I’m not dressed for this!”

“Oh, Logie was quite happy doing it like this, you know how he is about big parties. This intimate thing with just his closest friends is his Crofters jam.” Despite his shock, Patton couldn’t help but laugh at the horrible pun. “And Jay was so hoping you’d freak out over the lack of proper wardrobe, so mission accomplished! Now sit down!”

“I demand you let me change!” Roman cried but Virgil just grabbed his arm and dragged him to the chairs.

“Let it go, Ro. If this is what the grooms want, then just go along with it.”

Roman grumbled but let himself be seated, Virgil plopping into the seat next to him. On his other side Remy took his place, then Patton and lastly Emile was about to sit down but he stopped in the last moment, blinking confused.

“What about you, Remus?”

“What about me, Cartoon Crazy?”

“Where are you going to sit? There are no more chairs?”

“I don’t need to sit! I’m officiating!”

“Oh heaven, this is a disaster,” Roman groaned.

“Those aren’t nice things to say at someone’s wedding, Roman,” a voice said behind them, and they all turned around to see Logan and Janus had arrived. Both were wearing neatly pressed suits, Janus’ black and gold and Logan’s dark blue and silver.

“Damn!” Remy whistled. “You both are looking fine!”

“Thank you, Remy,” Logan smiled.

“See, one person knows how to behave,” Janus smirked at Roman who pouted.

“You don’t even tell us we’re going to be attending your wedding and you made Remus your officiant? How can you expect me not to comment?”

“By expecting that you can control your tongue for once, Roman. But it seems that was too much to ask.”

“Dear, can you please wait to further antagonize our guest until after the ceremony?” Logan asked, squeezing Janus’ arm that was interlocked with his. “I would like to marry you in the next few minutes.”

“I would complain if that wasn’t so romantic,” Roman huffed and his brother cackled.

“Come up here then, love birds! The sooner we’re done, the sooner you can get to smooching.” Remus wiggled his eyebrows at them and Janus sighed.

“I really shouldn’t have given into his demands.”

“I’m sure it will be fine, love. At least he will be quick about it,” Logan reassured him as they moved around the chairs to join Remus in the middle of their little ceremony.

“True. And I can’t wait to be able to say yes.”

“Me neither.”

[extasiswings]

Got a Sunday “are you going to turn around a new draft of this” email for something that a) is not urgent, and b) came in late Friday afternoon (with no mention of a return deadline), and I did in fact turn around a new draft this morning on a holiday because I had time but it took a lot of effort not to snap. Because “responsiveness” was given as one of the reasons I’m apparently not fit for my current job, but we’ve had multiple office-wide meetings since I started about work-life balance and the importance of setting boundaries and sticking to them to prevent burnout (including things like “you don’t have to answer emails or do work at all hours of the night or on weekends unless you’re actively working on something really urgent/to meet a deadline”), and my “responsiveness” is no different than anyone else’s except for the fact that I tend to actually stick to my work-life balance boundaries (which again they TOLD us to set). There was no reason to send me an email on a holiday weekend asking for status as if I’ve done something wrong by not working on non-urgent matters (that don’t have deadlines) outside of the work week, and if that’s part of the reason I’m being asked to leave, well frankly, fuck off

[grassbreads]

Everyone needs to read Hiraeth -The End of the Journey- right fucking now

[kirythestitchwitch]

Klaroline WIP Wed - 1423 AU - 2.2 - There Was Only One Horse

all the walls of dreaming (they were torn wide open) (ch 1) Part 2.1 here (does not directly follow this)

-------------------------------

They only had one horse, and Caroline did not know how to ride on her own. She was sure she could learn—given a proper saddle—but they didn’t have the time for instructions or to check every well-off stable they came across for a side-saddle. Which meant that for the past three days, Caroline had been subjected to a daily torture she hadn’t expected when she set out to fetch a living spell ingredient.

