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house-of-galathynius · 2 years ago

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The Long Road Home

Chapter Nine

Chapter Eight - Chapter Ten

Word Count: 2.5k

Cornwall, Early Spring 1779

Aelin had been in Cornwall two months now. Winter had given way to spring and she welcomed the new season warmly— basking in the early spring sunshine, letting it’s rays soak into her skin, rejuvenating her.

Arobynn had not let her go back to London. Not even to collect her belongings in their townhouse, nor to say goodbye to anyone she knew there. He had herded her into the carriage and despite the late hour, he had ordered the driver to take them straight to his house in Cornwall. Aelin had wanted to fight, had wanted to scream and shout at Arobynn to let her go, to let her make sure Rowan was fine; but she knew that it would be no use and that whatever wonderful thing had been happening between the two of them was over— she would likely never see him again.

The estate where Arobynn had sent her was settled just outside of a small fishing village, it’s grounds surrounded by rolling green hills and forests. The house itself was a large stone building with tall pillars and large windows that overlooked the perfectly kept gardens. Inside Arobynn had clearly spent a lot of money on decorating it with the finest furniture and fabrics that he could get his hands on. Although it occurred to Aelin that it may have been one of his ex-wives that had done the decorating. She shook that thought off pretty quickly.

She had slowly become accustomed to the way of life down here. It was vastly different to that of London or even Hampshire. There were no bustling streets full of people shouting, there weren’t constant parties to attend or dinners to be had. It was quiet in a way Aelin had never really experienced before. Though the quietness should have been soothing, not even the sound of the birds chirping, or the soft rush of water from the nearby river, or the long undisturbed walks she would go on, could dull the aching in her chest. None of it could quiet the torment inside her.

There had been no word on Rowan— no one knew what had happened to him and it was slowly killing her. Arobynn had only told her that he would remain alive for the time being— but it was never enough to contain her anxiousness about him. She desperately wanted news, but she could not ask anyone in the house. Phillipa had not been allowed to join her in Cornwall and her parents could certainly never know what had transpired either.

So Aelin spent the days that weren’t too cold or rainy, walking in the hills surrounding the house and village. Sometimes she would take a book with her and find a spot under a tree or by some rocks and sit there until the wind had frozen her fingers and she could barely turn the pages anymore. Sometimes she would just watch the waves as they crashed against the shore, she would focus on the seabirds that would glide and swoop in the breeze, disappearing into caves or perching on ledges. Aelin wished she could join them; she wished she could soar amongst them and feel the freedom in flying. But the best she could do was let the wind whip around her as she stood at the edge of the cliffs.

This morning was no different from her usual routine. She had risen with the sun and had bathed and dressed quickly before eating her breakfast alone in the dining room and then left through the back entrance, finding the worn path up to the hills.

The sun was shining today— the first proper warmth of spring was starting to appear and she welcomed it gladly. Crocus’ and the green shoots of daffodils were peeking through the grass and soil, bringing colour back into the countryside after what had felt like such a long winter. She breathed in the fresh air and let the sun warm her skin as she walked, stopping occasionally to pick a flower.

She halted when she came to a fork in the trail. She had usually taken the path to the right, it led down to her favourite spot; but today for some reason she felt the left calling her. It was strange, the pull she felt towards it. But the weather was good and she was happy to wander further. So she took the first step and began her climb.

The trail took her higher than before, fields of dirt or grass were the only things that she would pass by. Sometimes she would spot a sheep or horse and stop to try and stroke them; but mostly she just walked. She stopped to rest on a stone, her hand cradling her slightly swollen belly and she caught her breath slightly before continuing on.

The trail meandered the outskirts of a small woods and when Aelin finally reached the top she paused. There in front of her stood a small stone cottage, the stone was crumbling in places and the chimney was leaning to one side. Veins of ivy trailed up the sides of the walls and a large vegetable patch sat just in front. Aelin could see the flickering of a fire through the front window and then movement. She darted out of sight and watched on as an elderly woman crept out of her front door and surveyed the space around her.

“Come out, child. I know you’re there.” Her voice was gravelly and deep. But it held a soft element to it, a kindness that Aelin could not explain. She hesitated a moment behind the trees. She did not know this woman— and she had been essentially banned from talking to people other than those who lived or worked in the house— but still, that warm hand from before seemed to offer gentle encouragement. So Aelin stepped forward and smiled tentatively.

“Come child. It is cold outside, I have warm soup and fresh bread.”

“Thank you for the kind offer, but I must be going.” Aelin bowed her head respectively and started to walk away.

“We have much to talk about Aelin.”

She twirled around. “How do you know my name?”

“I know the names of everyone in this village. Even those long dead.” The woman smiled, beckoning Aelin inside.

If it wasn’t for that strange warmth Aelin could feel, she would have turned right around and walked back to her house as quickly as possible. But she couldn’t feel a threat here, and her curiosity was stronger than her will to leave.

She eventually took the steps towards the woman and the enticing smell of soup. The cottage was simple inside. Consisting of only one room; there was a bed tucked into one corner and then a large fireplace which had black soot covering it from years of use. On the other side of the room was a large worn wooden table, on top of it a simple cloth and an array of fabrics and books. The woman pulled out a chair for Aelin and she took it gratefully, her hands resting on her stomach again.

“A pregnant woman should not be out alone.”

Aelin shrugged, “I enjoy walking. The fresh air is nice.”

The old woman huffed and then placed a steaming mug of tea down beside Aelin. She took a sip and almost groaned at the delicious flavour. The woman gave her a knowing smirk and took a seat opposite Aelin.

“You look tired, child.”

“I suppose I am.” She studied the woman, noticing the lines across her forehead and the scars on her hands from what must have been years of hard work. “I did not realise being pregnant would drain me so much.”

The woman smiled, “the tea will help.”

Aelin took another sip and let the liquid warm her. The old woman sipped her own and they comfortably sat for a few minutes before Aelin set her cup on the table. “I never got your name.”

There was a slight hesitation before it seemed she could answer. “I have had many names, but you may call me Elena.”

Aelin thought it suited her.

“How did you really know my name?” Aelin asked. The village was small, but she found it hard to believe that one woman would know every single person. Especially with the constant comings and goings of seamen and businessmen from faraway lands.

Elena shook her head and took a sip of her drink before placing it back on the table. “I told you, I know everyone in this village. It is also hard to ignore the fact that someone had moved into that gigantic house again,” Elena glanced out the window, “it has been a long time since anyone has been there.”

Aelin followed Elena’s gaze, then looked to the woman. “So you know the man who owns it?”

Elena shook her head. “I know of him. I do not really converse with the townspeople… not anymore at least.”

Aelin was intrigued. The woman lived up here all by herself and she clearly didn’t have visitors often— if the state of the cottage was anything to go by.

“More tea?” Elena offered.

Aelin shook her head. “Why do you not talk with the people in the village?” She couldn’t help but ask it. Her mother would be outraged at the questioning, and would probably have scolded Aelin later. But her mother wasn’t here to scold her, so she asked anyway.

“They think I am a witch.” Elena cackled.

Aelin sat up straighter in her chair, her eyes widening. She had never heard of anyone being so blasé about being accused of being a witch. She had only heard rumours of witches— of women who had peculiar senses, who’s husbands would die mysterious deaths, children being cured of sicknesses. But Aelin had never encountered one… until now she supposed. Despite the revelation, she did not feel afraid. Unlike the stories that circulated in the cities; where the women were ugly and terrifying to look at, their eyes devoid of emotion and humanity— Elena did not look like that, her features were softer and kind.

“You do not have to worry, child.”

Aelin managed a half smile, pushing her tea away regardless of Elena’s kind nature. But there was that warmth again; as if it was telling Aelin it was fine, that Elena was good. So she sat there, letting any fear she might have had simmer away until she was relaxing back into the chair.

“I chose to leave the village after my husband died. I was not welcome anymore and I found that the isolation here was beneficial. I liked to be with the animals and wind.” Elena mused.

“How did your husband…” Aelin trailed off.

“He was lost at sea. He was a fisherman, you see. He would spend weeks out on the ocean, only coming back long enough to sell his catch and then he would be off again. It was a cold autumn day when he left and I could sense the storm brewing, but none listened to me. They never returned.”

Aelin shuddered. “But why did they think you were a witch?”

Elena mulled over her answer. “I had a way about me apparently. I was able to predict a famine, I cured a child of their sickness and I was fascinated with growing things and making concoctions from whatever I could grow. People did not like that I had no explanations for things, only trust in the earth and the elements around us.”

“You cured a child?”

Elena nodded. “It is not the miracle you may think it is, though. The child was living in squalor with his mother and all he truly needed was a hot meal and a good nights rest. I offered them my home as I had too much space for just me. After a few weeks the boy recovered.”

Aelin didn’t think it was witchcraft. She believed that Elena was just good at using what she was given from the earth to provide solutions to problems. Aelin said as much.

“There are two things the Gods provide us with Aelin,” Elena gestured to the dried herbs and flowers hanging on the wall, “they provide us with the means to create, to nurture and heal. They give us trees and plants so that we can use them for good, for our health, to live long lives and survive.”