There were some personal accounts of encounters with the Originals to be found in the esoteric libraries her kind kept secret and hidden in the Mother of Cities. Caroline had always found these tales fascinating for their depth of horror, and the few good things recorded were often tempered by a devil’s bargain.

Nothing could have prepared her for sharing a horse. A horse that Klaus very obligingly saddled and packed each morning, a private, taunting smile tucked away in the corners of his mouth.

A mouth that lingered in her field of view every time he lifted her onto the saddle, that small glimmer of a knowing that stiffened her spine, even as she noticed every other detail about him in a sort of hyper focus that did not bode well for her sanity: the feeling of his hands tight on her waist, his shoulders under the wool of his tunic firm against her palms as she steadied herself on her precarious perch. And then, horribly, that lurching moment in her stomach when she couldn’t help herself and looked into his blue eyes that were, without fail, looking up into hers.

Wringing her hair out took a moment, and then she scooped a couple fingers full of soap out of the little jar. Tilting her head to the side over the basin, she began to lather her hair, working the soap through the strands. If only she could scrub her ever circling mind clean the same way.

Why had he gone and kissed her like that, like it had been the whole point of getting out of that box, like it had been more necessary than air? She kept on thinking about it, the kiss a fuzzy haze in her memories, mouth soft, tongue a barely there tease. Wait, was there tongue? Just what she didn’t need, her mind inventing a new madness for her to cling to. She was expecting to be fretting with worry over Enzo, not obsessing over some vampire with boundary issues.

Everything was a constant tug of war with Klaus. She always tried sitting stiffly originally, leaning away from his body, but that did her little good. The motion of the horse brought her back to him time and time again.

“It really is more comfortable if you move with the horse,” Klaus had said, voice a murmur in her ear that stirred the hair on the back of her neck. She tried not to shiver, focused on the fact that he sounded piqued.

She had gritted her teeth against the soreness in her spine. “I’m fine,” she had said, making an effort not to squirm. His thighs held her hips in place; she didn’t need to make this situation worse.

“Caroline, do try to relax. Don’t worry, I won’t bite.” Somehow, this low pronouncement was not reassuring, its tone a temptation of the unknown. 

They had ridden for what felt like hours. When she had finally allowed her spine to curve into the front of his chest, Klaus had made a pleased little noise, his nose brushing the curve of her ear and breath warm on her neck.

“Should I add ‘obstinate’ to the list of things I know about you, sweetheart?” This close, the timbre of his voice had hummed through her bones.

[where-are-the-spooky-gays-2]

So I made a

Nagito Andy

Byakuya Remy

What if I make a jataro Virgil

Very cursed. D O I T /very positive

[phobicrow]

ok,,,, so,.,,,,,, im remaking my intro because I dont like it abymoe and I wanna liek,.,,,,, fuck idk Hi Im Max but I also go by kin names (Ill post my strawpage in my bio soon guys I prommise) I'm a 16yo artist who at the time of writing this (5/2/2024) rlly RLLY likes toontown corporate clashh,,,, Im looking for friends/moots who like it too because I RLLY wanna make a silly friend group with it and idk if any of my other friends rlly care enough ab it to want to play or engage in it as much as mne ,,,,

I RLLYYYYYY like the duck shuffler he is so silly and cutie patootie him and his piano husband both <3 they are the sweeties ever methinks and I loobv them I also engage in and draw OC x Canon and also liek,,,,m,,,, idk im tired while typing this I think that im burnt out. but like, yeah !!!!!! my asks are always open btw tell me to draw anything aslong as its not proship or nsfw or anything ,,, so like. even if it's an OC or a canon character from some anime or something idgaf also also I rlly like danganronpa ans undertale/ts!underswap/Undertale Yellow so if you guys like that too then follow :3333333 I dont have a strict schedule for posting ans also I literally draw whatever I want so like,. yah :3

[cosmo-production]

(this was made for joke, im not really gonna start a fight over the safety of cartoon bunnies)

HOW DARE YOU DO THIS TO MY BOY!

just let cursa win, a world without rabbid Mario isn't one worth saving!

atleast we still have bea....

(warning spooky stuff ahead)

(art by hostess-of-horror)

AW, COME ON

[icryyoumercy]

one thing that always trips me up is when i offer food to people who have food restrictions is how delighted they are when they learn it is a food they can eat?

like. if i bring food for everyone to share, it seems only polite to make sure everyone can in fact share it? that on its own shouldn't be grounds for thanks or anything? i feel like that should just be the normal thing people do?

[doveofmourning]

Embarrassing flex but girlie's music literally saving my life rn

[pixies-and-poets]

Music of the Night - Chapter Six

This part is pretty long, and also a bit time-skippy, but I had to do both or else I could easily get caught up writing this fanfic for the rest of my life. But now I can safely say that the next chapter will be the last. Thanks to everyone who's come on this terrible journey with me!

Slight emetophobia warning, and body horror as usual.

Chapter One - In Sleep He Sang to Me

Chapter Two - Do I Dream Again?

Chapter Three - Our Strange Duet

Chapter Four - To Glance Behind

Chapter Five - Those Who Have Seen Your Face

Chapter Six - Where Night is Blind

Woodrow had made it about halfway back to Palletteville, his mumbled cascade of words seeming to hang in the air and follow him like his own cloud, when another voice cut them short.

“Warden!!” came the urgent hiss. He stopped in his tracks and turned around to find Dryad, her eyes wide and panicked.

The poet blinked for a moment, shaking his head, trying to come out of his poetic reverie and back to reality. “Yes?” he said finally.

“What in the name of all stars is going on?” She spoke rapidly, getting close to his face and inspecting him. “Are you alright? Is the Phantom alright? I heard that awful screaming from clear across the forest! I was just heading to the cabin as fast as I could, but saw you here on my way…”

“Ah,” said the warden, scratching at the back of one paw with the other, nervously. “Yes, Phantom is alright, for now. But…” and so, he went ahead and told her about his efforts with the mask.

Dryad listened to his story in concern, her ears drooping slightly. When he had finished, she nodded. “I see. For a moment I thought you- well, I thought maybe he was reacting to Sweetlopek’s fashion sense…” but her attempt at a joke fell flat, as Woodrow seemed too crushed for levity, and merely twitched the corner of his mouth into a failed half-smile.

“Well, anyway,” said Dryad, waving her paw. “Thank you for telling me. But listen- you mustn’t try that again. We can’t have him screeching to shake all the leaves in the woods. You might attract the minions of Cursa… including… you know.”

Woodrow’s eyes widened. “Oh- Dryad, do you think-”

“I think it’s fine for now,” said the forest spirit. “As for our main concern, he’s been keeping his territory elsewhere the past few days, in deeper and darker parts of the forest. I’ve been using my magic as best I can to lure and keep him there. Still, I will guard this area for a while.”

“Thank you,” said the warden. “I’m sorry for the trouble.” Then he suddenly clasped his hands together. “But oh, Dryad- what’s to be done? About Tom? Do you have any ideas?”

Dryad blinked, recalling that just yesterday Woodrow had claimed to not have the closeness with his patient for such names as Tom. But she only remarked upon it internally.

“Hmm,” she said, frowning. “All I can say is, I don’t think that mask is really the source of his troubles. If you almost had it off, and the darkmess was still being produced, then… the problem is probably internal, I’m afraid. It would be good to remove it, of course, but perhaps we had better concentrate on curing his poisoning first. If we get rid of the darkmess, that thing will likely fall off on its own.”

Woodrow nodded sadly. “I’m not in any hurry to try again,” he said. “But… alas! We still seem so far from finding a cure, for those overtaken by the dreadful substance.”