“And the second thing?”

Elena smiled. “Love.”

Aelin’s heart skipped a beat. She thought of Rowan, then. Of the man who had so easily taken her heart; the man who had cherished her and cared for her even though it was wrong and they could both be killed for it. She ached for him— longed for his sweet kisses and tender touches.

“Love is nothing if not strong. It perseveres. Hate can only survive so long, but love will continue until the end of time— even then it shall remain. It is what brings us together, it is what keeps our hearts beating and our souls pure. Love is more than just feeling, it is power.”

Aelin swallowed. “But love cannot always overcome.”

“How do you know?” Elena replied coyly.

Aelin glanced at her belly and thought of the moment Arobynn found them. She thought of Rowan kneeling on the floor beside her, protecting her even though he knew the cost would be his life. She remembered his figure getting further and further away, the sounds of his pain as Tern beat him.

“Because if it did I would not be here.”

Elena’s face softened. “Love will never give up on you, Aelin. Your story with him is not finished.”

Aelin wiped the stray tear from her cheek, “you don’t know what happened, Elena. There is no hope left in me, our love may have been true… but it was forbidden. Rowan is gone and I shall never see him again.”

Elena rose from her chair and came to kneel before Aelin. “The moment you give up, darkness has won. There is no universe, no world or place where your love with him will be gone. You breathe and live his love everyday. The words from your mouth, the tears from your eyes, the thoughts in your mind are all pieces of it and you will have those forever. The truest love will prosper even in the darkest of times and will survive even the harshest storms.” Elena put a hand on Aelin’s knee, “your story has not finished, I can feel it.”

Aelin cried. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks as she let the words settle in her. She could feel it too, could feel the love that she had shared with Rowan. And even if death separated them, she would find him.

“I can help you.’ Elena whispered.

Aelin sniffed and looked at Elena confused. “Help me? Get back to Rowan?” She asked hopefully.

Elena nodded. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“How?”

“You will see, Aelin. In time.”

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starlessea · 3 years ago

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𝙎𝙩𝙚𝙥 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙨 - Prologue 0. Closing Time

Series Masterlist: Step on the Gas

Summary: A dishonourable discharge from the military results in you being hauled off to live with your grandparents in the boonies, otherwise known as the middle of nowhere Georgia. After running over a nail on the road, and pushing your grandpa's vintage Camaro to the nearest auto-shop, you meet Daryl Dixon - the local mechanic. At some point, the world ends, but that stubborn man never gives you a chance to slow down. His smile gives you whiplash, but he still insists that you to step on the gas.

Words: 6286

Chapter Warnings: Language, Injury

The sky was empty — save for one bird.

Daryl watched it fly above him, so close to the ground that he could make out the beating of its wings and swore he saw individual feathers flutter in the breeze.

His fingers itched over his crossbow, as he contemplated shooting it down from the sky and plucking it clean. He'd have something to eat then, at least. Though, for some reason, Daryl Dixon couldn't bring himself to let loose his arrow, watching as the bird soared overhead — and disappeared beyond the trees.

The man sighed as he kicked up some loose stones with the toe of his boot. What a waste, he thought, before trudging through the field once again.

The sky remained cloudless for the rest of the day, existing as a pale, washed-out grey that made Daryl feel uncomfortable as he hunted. The game must have felt the same, since the deer he'd been tracking made itself scarce, and the string of squirrels hanging from his belt seemed no heavier than it had done when the sun rose that morning.

Still, he trekked onwards over the thick, winding grass and through damp forest overgrowth. He was nearly back at the quarry already, but he hardly had anything to show for it. A few measly rodents and a sprained ankle were barely worth his trip in the first place; they sure as hell wouldn't be enough for all of the mouths he now had to feed.

Daryl cursed at himself for hesitating to shoot that bird straight out of the sky, and clip its wings. It wasn't much, but maybe it would have lasted a day if he was lucky. Still, there was no use wondering now, since it had swooped so close to him that he almost felt the downward draft on his cheek — and then he let it fly away.

He thought that it had been a jaeger; it definitely looked like a seabird that had veered too far from the shore. It was a gull with a white breast and dark, blackish feathers — and a wingspan that made sure you couldn't miss it.

He remembered you pointing one out to him, at 3am, parked up on that deserted beach as the two of you stared out into the rocking ocean.

"Ya thinkin' 'bout 'er again, baby brother?"

Daryl could hear Merle's voice taunt, in the deepest, darkest corners of his thoughts.

"Tha' lil' birdie of yours?"

He quickly shook his head — even though it was the truth.

It had been Daryl's own mind that conjured up those words, after all. Merle wasn't actually here. He was probably back at the campsite, lazing about and leering after women far too good for a beaten-up redneck like him.

Though, funnily enough, Merle had said the exact same thing to Daryl when he noticed his gaze settling over the new bar server, who swiped away the froth spilling over from their draught beers. Merle had given him even more of an earful when he realised that his younger brother was waiting for her shift to end.

Daryl took a deep breath, before rolling his neck to try and relieve the tension that had built up there. Once his mind drifted into thoughts of you — even if only for a split second — it often sank to the point of no return.

You were all consuming; you had been from the first time he laid eyes on you in that old, country auto-repair shop.

He remembered the way your voice chirped like a bird's, despite the curses that often fell from your lips.

You even made those sound sweet.

And he could also recall the way you yelled over the rumble of his bike engine, and competed with the screeching that came from his tyres losing their grip on the worn-out tarmac.

You'd told him that it felt like you were flying — and that was probably the reason why Daryl Dixon couldn't shoot that jaeger.

Then, the man heard something louder than he had done since the world ended — and suddenly, the sky was no longer empty.

There was an explosion, and that dull greyness was set alight with brilliant hues of red and orange. It made fire start to rain down upon Daryl, who could only stand and watch below. Debris fell out of the sky like a meteor shower, landing beyond the trees in the distance — to a place that Daryl couldn't quite make out, no matter how much he squinted.

The air became full with the sounds of scraping metal and flickering flames that caught the leaves and made them burn up like the end of a cigarette. Daryl felt his heart race as the adrenaline pumped its way through his veins, and made him flinch each time something crashed heavily to the ground.

There was often a moment in a person's life where their brain got kick-started into gear — and they awoke from whatever auto-pilot they'd been functioning on until that point.

For most, it was probably a mundane milestone like marriage or parenthood.

For others, it might have been a life or death situation that made them re-evaluate their perspective.

For some, it had only happened when the world actually ended, and the apocalypse began.

And perhaps, if Daryl had been a smarter man, it would have been this instant — as he gazed up at the sky and watched it burn above him. Maybe this was his second life-changing realisation; maybe he was lucky enough to get two.

But, for Daryl, the first had just been a regular Tuesday.

The garage was sticky hot that day. It was the kind of heat that made you sweat no matter how many fans you had blowing — since Old man Dean was too cheap to install air conditioning. His boss was a bit of a stickler for paying his bills, and nit picky with his nickles, but he'd always been kind to Daryl.

That being said, working as a mechanic wasn't exactly where Daryl had pictured himself at his age; but then again, he couldn't really picture himself anywhere at all. He felt like that last piece of the jigsaw puzzle, which didn't quite fit in with the others — the one that you had to bend into shape just to make it work.

Sure, he enjoyed seeing the different bikes roll in and out of the shop — those models he would never be able to afford — and Daryl appreciated having a few extra dollars in his pocket for when Merle raided his savings to score some pot.

Besides, there wasn't much else to do in the boonies. Daryl's old man once told him that the only interesting thing to rear its ugly head out of Georgia's backyard in the last fifty years was Dean's Auto Shop. That's probably why Daryl started working there in the first place, as a summer job when he was teenager — and had never really left since.

As much as he didn't want to admit it, his old man had been right about one thing — despite the bastard never catching on to the role of father. He'd been right about the shop being the only interesting thing around.

Because it was the place where he met her.

And then she became the only thing in that small town even worth being interested in.

Daryl didn't hear a car pull up into the shop, but he heard the mumbling outside from where he sat in the breakroom — chewing on some of Dean's leftover pizza that was bordering on stale.

"Dixon, get your ass out here for a second, would you?" the old man yelled, banging on the thin wall that separated them with his fist.

Daryl cursed below his breath, throwing the rest of his food into the trash and dusting off his hands over his jeans. He stepped out into the shop, and was met by an unfamiliar face — looking over at him curiously.

He suddenly felt unexplainably nervous, and dropped his head down to his feet as though it were a reflex he didn't know he had.

"This is your guy," he heard Dean say, before letting out one of his usual chesty coughs.

The man smoked a pack a day too much — and that was coming from Daryl.

"Owner of that bike you've been eyeing, too," he went on.

That caught Daryl's attention, and he instantly glanced up at the woman in question. She was breath-taking, but she also looked very much out of breath. She seemed as though she had run here, despite the Georgia heat.

"You ride?" he asked, but his gruff voice made it sound like more of a demand.

He grimaced at his own tone, but the woman didn't seem bothered by it in the slightest.