Dryad shrugged. “It’s hard for me to look into things, when I’m busy protecting the animals and the trees, but I’m doing my best. As are the people of your village. Have you heard from any of the other wardens about any breakthroughs lately?”

The poet shook his head. “Our best bet was Terra Flora, and- they’ve still been silent for about a week. Ever since Bea disappeared… last I heard, Alkementor was too distressed to work, and we’ve lost contact since then.”

“Poor Bea,” said Dryad, her ears drooping once more. Meanwhile, a thought crossed Woodrow’s mind- he wondered if Phantom had heard of her recent disappearance. After all, the two of them… well, he wondered if it would be appropriate to even bring it up. Would it distress him? Would he feel guilty that he had never made amends with her? He had best not broach the subject, when he was already in such a delicate state…

“What about Barrendale Mesa?” asked the nature spirit. “They’re still holding strong out there, right?”

“Indeed, I think so,” said the warden. “But Momma and her crew have been working on ways to purify darkmess from the environment. Medical cures aren’t really their expertise.”

“Well, when there is a breakthrough… whether it’s on this planet, or if we get some kind of shipment from elsewhere…” she looked the warden firmly in the eyes, “remember that the first doses will be given to those who need it most. And those from Palette Prime take priority. They are your people, and this planet is your ward. Don’t you lose sight of that.”

Woodrow closed his eyes for a moment, and nodded.

“And especially… you know who we must concentrate on first. Not only for his own sake, but for the sake of the entire planet he’s been menacing.”

“Of course,” said the warden quietly, opening his eyes again.

And, after a few more moments of discussion and brief goodbyes, the two were parted.

—

Three days and three nights came to pass. In that time, Dryad kept busy - guiding and protecting and caring for animals, laying spells, attempting to protect and restore the trees and other plants where she could, and much more. She heard no more screams ring out across the forest, and in fact was so caught up in her business that she never ventured back by the little cabin. She had no contact with Woodrow, and barely with any other rabbid at all, and assumed things must be going well enough.

As for the people of Paletteville, it took them a little while to notice, but it soon spread throughout the population that something was wrong with the warden. He was even more reclusive than normal, and looked even sadder and more tired on the rare occasions he was seen. It had been the habit of some townsfolk to visit his home and ask for advice; he was respected enough in that regard to have been elected to his position, after all. But in these days, they found he was hardly ever at home, or not answering the door if he was. In fact, as time passed, he seemed to never be there at all. Knocks at his door went unanswered, and no one knew where he had gone.

What’s more, they began to notice the cloud over his house growing thinner and smaller - until one day it was gone completely.

That cloud, of course, was intimately connected with him. With his soul, his curse, his destiny. This was more than a bad omen, to the people of Palette Prime. It was proof.

“He’s gone,” the villagers murmured amongst themselves. “Somethin’ got ‘im.”

“Ya think he was tryin’ to tame the Beast?”

“Maybe. Prob'ly wrote him a poem to try and talk some sense into him.”

“That poor pathetic soul, bless ‘im. He wouldn’t give up on his best friend if he was actively tearin’ the warden apart.”

And so the assumption spread that the warden had met an unfortunate fate, which was- they all admitted- bound to happen eventually. At any rate, it was decided that search parties would soon be sent out to find his body, and give him a proper burial if they could.

“Near the moon. That would be appropriate,” one villager had said, and everyone agreed.

He was the Plague of Palette Prime, the great harbinger of disaster, and on top of that a terrible poet, or so his planet-mates thought.

But he was also their warden, and a good man. And he deserved the respect in death that the Fates had not given him in life.

—

That man was very much alive. And he was good. And any good person who has made a promise in earnest passion, and then failed to keep that promise despite their absolute best efforts, would understand the pain that encroached upon his soul from all sides.

After trying to pull of the mask, Woodrow spent the day checking up on various things in town, using the computer in the post office to send out more fruitless messages to the other planets, and - in his spare moments - scrawling mad snippets of poetry in the journal that he had retrieved from the cabin.