She laughed, and it sounded like nothing he'd ever heard before. "I wish," she said, running her palm along the polished metal and tracing her finger over that shiny logo.

Usually, Daryl would bark at anyone who touched his bike, and Dean seemed as though he expected him to do just that — from the way he raised an eyebrow at the daring woman, too oblivious for her own good.

Except, Daryl stayed quiet.

"Was never allowed within a mile radius of one," she went on, before turning back around to grin at Daryl like it was easy. "My folks were scared I'd take off into the sunset, never to be seen again."

He could relate to that. After all, it was exactly what he and Merle had done as soon as they'd gotten the chance.

"Mhm," he hummed back, before glancing over at the car parked in the middle of the shop. "She's pretty."

It was a steel blue colour — would definitely benefit from a lick of paint, but still pretty nonetheless. The tread looked good on the tyres, and Daryl couldn't see any signs of the rusting those models were prone to. Someone had taken good care of it.

"Excuse me?" the woman asked, and suddenly Daryl was reminded of just how bad he was with words.

He cleared his throat, and ran his hand over the hood.

"Yer car," he explained, "'69 Chevy Camaro?"

Daryl asked, but he already knew the answer.

"Oh yeah, that," she replied, sending him an apologetic look. "It's my grandpa's, so we're going to have to be real discreet about this situation over here."

Daryl raised an eyebrow as she beckoned him to the other side of the car, crouching down near the wheel arch.

"Some bastard left a nail in the road, and I ran straight through the thing like it was a stop sign," she grumbled, pointing out the puncture.

Daryl almost laughed at that — but he was still much too jaded from being caught in the middle of his break.

The woman stood back up and toed the deflated tyre with her boot, scowling at the sight of it.

"I know you're closing soon, but I had to push it half a mile just to get here," she said, and wiped her brow with the back of her hand.

Suddenly, her appearance made sense. Since he'd first laid eyes on her, all she'd done was tug at the collar of her vest, and try to stand in front of one of those poor excuses for a fan. But even then, Daryl couldn't quite believe her story.

"Ain't no way ya pushed that thing 'ere by yerself." The words left his mouth before he could consider them twice.

And the look she shot Daryl in return made him want to take them straight back.

But then, she smiled.

"I'm stronger than I look," she protested, leaning against the hot car. "You can ask the dozen assholes who catcalled me on the way but never offered their help."

This time, Daryl did let out a chuckle.

"Damn lucky y'ain't pass out," he quipped back, "heat's no joke."

She grinned again, and Daryl wondered whether she had an endless supply — or if she'd saved them just for him.

"Tell me about it," the woman teased. "Never liked visiting Georgia because of it."

Then, it all made sense to Daryl — the reason why she intrigued him so much.

"Y'ain't from 'round here, are ya?" he asked, surprising himself.

Usually, he couldn't give a 'rat's ass', as Dean called it, about anyone who stumbled into their shop. Never did they get more than a half-hearted greeting from Daryl, or a grunt as he told them to mind their head on that low door frame (she didn't have that problem). Though today, he seemed oddly talkative.

"Haven't seen ya before," he added.

The woman folded her arms over her chest.

"Would you recognise me if you had?" she asked.

"E'erybody knows e'erybody in this place," he answered. "I'd remember if I saw ya cross the street."

It was partially the truth. Daryl knew most people — but he only bothered to remember a select few.

"Moved here last week," she caved, proving him right. "I'm keeping my grandparents company watching daytime cable and doing grocery runs."

Daryl smirked. "An' runnin' over nails with their car, apparently."

"That, too," she confessed.

It was silent for a few seconds, and Daryl realised that he should probably give her a quote for the job. Though, she interrupted him before he could.

"Listen, your new neighbour would be really grateful if you could cut her a break," she said, eyeing the Camaro like she was considering whether it was even worth the hassle. "The old man's going to kill me if I come home on foot tonight."

Daryl knew what she was asking. The notice in the shop window made it clear that they'd be closing in half an hour; Daryl had been all but ready to flip the sign himself. Before she'd arrived, he'd even dared to think that he could shut early — and possibly get to crack open a cold beer and enjoy the breeze of his porch.

He sighed.

"I'll see what I can do," Daryl mumbled, "but I ain't makin' no promises," he warned — as he caught the way her eyes lit up at his words.

But that was a lie. Daryl knew he wouldn't let himself go home until it was finished.

The woman was utterly gleeful. He watched her smile much too widely for her face, and for a moment Daryl thought that she might even jump at him. But she seemed to catch herself at the last second, and abruptly stopped.

She didn't falter long, though. "Thank you, thank you so much!" she said, excitedly, before pausing to tap at her jean pockets. "I don't have any cash on me for a deposit, but I'm heading to work now."

She looked sheepish as she explained herself.

"I'll come straight back and pay in full," she added, trying her best to convince him.

Daryl narrowed his eyes like he didn't quite understand. Then he did, and he laughed properly.

"Deposit?" he asked, shaking his head. "City girl, here we jus' keep yer vehicle if ya can't pay."

The woman's expression was priceless. She looked as though she couldn't figure out whether he was joking or not, and stared at Daryl with her mouth slightly agape as she debated which it was.

He couldn't watch any longer.

"Where ya workin'?" he asked.

Then, he cursed himself for doing so. Time was ticking on, and he already had to stay overtime because of his inability to say no. Well, usually he had no problem with the word; it just seemed like it was stuck in his throat today.

"Joe's bar," she replied. "It's a few blocks over and-"

"I know Joe's bar," Daryl interrupted.

Everybody knew Joe's. It was the only place around that sold a decent draught beer. He'd been going there since he was a teenager — younger than he should have been, but old enough to know better.

"Me an' my brother go there a lot, but I ain't seen you 'round."

She nodded.

"Only started a few days ago. Hopefully they don't fire me for being late."

Daryl glanced at the clock. It was approaching his closing time and her opening one.

"Ya better get runnin', Camaro," he noted, tapping at his watch that didn't even work. "Rush hour soon."

The woman narrowed her eyes at the nickname. Daryl didn't know her real one yet, and felt like it was too late to ask for it. He'd have to catch a glimpse of Dean's log book later to find out.

"Will do," she replied with a smile. "Thanks again, Dixon."

Though Daryl couldn't quite work out how she knew his name, either.

He watched her scurry about collecting her things, and walked her to the entrance. The sun was starting to set — leaving the sky a pinkish orange that only made him squint the more he looked at it. He held the door open for the woman, and heard Dean snort from the back of the shop. But the way she thanked him made it worth the teasing.

"Take care of that sixties Honda," she winked, "she's a real beauty."

Daryl was surprised that she knew the model of his bike, considering she'd never even ridden one.

"If only ya knew," he mumbled back as he saw her off. "Will take ya for a ride one time if yer willin'."

She stopped in place. Daryl didn't know why he said that. It had just slipped from his mouth like oil from a can.

The woman laughed and rolled her eyes like she didn't believe him.

"That's what they all say."

Then, she started to jog down the street — just like she said she would — and Daryl thought her crazy for even attempting it in this midsummer Georgia weather. That woman had entered the shop like a whirlwind, and when she left Daryl couldn't remember what he'd even been doing before.

Dean cleared his throat and threw a rag at him that he barely managed to catch.

"Keep it in your pants, boy."

Daryl scowled at the man; he knew him better than that. So, he didn't give him the satisfaction of a reply, and instead got started on setting the Camaro up on a jack.

"She's a beauty, I get it," Dean went on, despite his silence. "Her type don't belong in a place like this, that's for damn sure."

Daryl had to agree with him there. He'd gotten a glimpse of his reflection in the wing mirror of her car and grimaced. He had grease on his face, and part of him cursed Dean for not telling him before he'd left the breakroom.

"But you know Mike and Doreen?" the old man asked, and Daryl nodded. "That's their granddaughter."

Daryl furrowed his brow — not realising he'd done it until he caught himself in the glass once again. Mike was a hard man, the type to straighten out any kinks in a person with brute force and that baby boomer spite.

"She may be real pretty, kid, but that one's trouble," Dean noted, confirming his suspicions.

He ignored the way he called him 'kid'. The old man still hadn't grown out of the habit — despite Daryl being well beyond his teenage years now.

"Trouble?" he repeated, like he couldn't quite comprehend the word being associated with someone like that.

Dean chuckled — but it turned into one of those coughs that made Daryl wince.

"Maybe more so than you," he said. "Got kicked out of the military, I heard."

Daryl spat at the floor, and Dean laughed again. They both hated those military dogs who often paraded through their town, looking at them as though they were trash beneath their government-issued boots.

But, if she'd been kicked out then maybe they could find some common ground.

Old man Dean wagged his finger at him, recognising Daryl's no-good expression; he'd become familiar with it by now, from all the times he'd worn it throughout the years.

"So don't go losing your head over her, Dixon," he cautioned, pretending not to know how good Daryl was at throwing caution to the wind.

"And remember to close up before you leave."

But it was too late.

Daryl had already lost his head, and his heart — but he wouldn't know that the latter was missing for a very long time.