But in the afternoon of that day, he decided it best to check back on Phantom, and the moment he entered the door, found that the ghost’s own assurances of being fine, of being safe, had been proven false.

He lay on the bed, his eye closed, breathing hard. A large amount of darkmess had leaked out from his porous ectoplasm, forming a puddle on the bed, a smaller version of the state in which Woodrow had first found him. The puddle dripped over the edges and corners of the bed, and the ghost seemed to be fused to it now. One of the poetry books lay splayed open on its bent pages on the ground, where he had clearly dropped it- his paw drooping over the bed as his chest shook in a pained sleep.

“Tom!” cried the poet, then clapped his paws over his mouth, remembering Dryad’s warning about making too much noise. He rushed over and stroked the ghost’s hair, then kneeled down, picked up the limp paw that was hanging off the bed, and rubbed it. “Tom- my dear- wake up…”

Indeed, the ghost’s eye opened, then closed again, then opened once more and slowly rolled over to look at his companion. He smiled, warmly but clearly in pain. “Ah… there you are," he said, between heavy gasps. "I’m sorry… you have to see me like this again. Oh! Don’t cry, mi tesoro…”

Woodrow and his eyes, of course, ignored this command. “Tom, I’m the one who should apologize. I should have stayed…”

“Nonsense!” said the Phantom, still weak, but gradually gaining some energy at the other’s presence. “What could you have done? I feared my ailment would reassert itself… that this is a problem we could only stave off temporarily… I just… hoped it might take a little longer.”

“Oh, what am I to do-” said the warden in panic, standing up once more, still holding his darling’s hand with one of his own, and raising the other to his head. “I can’t… all of the soap on the planet can’t clean this…”

Phantom kept smiling, and let his eye close. “Mon chéri, you mustn’t work yourself up like this. If this is how it is to be, then… so be it. Let me lie in it. It will happen, no matter what you do. I just have to keep fighting it from the inside, and hopefully I will win, and then I can be free…”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” cried the other, leaning over and stroking his hair again, and his ears. “Come now. I can’t give up so easily, I can’t… I…” he trailed off, as a thought began to creep up from the back of his mind. He was considering how to best dispel a puddle of darkmess, and it suddenly occurred to him that his own home was blessedly free of it, and perhaps he could move Phantom there- but no, there was a reason for that, and wouldn’t it be easier if…

“Jinx!” he said in excitement, looking at his cloud. “Your rain… can it…” 

The cloud gave a little bob, and took position above Phantom. It began to rain over Phantom’s stomach, over the bed. And indeed- it didn’t dissolve the black sludge, but it did push it away; washing it off, so it slid down like oil being repelled by water, over the sides of the bed and onto the floor. Jinx then moved towards the glob, pushing it towards the door - which Woodrow had left open in his shock - and out onto the ground outside.

Phantom sat his upper body up, and watched the process with speechless amazement. “Well,” he said as Jinx herded the darkmess out of the door. “I never would have guessed!"

Woodrow smiled, blushing, but genuinely very happy and relieved. “Wonderful, isn't it? I know water and rain don't normally wash away darkmess by themselves, but... there is something special about my own little storm, here. My theory is that two manifestations of misfortune repel each other, like the similar poles of a magnet."

"Impressive indeed," said the singer with a nod. "But- next time ask me permission before raining on me. It was cold! I should have liked to brace myself. Although, I suppose it WAS energizing...”

Woodrow blushed even deeper, but still smiled. "Apologies. And my apologies too, that you must now lay on a damp bed, but surely it’s better than the alternative.”

“Certamente!” said the ghost. “I hardly mind it at all.”

“Now,” said Woodrow, tapping his foot in deep thought- looking around at the bed and the trail of water on the cabin’s floor, and at Jinx, who was quite depleted again. “Jinx - would you be able to keep watch over Tom, when I’m not here?”