You ran the cloth along the oak bar surface, wiping away any sticky beer rings that had been left there.

This is why we have coasters, you sighed.

It had been a slow Tuesday night, but you'd somehow still been roped into working the close. You tried to tell your boss that you were having car troubles, and had plans to stop by the garage on your way home — but he seemed to prioritise his own date over yours.

Well, you wouldn't exactly call giving the local mechanic his cheque a date; usually, you didn't have to pay for those. But you couldn't deny how it had made you feel when he smiled that smile your way — so small that you'd almost missed it — before you took off running out the door.

It gave you whiplash.

Perhaps he was just being friendly. But, then again, he didn't seem like the naturally friendly type. You shook your head, throwing the beer-soaked rag into the sink. You didn't trust that man in the slightest.

That wasn't a new development, really; you didn't trust most men. And, you often found that the ones who made your heart race like that were the worst of them all. He was trouble, that one, and you'd had enough of that to last a lifetime.

You untied the double knot of your apron, and folded it up neatly. There were a few whiskey stains on it — you'd caught a whiff of that top-shelf scent a few times now — but you were already too late to even consider putting it in the wash. Instead, you left it at the end of the bar, and swapped it out for the ring of keys lying there.

It was closing time, and you prepared yourself to run three blocks in the dark. You stepped out into the night, feeling the cool breeze on your cheek as opposed to the midday heat that had been there when your shift started. You flipped the latch and turned the key in the lock until you heard it click.

Then, you held them between your knuckles so that the jagged edge poked out.

"Ya done for the night?" a voice came from the shadows, and your heart dropped.

That brief second lasted a lifetime as the blood rushed to your ears like a strong current through running water, and your grip tightened over those keys. But then, you noticed the reflection in the glass panels of the door — and relaxed.

"Jesus, you scared the shit out of me," you scolded the man, "thought you were a dejected patron tryna jump me or something."

Perhaps he was; you still didn't know any better.

Dixon was leaning against that dingy brick wall, opposite the back door of Joe's Bar. You didn't even know what that other building was — but some sketchy figures usually loomed about it, so you tried to stay clear.

Maybe he didn't get the memo, you thought.

"Tha' happen before?" the man asked back, casually.

Though, the dim street lights overhead illuminated his face, and you caught a glimpse of his serious expression before he let it drop. He held a lit cigarette between his fingers — almost smoked down to the butt already — and it made you wonder just how long he'd been waiting for you.

"Maybe once or twice," you laughed, but it didn't sound as natural as you had intended.

You noticed the man's eyes flicker down towards the keys held between your knuckles, and you quickly slipped them into your jean pocket — hoping that he wouldn't pry. Luckily, he didn't seem like the type to unnecessarily butt into other people's business.

The smoke trailed from his lips and caught the stark light of the street lamp. He almost looked cold — bathed in that bluish tint which made those cigarette fumes seem nearly luminescent.

"You here to make sure I don't run off with your paycheck?" you teased, fishing out the wad of bills from your back pocket.

You waved them at him, and considered how precarious the situation may seem to an onlooker if they happened to pass by. The man looked as though he felt the same, since he quickly glanced over his shoulder down the alleyway — checking to make sure you were alone.

"Don't worry, Dixon, I busted my ass tonight just so I could leave you a nice tip," you said with a smile, handing the money to him.

He took it, slowly, as though he had to remind himself what it was even for.

Then, he let that cigarette butt fall to the floor, and stamped it out with his boot — before dragging it along the concrete until it was nothing but embers.

The man shook his head at you. "'M here on behalf of the welcome committee."

You snorted as you processed his words, and followed him out of that narrow alleyway into the main street.

"Bullshit," you called, "as if-"

You rounded the corner after him, and stopped. He was there, leaning against that pristine sixties Honda bike — spare helmet in hand.

It was parked up on the sidewalk, polished metal glinting in all its glory under those neon lamps. Dixon was almost camouflaged against it — his black leather jacket also speckled with white light. He held out that helmet, as if it were an invitation he was waiting for you to accept.

But he seemed shy — as though acutely aware that it was only an invite, and nothing more. So, you took it, and shook your head as you realised that it wasn't his spare helmet he had offered you; it was his only helmet.

"Said I'd take ya," he murmured, fastening the strap gently under your chin.

It was too big, so the man compensated by tying it tighter until you felt like your jaw was wired shut. But, you just smiled.

"An' I ain't no liar," he said when he was done, and kicked his leg over the bike.

Then, you sped off into the night.

You yelled over the sound of the engine for him to go faster, and laughed as you had to spit out the stray hairs that had blown into your mouth. Your clothes whipped in the wind, too, and you clung to the man in front of you as though you were afraid they might catch the draft, and make you fly away. It was electrifying; your whole body felt like pure static as you rode past shop displays and windows that made your reflections look like hazed blurs.

That whole trip felt like a hazed blur, really, because suddenly you were there.

"Where are we?" you asked, unsure of where 'there' even was. "Why'd we stop?"

You pulled the helmet from your head and cocked your leg over the bike. The man let out a chuckle at the sight of your hair, sticking up from the static — as though lightning might strike at any moment.

"Smoke break," Dixon grumbled, before coaxing out the squashed cardboard packet from his jeans. "You want one?" he asked, offering it to you.

You shook your head; you didn't smoke.

He shrugged in response, cupping his hands to his face to get a flame from his lighter. You left him to it, and turned away from the bike to catch the view.

And what a view it was, indeed.

You hadn't even noticed the sounds of the lapping ocean waves before you saw them. The cliff overlooked the beach below, desolate, with a high tide that drew the shore into you. Your grandmother had told you about this place once, on the phone a few months back as she tried to sell rural Georgia to you.

It wasn't like you were given much of a choice, anyway.

But now that you'd been shipped out here — against your will, no doubt — you had to admit that she'd been partly right. It was breath-taking. Back in the city, a place like this would be littered with beer cans and tacky, disposable barbeques within a week of someone posting about it online. Here, however, it looked untouched.

It was as though the two of you were the first to ever set foot here, on this particular crag that overlooked the waves — leaving your footprints alongside tyre treads for the next pioneers to discover.

You glanced back at Dixon over your shoulder — who was busy trying to look as though he wasn't already looking at you — and smiled.

He was one hell of a welcome committee.

Daryl almost choked on the fumes of his cigarette — letting out a cough that reminded him of the way old man Dean spluttered in the mornings. He really needed to kick that habit, he thought, and snubbed out his cigarette on the ground.

Then, you scowled at him, so he picked the butt back up and stuffed it into his pocket, grimacing at the thought of having to clean it up later.

He had been lying about the smoke break, really, but then he needed to carry out his excuse. Initially, he'd only thought about picking you up from the bar and offering you a ride back to the shop. He hadn't the slightest clue of how that plan had become this.

Somewhere along the way, Daryl might have accidentally taken a wrong turn, and ended up in the most scenic place he would think of. Stupid damn street signs, he cursed, as though he hadn't driven those roads a hundred times before.

Camaro seemed to call him out on his bluff, too, since she turned to face him and immediately shook her head.

"You're lying," she said, as though she were certain, "but the view is extraordinary, so I'll forgive you just this once."

Daryl swallowed thickly, tasting the tobacco that had made his throat so dry. For someone who claimed himself not to be a liar, that was all he seemed to be doing today.

Then, he watched you make your way towards the edge of that cliff, like you couldn't even hear him warning you to be careful. It was like you weren't paying him the slightest attention. Daryl was used to that from women — but somehow, this was different.

You didn't look down on him, nor at him with any hint of prejudice for wearing jeans still coated in oil, and boots he'd had to tape the soles of just to keep them together. In fact, you weren't looking at him at all. You seemed far more concerned with the stars that flickered in the night sky above you, but at the same time grateful towards the man for having brought you to them.

"You treat all your customers like this, Dixon?" you asked him.

He watched you turn around and look at him like you'd only just remembered that he was there. But, then you beamed a smile at him so bright that it put the stars to shame — and made all of your other ones look dim in comparison.

"Y'ain't special," he grumbled, shaking his head. "Jus' given' ya a lift home 'cos Dean told me to."

Though, Dean had left the shop hours ago.

Daryl watched you laugh like you'd caught him out one more time.

"There you go again," you said, teasingly. "Do you ever tell the truth?"

No, he didn't. He always tried to, but oftentimes it never did him any good. The people of this town had already made the assumption that he was a natural born liar. You were the first person to ever make the distinction between his white lies and those other types.

All his life, Daryl had been pigeon-holed into the role of good for nothing redneck, and had only recently graduated to the slightly less stereotyped town mechanic. But that night it was as if someone, for the first time, tried to get a peek at whatever was underneath.

Old man Dean was right. You were trouble — but not for the reason he had said. You were trouble because you seemed entirely unaware of your place in the world, and it made Daryl start to question his own. You seemed nice — perhaps even lovely — but Daryl never trusted those types. He knew you were far too good to be wasting away the early hours of the morning with the likes of him — and it left him wondering what exactly you wanted.

You'd already paid for his services, after all.

"Thank you for letting me see the stars again," you breathed, stretching your neck which ached from staring at the sky. "It's been a while."

Back then, Daryl didn't quite understand what that meant. He'd thought perhaps that you'd been talking about city pollution.

On the way back, Daryl felt you cling onto him tightly as he drove through empty roads, and passed the old, flickering street lights that blinked like camera flashes. But, when his fingers accidentally brushed up against yours, as you both reached for the shop door, you pulled your hand away.

It had only been a random Tuesday — that had eventually rolled into a Wednesday by the time he'd gotten you back into your repaired Camaro — but that was the moment in his life where Daryl felt like he had finally woken up.

But even awake, he often found himself lost in daydreams of the woman who crash landed into his life, and disappeared from it just as quickly as she came.

Daryl followed the trail of debris that had fallen from the sky, as though he were tracking some giant, metal bird. He didn't want to stick around too long, given that the noise had probably attracted every damn walker in the area; he just hoped that he was still far enough away from camp that they wouldn't be drawn there.

He stepped over the hunks of hot wreckage, some of it still ablaze, until he eventually came across something soft and not made of metal.

It was that jaeger. It was dead.

It looked as though it had been struck straight out of the sky. Its feathers lay scattered around it — the white breast now red with blood — and its wing was bent at a crooked angle, broken.

Daryl scowled. If he'd known that it was going to have such a meaningless death, then he would have shot it himself. Though, he still didn't add the bird to his string of dead animals; he thought that it had suffered enough.

He continued onwards through the brush until he stumbled across what he'd been looking for. But even as he saw it with his own eyes, Daryl couldn't quite believe it. Before him was the husk of a downed helicopter, burning in the middle of the forest.

Immediately, he ran to it, tripping over the wreckage as it got thicker and harder to navigate.

Though, there was no pilot inside — only radios and machinery parts that Daryl didn't know the names of. They screeched high frequency sounds as they caught on fire, and it made his ears ring the longer he listened.

So, he turned back.

That was when he saw it — them — a few meters away. His stomach dropped. Guess that's the pilot, he thought, looking up at the body tangled in the trees.

He'd never seen a parachute in real life before — only ever in the movies. He'd also never understood how that flimsy material could stop someone from plummeting to their death.

Well, in this case it hadn't.

The pilot was dangling from one of the branches, all caught up in those wire cables like a fish on a line. The limbs were contorted awkwardly, and Daryl swallowed thickly at the sight of their arm which had definitely been broken — reminding him of that miserable jaeger's wing.

He'd been all but ready to turn around and leave. The smell of burning rubber and the white noise from those radios would probably keep him up for the next few nights, but there was nothing he could do about that.

He'd been all but ready to turn around and leave, but then the body spoke to him.

"Dixon?" he heard it gasp.

And Daryl wondered just how many impossible things he might encounter today.

The voice startled him, and he almost stumbled over his own foot in return. Walkers couldn't speak, and they surely wouldn't know his name, either. Then, he caught the slightest movement, and recognised a jacket much too familiar. It had been his, after all, before he'd given it to you.

The pilot groaned, and Daryl recognised that tone of voice, too. He quickly fumbled about for his pocket knife, not even stopping to consider how the hell he'd be able to cut you down.

He couldn't even comprehend how you were alive-

"How's it hanging?" the voice spluttered.

-and how you'd kept that same god awful sense of humour.

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#daryl dixon #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon x y/n #twd #twd fanfiction #twd imagines #twd fanfic #the walking dead #the walking dead imagines #the walking dead fanfiction #twd daryl #daryl x reader #daryl x you #daryl x oc #daryl dixon x oc

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ao3bronte · 4 years ago

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Transience

This is my contribution to @mlwriterzine Once Upon A Season! It was a pleasure to be a part of the project and the finished piece (a gorgeous 260 page paperback) was a treat!

Also on AO3!

Adrien is and always has been a young man of many talents. He excels in sports, outshines in academics, and loves tinkering with the vintage 1962 Ferrari he keeps in a secret garage just up the road from their belle-époque penthouse apartment in Paris. So honestly, Marinette shouldn’t have been surprised upon finding a sailing yacht waiting for them in the luxurious marina of Saint-Tropez.

“Um...” Gobsmacked, Marinette slips off her sandals and follows him over the exquisitely varnished toerail, “... since when do you know how to drive a boat?”

“Since I was eight.” Adrien shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “Mère loved to come down every year to watch the annual regatta. She even sailed in a few of them herself.”

“Wow.” Marinette’s eyes grow wide as she gawks at the opulent 16 metre sailboat. She’d never dreamt of setting foot on one, let alone cruising on one through the French Riviera for a week on her honeymoon. Elated, Marinette can hardly keep the stars from her eyes as she drops her shoulder bag and scampers across the deck until she reaches the front of the vessel, splaying her arms out wide.

“I’m the king of the world!” she cries, laughing as Adrien runs along behind her and plants his hands on her hips, holding her steady.

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” She grins into the salty breeze coming off the Mediterranean and steps onto the first rung of the railings. “Just don’t let me fall overboard.”

“You’ll be flying soon, M’Lady.” Adrien pulls her against his chest and presses a kiss to her temple, his stubble scratching softly against her skin. “But first, we have some fenders to collect.”

Marinette blinks. “Uh... what exactly is a fender?”

Adrien’s indulgent laughter echoes in the headsail. “You’re about to get a crash course in Sailing 101, Buginette. Are you ready to be my first mate?”

Marinette spins around in his arms and bops him on the nose. “Teach me everything you know, Captain Kitty.”

Adrien hums, tipping her chin upwards to kiss her lips. “I like the sound of that.”

After a few minutes of acquiring her sea legs, Marinette and Adrien Dupain-Cheng are off amidst the serene waves of la Côte d'Azur for a honeymoon trip of a lifetime. Marinette can’t keep her eyes off of the hill-perched towns dotting the coastline, sun-drenched and prismatic against the turquoise waters of the Med. Beside her, Adrien keeps their vessel steady, his seasoned gaze trained on the horizon as they pull out of port and soar northwards, the wind at their every beck and call.

For centuries, every Parisian worth their salt flocked to the French Riviera to soak up the Mediterranean sun and the Agreste’s were no different, once upon a time. Adrien’s childhood memories aboard the Éphémère remind him of bouillabaisse and happier days spent scampering across deck pretending to be a pirate in search of buried treasure. It’s something he hopes he can share with his own children one day, especially now that he and his wife no longer have to spend every spare moment of their lives fighting Hawk Moth.

Sensing her husband’s pensive mood, Marinette snuggles deeper into his side as the afternoon sun begins to dip towards the horizon. She doesn’t need Adrien to assure her that their evenings onboard together will be positively serene with nothing but the seabirds to obstruct the sunset that will surely steal their breath away. He kisses her forehead and hugs her close, his guiding light within the storm that had been brewing since his childhood. After all those years of rough seas at the hands of his father, things were finally settling into an even keel.

Marinette learns the ins and outs of sailing quickly, securing lines and watching for traffic as they navigate along the seaboard of Saint Raphaël . Jibs and boons soon become a part of her vocabulary, and once they've successfully moored in the neighbouring marina, Marinette feels like she's run a marathon.

"That was exhausting," she groans, slumping into the cushions on the sundeck.

Adrien beams, having barely broken a sweat. "Come on; I'll make it worth your while."

Hauling her back onto her feet, Adrien leads her down into the main cabin. All clean lines and warm teak, Marinette leaves her duffel bag on the sofa and explores the spacious interior with curious eyes, carding her fingers through the decades old fashion magazines stacked in a woven basket resting on the floor. He leaves her to explore and hauls their luggage and a cooler down the ladder, filling the marine fridge with fixings for their first dinner outside of Paris. It's peaceful, with nothing but the sounds of the waves to keep them company.

The lights are warm and low in their galley kitchen, a cozy escape from the endless vistas of rocky crags and pastel-orange buildings whose narrow streets spill into the sea. Their table is just large enough for two wicker placemats and a bottle of Mouton-Cadet; old vases filled with seaglass and shells rest on every side table, their edges wrapped in nautical rope. By the counter, Marinette grates a snowy pile of Pecorino cheese over a mound of steaming spaghetti while beside her Adrien grinds fresh pepper into a ramekin, his stomach growling after an afternoon spent at sea. A comfortable silence ebbs and flows between them as the evening tide laps against the hull, drawing them towards the tangy, indulgent nest of cacio e pepe they made together.

Marinette wakes the next morning to the smell of fresh coffee and a deftly wrapped gift on the bedside table of their lavish master cabin. Slipping her bare legs across the silk sheets as she sits up, she opens her present and plucks one of her own Chat Noir inspired creations from the tissue paper along with a note attached inside.

Care to go for a dip with me, M’Lady?

Marinette snorts and ties the black and neon green bikini up at the neck and hips, leaving a few very tantalizing strings to pull should Adrien let his feline instincts get the best of him. Goodness knows he wouldn’t be able to resist himself, what with the way he could hardly keep his hands off of her last night while they were trying to find a deck of cards in the saloon. She glances at herself in the mirror to wipe the sleep from her eyes and quickly fastens her hair into a loose ponytail, ready to tease her husband senseless.