The little cloud, barely visible, was coming back over to Woodrow, but stopped short. Then, after a moment, it shook itself back and forth, and swirled around the poet’s head.

“Yes, I know you want to keep watch over me. But… he needs you more than I do, right now.”

The little cloud roiled turbulently, and probably would have thundered in agitation, but was too rained out to have the ability. Instead she just positioned herself around Woodrow’s ears, where she felt like a light mist.

“Alright, alright, let’s compromise. Can you… convince some of the rest of you to come over? From my home? A little piece of the big cloud can split itself off and come here, how is that?”

The cloud sprang in front of Woodrow’s face again, then bobbed up and down enthusiastically. It then zoomed off in the direction of the warden’s house. Woodrow smiled, and sank down into the chair next to Phantom’s bedside.

“Oh, Tristan,” said the ghost. “You are as clever and creative as you are kind. Truly I am lucky that you of all people found me, my portafortuna.”

And so it was that Jinx soon came back, with a chunk of larger cloud behind her, which took up residence above the cabin, ready to rain down through the holes in the roof when Phantom next went through another burst of darkmess production. And the two rabbids talked for hours, of art and poetry, and imagined themselves in all the romantic spots of a healthy Palette Prime, and spun hypothetical tales of what they would do in better days. All seemed well in the world that evening, when Woodrow lay devoted kisses on his companion’s palm and wrist and the back of his hand, and on his forehead and the tips of his ears, before bidding him farewell.

….But the next morning when he returned, he peered into the cabin to see things much as before, as Phantom had produced more darkness during the night than the poor cloud could produce water to keep up with. And so, filled with determined and anxious adrenaline, and stepping around the goo that now puddled all over the floor to be with his patient, Woodrow ordered Jinx to come back with even more of the cloud.

And at the same time, he decided then and there that he must stay with Phantom full-time, only leaving when absolutely necessary, and to sleep elsewhere in safety.

Thus it went for the next couple of days. And this is where, despite Woodrow’s greatest efforts, he began to falter in the promise he had so passionately made.

The reader need not hear every moment of the chronicle, and indeed Phantom would probably be embarrassed that people were getting even part of it. Suffice to say, that in the coming days, the endless wellspring of darkness inside him started to work harder than ever. He would suddenly ooze out through his porous underside; sometimes he would suddenly, in the midst of softly talking with his dear companion, choke and cough and vomit out a burst of it down his face and chest; and sometimes it seeped out anew, all over his face, from under the edges of his mask.

Ever more of the cloud came, until its entire volume was there: part of it settling above the roof and part of it inside the cabin, forming a stormy ceiling, raining as much as it could, washing and pushing the darkmess out and away. But the cloud needed to rest at times, to gather more moisture from the environment… and the sludge kept coming back. Half the time Woodrow sat there, soaked and shivering, the skin of his paws and ears slightly wrinkled and blue, shadows underneath his wild eyes, as the rain fell on both of them, and he did not seem to care at all for his own health. He had propped his own umbrella up, resting on the bed and against the wall, so that it covered and protected Phantom’s head and chest, keeping that part of him dry. Whenever it was needed, Woodrow reached over with a rag and soap and tenderly wiped off any new ooze that was leaking from under the accursed mask.

The warden lost track of all things besides Phantom. He no longer knew or cared what time of day it was, or how many days had passed. When the fatigue became unbearable, he dragged himself back home, set his alarm for a few hours of sleep, and then came back. All other duties and responsibilities to his planet ceased to cross his mind. He brought back his full store of darkmess-battling soap… every citizen had been given a certain amount, and as warden, he had been given extra, to ration out in case of emergencies. This was an emergency.