“Welcome to Cannes!” he announces as she emerges from below deck, mesmerized by the morning sun illuminating his blond hair like a halo. He’s gorgeous in every sense of the word, thoughtful and generous and unfailingly kind, and even in his darkest moments, he never ceases to steal her breath away.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispers, hooking her fingers into the belt loops of his chinos, “but not as beautiful as you.”

A ruddy flush blooms across his cheeks, a constant victim to her soft-spoken praises. “I can hardly compete against you, Buginette, especially when you’re wearing that.”

“I don’t know...” She grazes her fingernails against his bare chest and smirks as the familiar rumble in his sternum kicks into low gear. “I think the sun suits you.”

“Enough to consider moving down here for good?”

Marinette shrugs; keeping their lives rooted in Paris has been a point of contention between them since the arrest of his father. “Not permanently, no, but I wouldn’t protest if we vacationed here more often.”

“I’ll keep that in mind next time you overwork yourself,” he responds, closing his eyes as she continues to explore the chiseled planes of his abs. She’s always been gifted when it comes to distractions and this morning is no different; like wayfaring on a starless night, she’s always been the beacon to guide his way. “Now, I thought I invited you up here for a swim?”

“You did.” Marinette steps back, giving him the merciful reprieve he’d needed to calm his beating heart. “And it is kind of hot up here.”

His grip on the ship’s wheel tightens. “No thanks to you.”

“Easy there, Captain Kitty.” Marinette smirks, flicking the golden bell sewn to the bridge of her bikini top. “Race you!”

“Hey!” he gapes at her, scandalized. “I still have to drop anchor!”

Marinette giggles as she zooms past him, leaping off the back of the boat with delight. “Last one in the water has to make breakfast!”

Meandering through the Medieval streets of the old city, Marinette and Adrien pause to catch a glimpse of Villefranche-sur-Mer ’s idyllic harbour. There’s an enormous cruise ship dominating the horizon and Adrien is thankful that they’d brought their disguises in tow. No one has recognized either of them with the way they’ve camouflaged themselves in their floppy beach hats and oversized sunglasses.

Marinette spends the afternoon popping in and out of boutiques with turquoise shutters, snapping photos and picking up little trinkets along the way. They stop for lunch at a peaches-and-cream couloured bistro nestled against the water’s edge, its open windows basking the sunlit stone walls with salt-scented air. Adrien joyfully devours his meal, a simply grilled loup de mer with fennel and lemon, while Marinette chatters over a bowl of Niçoise octopus salad that she had been eager to try since spotting it on the chalkboard menu outside.

“It feels weird, not having them around.” Adrien balances a piece of julienned fennel between the tines of his fork. “It’s the first time I’ve taken my ring off in ten years.”

“I promise you, Tikki and Plagg are appreciating their vacation too,” Marinette assures him around a mouthful of cherry tomatoes. “They deserve a break after what happened. We both do.”

Adrien nods and is quiet for a while.

“When I was a kid, I used to watch the cliff divers jump into that cove,” Adrien mentions as they sail by, pointing towards a sharp craig jutting from the coastline. “I always wanted to do it myself. Maybe I will.”

“You’re free to do whatever you want now.” Marinette smiles into the wind, the skirt of her sundress billowing up passed her thighs. “So chart us a course, Captain Kitty. Where are we going next?”

“First, we’re stopping in Èze .” Adrien brushes his bangs from his eyes and relishes in being at the helm of transience. “There are galleries all over the place that I know you’ll love. And we have a dinner reservation. I thought you’d appreciate the view.”

Marinette lowers her sunglasses. “I like the view here just fine, thanks.”

“I could say the same thing about you.” Adrien smirks and snags her by the hips, easily hauling her up onto the dash of the cockpit. She squeals as he savours the salt on her skin as he plants a kiss on her knee in mock apology. “There. Now I have you right where I want you.”

She kicks and he dodges easily, catching her foot with lightning fast reflexes born from being merged with the Black Cat Miraculous for so long. It’s a familiar song and dance between them, a playful contest sparking in their eyes as he peppers kisses along her ankle, her calf, anywhere he can reach. He stops just shy of the constellation of freckles at the hem of her dress and makes eye contact through his lashes, flashing her a mischievous Chat Noir smile. “I wonder if you’re ... ticklish?

Marinette shrieks as Adrien starts tickling her toes, running his fingernails up and down the arches of her feet. She’s tortured him a thousand times by attacking his sides when he least expected it so he figures it’s about time he seeks revenge. “Adrien! Stop!”

He doesn’t, of course, and chooses to memorize each and every facet of her beauty instead; her smile and her pained laughter, her marks and scars from the final battle only a month before their wedding day. “I’m never letting you go!”

“You’re going to— stop it! —have to if we ever want to get to Èze .” Marinette manages to wrench her ankle free and hops down from the ledge, landing easily in his outstretched arms. “That is, unless you want to crash.”

“If we shipwreck,” Adrien bends low and devours that little spot on her neck that makes her weak every time, “promise me you won’t hog the whole door?”

Marinette bursts into laughter. “Are we seriously going to have this debate again?”

“I’m serious! Jack could have totally fit on that— mmpf! ”

Cupping his cheeks, Marinette hurriedly kisses away the space between them and silences his long-winded debate once and for all. It’s an effective way to shut him up—all things considered—and an astonished gasp spirals from his lips as she hoists herself up his body and brackets his hips with her thighs. She claims him, covets him, her tongue sweeping across his lower lip, and he’s helpless to her siren’s song as he braces her against the cockpit’s controls and clings to her like a drowning man.

“Alright, you win.” Breathless and lightheaded, Adrien pulls back after a while just to soak her in, to remind himself that he’s married to the most beautiful woman in the world. He gazes in awe as she recovers, her flushed cheeks and parted lips swollen and wet. Adrien is drawn back in like a magnet, kissing her with every intention of stealing her breath away.

She buries her hands in his hair, her nails gently scraping against his scalp as Adrien all but melts in her embrace, groaning with pleasure. He deepens their kiss, and Adrien feels drunk with his desire to claim, their passion speaking more than words between them ever could. Every gasp and moan conveys their everlasting partnership and the terror of nearly losing one another in the whirlwind. Shell-shocked and injured, they still held their wedding ceremony, even as the fallout had tugged at their ankles, gossip and chaos pooling around their feet. Together, they’d inherited an empire he’d never wanted in the first place, thrusting them into a world unprepared and raw with nothing but each other as a tether in the storm.

“I love you,” she murmurs against his lips, her heartbeat hammering a tattoo inside her chest. He can feel it against his own, fast and strong and wonderfully alive. “We’ll get through this; together.”

Later, as they draw nearer to the charming port town of Èze, Adrien draws her close and hopes she never leaves his side. “Where to, Miss?”

Marinette smiles. “To the stars.”

Nothing comes so abundantly as time when you’re sailing through the seemingly endless vistas of the Med. Their honeymoon stretches on for longer than a week simply because it can; he owns their floating home-away-from-home and she’s working remotely, snagging a Wi-Fi signal whenever they’re in port.

Neither of them seem to be in any hurry to leave the solace of the French Riviera behind. It’s where he’s feasted on fresh seafood and felt better than he has in weeks. It’s where they’ve kissed and made love under the stars a thousand times over. It’s where he’s confessed his doubts about living in Paris and where she’s supported his struggle to leave his father behind.

They’re moored in Antibes tonight and the skies are awash in vibrant pinks and apricot. He drizzles balsamic vinegar onto a shimmering pond of Italian olive oil; she wears hair pins with flowers on them and pours wine like an expert, heedless to the way he’s staring at her like she’s his only source of air.

“I love you,” he whispers. It’s enough.

#miraculous ladybug #adrinette #ml fic #miraculous fanfic #ml writer zine

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flowercrown-bard · 4 years ago

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To Rest Their Weary Wings

sort of a prequel to As Though They Were Nightingales but can be read alone

Something was changing. Geralt wasn’t sure what it was, but he knew it was there. Knew it like he had always known when the first snow would fall and drive him from Jaskier’s side for the winter. There was no snow now and it had been decades since they had spent their winters apart. So why did Geralt feel like there was something changing between them?

He wanted to stay with Jaskier for as long as he would let him. The gods knew, there was nothing he wanted more than to stay. Jaskier wanted the same. He said so often enough. With words. With the way, he would cling to Geralt’s arm and point out the shapes of the clouds or some pretty flowers along the path to make his days less grey. As if any day with Jaskier could be grey. He was colour, he was sunshine and laughter.

And he was Geralt’s. Jaskier had said so, declared it to the crowds he was singing to, sighed it in the quiet morning hours, when he woke up with Geralt’s arms around him, when the nightingale’s song was replaced by the lark’s. He said it without words, when he took Geralt’s hand and asked him once more to go to the coast with him. And Geralt told him he was Jaskier’s, when he let Jaskier wrap his arms around him from behind, as they rode Roach until finally they dismounted and felt sand beneath their feet.