Eventually, Woodrow tired of going all the way back to his house on the outskirts of Paletteville to rest; and what’s more, it was a waste of time. Time he should be spending at Phantom’s side. He realized there was a much closer spot, halfway… and thus he found himself, dizzy and half-awake, at Sweetlopek’s door once again. He hadn’t even locked it after his last visit to retrieve the clothes, but nothing seemed to have been disturbed since Dryad left. Everyone on the planet had enough respect - or perhaps fear - to leave it alone.

And yet there was Woodrow, crashing himself onto the familiar couch where he had fallen asleep many a time after an evening spent with his friend, when he was too tired to make it home after a night of wine and games and talking. Now the place was silent, and their laughter rang out no more. Before Woodrow fell asleep in his exhaustion, his eyes fell on a framed picture on the table near the couch. It was the woodsman and the Dryad together on their planet’s famous bridge, hugging each other and smiling in lovestruck glee. He had never noticed this picture before, and indeed, it must have been new… there was only a small window of time in which it could have been taken.

He looked away from it in grief and closed his eyes. Would any couple on this planet ever experience that happiness again? Would any in the entire galaxy?

And he was soon asleep.

—

It was the fourth day since Phantom’s arrival, and dusk was gathering. Dryad was making her way across the forest, floating as fast as she could. As exhausted as she was from her recent efforts, this could not wait. Rumors had reached her, from rabbids she had seen in the woods: the warden was dead. His cloud was gone. But she knew better, for she had heard from the animals that the cloud had merely taken up new residence above a certain tiny shack in the woods. At any rate, she could no longer trust that things were alright with Woodrow and Phantom. If Woodrow had been isolating himself so much that people thought he had perished… well, she could only hope that indeed he had not fallen into a permanent sleep, entwined in the darkmess that seeped from the man he was trying to save.

Before long she heard the sound of rain in the distance, and indeed came upon a cabin with a dark halo of raincloud, dripping down onto its roof and directly into its structure. And, to her horror, from under the door and all around the edges of the cabin, was a thick moat of darkmess. She floated above it towards a window and peered inside, with no small amount of dread.

The scene that met her eyes was so upsetting that she gasped softly, and needed a moment to comprehend what she was looking at.

The warden sat on his chair - both it and him soaking wet - his knees pulled up to his chest, and he was shivering; heedless of his own self-destruction, as the rain poured down onto him and the Phantom alike (albeit the latter at least partially protected by an umbrella). After a moment of observation, Dryad understood what the plan here was… the rain was washing the darkmess away from Phantom, although even now, more oozed out from his stomach as if it were an overfilled, dripping sponge, and the water from above washed it to the floor and then towards the doorway or the walls. Indeed, there was not much of the stuff around the two rabbids inside, but still, they both looked barely alive. The poet was soaking wet, possibly suffering from hypothermia, and the Phantom’s eyes were closed, his skin pale.

Dryad was about to enter the room on a rescue mission, when suddenly the ghost stirred.

“Tristan,” he said, in a low, raspy whisper. “Oh- I can… barely speak. I think… I will lose my voice again soon. It- hurts….”

The warden moved, showing his first real sign of life since Dryad had been observing him. He leaned forward, putting his wet paw on the side of the Phantom’s face. “Ssshh,” he said. “Don’t talk then.”

The ghost shook his head. “I don’t… want to lose it again. Tristan… I want… I want you to read me your poems. Can you do that for me?”

“Darling, you know I can’t,” the other said, with a sad smile. “We can’t risk it. Any bit of bad luck could… could… well… let’s keep your luck as good as possible, right now.”

This was clearly a private moment, and thus Dryad floated off to the side of the window, so as not to gaze upon them - and so they would not see her, as well.

“It’s a lost cause,” wheezed the Phantom. “Look at me, mon cœur. I am dying. And I want to hear your poetry from your own lips before I do.”