Oakwood was a quiet village; it had nothing of the exuberance of Novigrad or the other bustling cities Jaskier always favoured for his performances. Neither did it have many monsters, apart from the occasional siren troubling the waters when a fishing boat drifted too far.

Oakwood was almost insignificant in how calm and ordinary it was. And yet, when Jaskier had tentatively asked Geralt to come here, there had been an unspoken weight to his words. A weight that had become heavier with every step they had taken and that had finally seemed to lift when Jaskier had stood on the seashore, breathing in the salty air with closed eyes. For a sweet moment, Jaskier had looked truly happy.

Slowly, the look had faded into calm determination. Not immediately. Not for days. But by now, it was unmistakable.

Something was changing. And this thing was Jaskier.

He was still himself, still brightening at the prospect of a story, still looking at Geralt with that gleam in his eyes, still bringing happiness to people with his tales of adventure. Still making Geralt’s chest warm with every smile he sent his way.

And yet. There was something missing. Though the way Jaskier spoke of adventure still held that wonder he had shown years ago, he had slowly pulled away from them. No longer did he insist on accompanying Geralt on his hunts. No longer was he ready to climb mountains and trudge through moors to seek the next thrill. Instead he spent the time when Geralt was fulfilling a contract performing in taverns.

Geralt could almost pretend that it was like it had been at the beginning of their acquaintance, when Jaskier had a hunger for adventure, but the memory of the elves’ knives on their throats had been fresh and sharp enough to want to watch from a safe distance. This was nothing extraordinary. Jaskier didn’t have to follow him everywhere. It was fine. More than fine, when it meant that Jaskier was safely tucked away at an inn, performing and laughing and being happy. It was all Geralt could ask for.

But even this slipped through Geralt’s fingers without him noticing, too fast to close his hand and hold onto.

More and more often, Jaskier would rather sit and watch some townsperson with a fiddle or a cheap lute. He would smile when his own songs were sung, but rarely was he the one performing. He would hum along, but he wouldn’t jump up and dance anymore. He would still spin fantastical stories that had Geralt shake his head fondly, but seldom did Jaskier write melodies for them.

Geralt had fought monsters that would frighten the most hardened of men. He had stared death in its cold eyes more times than he could count. But never had his heart sunk with a weight as it did when he asked Jaskier why he wasn’t performing anymore.

Jaskier laughed, leaning into Geralt and for a moment, Geralt could pretend he had only imagined the shift in Jaskier.

“As loathe as I am to admit it, but she is better than me,” Jaskier said, gesturing to the young woman who was giving a soaring rendition of one of Jaskier’s earlier works.

Geralt stared at him, unable to form words. Never had Jaskier listened to others sing his songs without at least three points of criticism. There were no better bards than Jaskier, everyone knew that. No one knew it better than Jaskier himself.

But at Geralt’s grunt of disagreement, Jaskier only tilted his head and patted his hand. “Don’t look at me like that, my dearest. If I were a few years younger, she would not stand a chance against me. But as it is, her fingers are quicker than mine. Her feet nimbler in a dance and she has a face people enjoy looking at.”

Geralt knitted his brows, taking Jaskier in as though seeing him for the first time. “Why would people not want to look at you?”

Jaskier was beautiful. Always has been. Even more so now, that Jaskier threw his head back laughing as though Geralt had made a joke. Geralt had been serious.

“I can’t imagine not enjoying looking at you,” Geralt tried again. It was a clumsy attempt at a compliment and despite the sincerity of the words it sounded stilted. But Jaskier’s smile softened and he gently reached for Geralt’s hand.

“I know, dear. But you love me.”

Geralt nodded, the lump in his throat dissipating. It was a relief – it always was – that Jaskier understood his sparse words for what they were supposed to mean.

Jaskier sighed and turned his head once more towards the would-be bard belting his ballads. “But you can’t deny I have changed. Look at me! My hair is almost completely grey now!”

Something pricked at Geralt’s heart. Jaskier used to be so excited about the grey streaks in his hair. “We are going to match now!” Jaskier used to say with a radiant smile, accompanied by a quick kiss that was broken when they both smiled into it. Geralt would run his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, plant kisses on it and put flowers behind Jaskier’s ear. Jaskier would smile and say the colours contrasted beautifully with the grey.

“Don’t tell Yennefer, but I know I can’t hide the crow’s feet any longer,” Jaskier continued, as though the lines weren’t witnesses of years spent smiling until his eyes crinkled. “I am not like I used to be.”

“Your eyes are still blue.”

Jaskier was quiet for a moment, just looking at Geralt, thinking, searching. “Most people’s eyes become blue when they get old.” There was something in his smile that seemed not quite wrong, but…wistful. “Your eyes will stay golden. Always young.”

“I am older than you.”

Instead of answering, Jaskier turned back to the girl who was just striking up some sea shanty. Humming along, Jaskier closed his eyes and leaned against Geralt, who was unsure what else to say. What was there to say? This didn’t feel like banter or teasing. This felt heavy. Laced with hidden meaning that Geralt was unable to understand.

They didn’t talk about it anymore. Days passed by. Jaskier got to explore the town and Geralt finished the contract, helping some fishermen with their siren-problem. It was time to move on.

They didn’t.

“What is this place to you?” Geralt asked.

When Jaskier had asked Geralt to go to the coast with him on that mountain it had sounded like a throw away thought. Years and years had passed and Jaskier hadn’t mentioned the sea again. Not until he had asked Geralt about it a few weeks ago and Geralt had begun to realise that there was something more to it.

Something in Jaskier’s tone had made it seem like it was the most important thing to him and yet, he had not been scared of rejection. Instead, Jaskier had looked at Geralt like he was convinced that this time Geralt would come with him without hesitation. Geralt’s heart had stuttered. Despite how it had gone before, Jaskier still had trust in him, as he had had the first day they had met, when the then-young bard had had no doubt that Geralt would get them out of the elves’ captivity alive.

Geralt hadn’t been convinced he deserved such utter trust back at the edge of the world. Now, standing next to Jaskier at the edge of the sea, he would do anything in his power to make sure he did.

“Oakwood?” Jaskier lifted his eyebrows and thought for a moment. “I don’t know. I’ve never been here before.” He trailed off, letting his eyes drift to where the sea gently kissed the land, as he had once called it. “But the coast reminds me of my time in Oxenfurt. It was always calming to me; safe. It is different here, though.” He blinked, as though trying to shield his eyes from the salty breeze. There was the slightest hint of hesitation in his words. “Oakwood is nothing to me yet, but I hope it could become home.”

“Home?” Geralt wasn’t sure what that emotion was that coloured his voice unbidden. It might be hope. Whatever it was, it was battling with a well-known urgency not to linger, to keep moving. Go to the next town. Find the next contract. The world might still need you.

“I won’t force you to stay with me, of course,” Jaskier said quickly, as if having read Geralt’s thought. As if he had spent most of his life getting to know Geralt and being able to read him as easily as a children’s book. “I know you are not one to stay in one place for too long.” A seabird’s cry interrupted Jaskier and he took a moment to watch it land on a dry patch of sand. “I wouldn’t keep you here. I am not that selfish to hide the world from you.” He could never be. Jaskier was his world. His home. “But … you could be like a bird sitting down on a branch after a long flight to rest their weary wings, so when it’s time to keep on flying, they are rested for a new adventure.”

“And what about you?”

“You want me to continue with the bad metaphors?” Jaskier let out a bemused laugh. “Fine. I am a bird flying south for the winter. I know that I won’t be able to soar through the sky as I used to any longer, but I have found my south.”

Geralt scowled. He had spent enough time with Jaskier to know that it was easier for him to speak in metaphors and painted words. It didn’t make it any easier for him to understand.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said quietly. “I meant, won’t you be alone if I ever go on a hunt again? I don’t have to do that. I can change with you.”

“Never change.” The words were almost whispered, but they held an unknown urgency. “Never for me.”

“For you, it would be worth it. I could stay with you. I don’t have to leave. This could become our home.”

“That would be beautiful.” A dreamy look settled on Jaskier’s face, smoothing the creases between his brows and giving him back his years. “We could sit together in front of a small cottage and watch the sunset. We could stroll along the shore every day and we could collect shells to decorate our home.”

Geralt’s heart clenched. It was a beautiful dream. It was a life Jaskier deserved. “I could give this to you.” He reached out, took Jaskier’s hand in his. “We could have this.”

Jaskier was quiet and Geralt’s heart skipped a beat, his words and thoughts coming faster than he could control, desperate to give this dream a shape he could hold onto. “You always told me that I should retire eventually. So why not now? Why not with you?”

“Because now I understand why you always said you wouldn’t do it.” A smile stretched Jaskier’s lips and it looked so loving, so proud. “It’s not about the monsters or some witcher code that’s been forced onto you. That I would ask you to give up in a heartbeat. But retiring would mean the same thing for you that it does for me. My songs used to make people happy. I used to make people happy. And you- “ Jaskier turned fully to face Geralt, resting his free hand on his cheek. A thumb brushed against the corner of his lips. “You are helping people. With everything you do, you help people. That is who you are and I can’t take away that from you. Stay with me, love, for as long as you can. But when you grow restless and need to go, promise me you’ll do that.”