“No, Tom, no…” Dryad couldn’t see his face, but could hear the tears in his voice. “You can’t give up like that… you have to hold on, until we find a cure…”

“You have to give up on saving me,” said the other. “Look… you are destroying yourself, portafortuna… give me your words, your precious words, my love, and let me rest…”

“But I promised, Tom, I promised I would save you… don’t talk like that, darling, I-”

“I think soon I shall not talk at all,” he said. “In fact, I-” he coughed, and gagged. “I, Tristan, I- GHH- love-”

At the sounds of Phantom’s distress, Dryad had peeked back in again, just in case. As his voice cut off, his jaw snapped shut, and he motioned to his throat, to his mouth. He could open it no more.

Woodrow leaned his weary head onto the ghost’s chest and lay there, his soaking arms draped over the other in defeat, his body shaking. “No, Tom, your voice…” he was sobbing. “Don’t… don’t leave me without it… don’t leave me… my sunshine… don’t leave me…”

Dryad couldn’t take this scene anymore. She came in, right through the window, which lacked any glass. To Phantom’s astonishment, she went over to the warden and pulled him up. He barely reacted, flopping around like a sopping ragdoll.

“Woodrow!!” she cried, shaking him. “Woodrow! Listen- he’s right, you know. You’re destroying yourself, and you won’t do any good to ANYONE that way.”

Phantom, for all his weakness and surprise, nodded and pointed to her in agreement.

“I don’t care anymore,” he said. “Let me be destroyed, then. What does it matter? I can’t save anyone…”

“Woodrow, go rest,” the nature spirit commanded, the rain now falling on her own leafy head. “Go dry yourself off, and warm yourself up, and get a GOOD night’s sleep. I’ll watch over Phantom.”

The warden stood up weakly, his eyes barely focusing on anything. “But what if he gets worse,” he said, barely audible. “What if I’m not here when he… if he…”

“If he gets worse, I’ll come get you,” said the Dryad.

Woodrow swallowed, then nodded, with no feeling. “I’ll be at Sweetlopek’s house.”

Dryad gave him a look of indignance, but then took a deep breath, and decided now was not the time to argue about it. “You’re right,” she said. “That’s closer. Alright. You go there.”

“Mmm,” said the warden, swaying on his feet, and Dryad was mildly concerned he wouldn’t make it.

“Do you want me to accompany you?” she asked.

“I’ll be fine,” he mumbled. “Stay with Tom. Watch him for me. Please.”

Then he turned back to the bed, met Phantom’s eyes, and gently took some strands of his messy hair into his paw… then let it fall.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said tenderly, then turned and left, followed by one small fragment of Jinx, as ever.

He dragged his feet through the leafy bed of the forest, winding as if drunk around puddles of darkmess and fallen trees.

But he did make it to Sweetlopek’s home. He had locked it again last time, and so he reached into one of the inner pockets of his wet coat, and took out a keyring. With fumbling and shaking hands, he managed to eventually get the right key into the lock. But just as he was turning it, he sensed the presence of… something. Something big. As he froze, his eyes blankly staring at the door, he heard a loud THUD and the crunch of countless leaves behind him.

He turned. There in the twilight was a massive figure, a shadow blocking out the trees and the sky behind it. It was a rabbid… mostly… wearing the shredded remains of a flannel shirt. He was huge, and bestial, with claws, and fangs, and wild and shaggy facial hair in which sticks and leaves and gobs of darkmess were jumbled. His entire lower body was covered in darkmess as well, with a line of it running across his chest and back, forming a strap on which a massive axe was mounted behind him. Not to mention the darkmess on top of his head, onto which was welded a perpetually distressed-looking beaver.

The creature’s eyes glowed yellow as he stood there, hunched over, almost on all fours, and he sniffed at the warden and snarled. But Woodrow was too done with everything to be truly shocked, or afraid.

Most of the other rabbids had taken to calling him the Beast. Woodrow was one of the few who still believed it most respectful to use his name. That maybe, buried deep inside, there was someone who would still recognize it.

The warden blinked slowly. “Good evening, Sweetlopek.”