“What about you?” Geralt repeated, leaning into the touch, pressing a soft kiss against the fingers resting against his lips. “You always said there were more places you wanted to see. It doesn’t have to end here. We don’t have to go on hunts together, but I could show you the blossoming hills of Dol Blathanna in spring or … or if you wanted to go to more festivals we could or –“

Jaskier’s hand squeezing his silenced him. “Geralt.” It sounded to tender. So undeservedly grateful. “You showed me more of the world than I had ever been able to see on my own.” A laugh escaped Jaskier. “And I believe I took you to more festivals than you would have seen in a lifetime if it wasn’t for me.”

“I didn’t mind. I would go to one again. With you. We still haven’t seen the harvest festivities of Corvo Bianco.”

Jaskier didn’t answer. Instead his eyes dropped to their joined hands.

“Jaskier?”

“You’ll have to tell me about the festival if you ever go there,” Jaskier said quietly. “But I’m afraid I can’t come with you anymore.” His lips twitched upwards in a teasing smile. “You might flatter me, saying I am still beautiful –“

“You are.”

“But I am no fool. I am getting old.”

“You can be both.”

“Naturally.” Jaskier’s lips twitched and he bumped Geralt with his shoulder playfully. “But that doesn’t change the fact that travelling has become exhausting. I can’t ride long distances and I definitely can’t walk for hours on end.” With a teasing wink he added “Even if I were to follow your oh so wise advice and buy some proper walking boots.”

“Then we will find other places to visit,” Geralt said softly. “I am sure there must be beautiful spots near-by.”

“I’d love that.” Jaskier’s eyes shone as he lifted their hands to press a kiss against Geralt’s knuckles. “We have time to find them all.”

They had time. Not as much as Geralt wanted, but more than he thought they did when they had started travelling together. It has already been decades more than he had thought would be granted to him. Every moment with Jaskier was something precious and he would make sure that Jaskier knew.

Something had changed. Witchers didn’t plan their lives. There was nothing to plan. They went out into the world, they slayed monsters, they hoped to get coin. Nothing more to it. But here Geralt was, a witcher standing at the sea, making whispered plans of settling down with his beloved.

When Geralt would inevitably ride off to follow the path for a while and bring back stories for Jaskier, he would do so alone, as witchers were meant to be. No, not quite. Witchers were meant to be lonely. And that, Geralt would never be. He hadn’t been for a long time. How could he be lonely when he knew that someone was out there, waiting for him to return? How could he ever feel truly alone, when the man he loved would always be there with open arms and a bright smile, welcoming him home?

A wave crashed against the shore, spooking the seagull which had hacked at the sand, chasing it off into the sky. Geralt felt Jaskier sigh and lean his head against his shoulder. One day, Geralt would go out there into the wide world and the path again. But for now, he would rest.

Things would continue to change, he knew. Jaskier would continue to change. And he would be there with him, every step along the way.

#fic #my writing #jaskier #old jaskier #geraskier #the coast #witcher #the witcher #im not very happy with this but whatever #it wont get any better #maybe ill write some other stuff for this #geralt #Birds still sing when they fall from the sky #well technically

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mordoriscalling · 4 years ago

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48 Weeks (3/4)

(Part 1) (Part 2)

Throughout the 48 weeks that Geralt and Jaskier spend apart, their relationship develops.

Aka, part 3 of the Singer and the Sailor AU no one asked for but I wrote anyway. The events of this story happen after Stay or Sail Away but before Homecoming. Warnigns: some sexual content ahead!

Weeks 25-36

Week 25

“There seems to be something special about the sea, doesn’t it?”

“Hmm.”

“You know, Tolkien once wrote that there was a special melody in between the sound of waves and seabirds’ song. Music that elves were susceptible to and, once they heard it, they couldn’t be satisfied by anything else but life at sea.”

There does seem to be something to it. Geralt hums again and asks, “Are you calling me an elf?”

Jaskier laughs. “You certainly are beautiful like one.”

Geralt scowls, thankful to all the gods that he can hardly blush. “You look more like an elf, with the ears."

Jaskier grins. “Ah, yes, that and my dashing good looks! And the fact that I love singing, and I don’t look my age and... wait.” Jaskier blinks. “Tell you what, maybe I am an elf.”

Geralt chuckles.

“And you, sir, you could be an elf too. You look like a legendary warrior from the First Age who would talk to dragons and outwit them.”

He rolls his eyes but lets Jaskier ramble on about his "warrior-ness".

Week 26

“You fucking what?!”

“You tried to teach chickens how to fly.”

“How is that worse than trying to school a bumblebee?” Jaskier shrieks. “What the fuck, Geralt?! How would you even attempt to do that?”

“We first trapped it in a jar –”

“Oh no.”

“– and then we would tap on the glass to make it fly in the opposite direction. In the end, it would fly away if it noticed our fingers getting close to the jar. That was our idea of schooling it.”

“The poor thing had to be terrified.”

“It was Eskel’s idea,” Geralt grumbles.

Jaskier sighs dramatically. “I can’t believe I love such a cruel man!”

Geralt freezes. “You what?”

“Shit."

Week 27

When Jaskier picks up, Geralt takes him in and his beauty is even more striking than usual. His features, both soft and sharp, his bright eyes, his charm and wit. Jaskier’s a talented, successful man, and Geralt can’t wrap his head around it.

“You love me?” he blurts out, still disbelieving.

“I’ve been serenading you for the past six months but thanks for noticing.”

Geralt snorts. “No, it’s... it’s you, and I am... me.”

He almost growls in frustration because words fail him yet again when he needs them most. Jaskier’s gaze softens with understanding anyway.

“Oh, my heart,” he replies quietly, “I know you think yourself broken and undeserving of good things because of your past but... you haven’t had an easy life and yet, you’re kind and willing to do so much for the ones you care about. You’re witty, sharp, capable and reliable. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted in a partner, really,” Jaskier says, his smile almost shy.

Geralt doesn’t know what to say to any of that. Three decades ago, he was living in an orphanage, just a kid with anger management issues and shitty, shitty prospects for the future. Now, he has a fucking celebrity confess his love to him.

“I...” he begins, then trails off. He knows he has to say something. ‘Love’ refuses to pass through his throat but there’s no mistaking about the warmth Geralt feels whenever he even thinks about Jaskier and all the ways in which he’s ridiculous. “I,” he starts again, “I... feel the same.”

For once, Jaskier is silent, his eyes glistening.

Week 28

“The tour was a success! Minus all the expenses od renting venues and everything else, we still made some decent money, which is great news. And the fans!” Jaskier gushes, “oh, Geralt, the fans! It feels fantastic to be appreciated by so many.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s good to be home, though. It’d be even better if you were here, you know? I... I wish you were.”

Geralt swallows hard. “Me too.”

There’s the heavy silence between them again as they look at each other helplessly. This time, it’s Geralt who breaks it.

“Now that you’re back,” he says, “could you see how’s Ciri doing? You could... drop by Yen’s place sometime.”

Jaskier’s grin is blinding. “Sweetheart, I’d be honoured! But only if Yennefer allows it too, of course.”

Now that, that part’s going to be the hardest.

Week 29

“I can so imagine you in lingerie.”

Geralt raises his eyebrows in surprise. Jaskier takes it as a clue to go on.

“The lingerie would be black of course and oh, it’d look magnificent on your body. I’d just watch you touch yourself, sprawled on the bed. Darling, what a sight you’d make. I could come just from looking at you but I’d try not to because I’d want to take the lingerie off of you, piece by piece. Slowly.”

Geralt’s breathing is already harsh and laboured, and he’s undoing his trousers with his free hand. “Jaskier,” he grits out.

“Yes, dear?”

“Keep fucking talking.”

Jaskier smiles dangerously.

Week 30

Earlier this week, he received a message with another recording from Jaskier. The song is slow, gentle and loving, because there’s no other word for it. It makes Geralt feel abashed.

When Jaskier picks up the video call, Geralt asks, referring to the lyrics, “you really think you see me?”

“I think I do,” Jaskier replies, his voice warm.

It’s a lie. Jaskier has no idea about Blaviken, he doesn’t know the whole of Geralt’s story. Still, it’s a nice lie to believe in.

Jaskier tells him he loves him once again. Geralt says it back. He wants to have this as long as he can.

Week 31

On Saturday that week, it’s Ciri’s fifteenth birthday. Geralt’s call interrupts the birthday party.

“Happy birthday, Cub.”

Ciri grimaces a bit at the old nickname, making him chuckle. She starts growing into a proper lioness, not a cub any longer. Cirilla is their pride and joy – a clever, talented, headstrong girl. Geralt could’ve never raised such a child alone. When he found out he was supposed to be her legal guardian just a week before he turned thirty – that he’d have to take in a traumatised four-year-old with vague memories of her family she lost in a car crash – he needed help. He contacted Yennefer for the first time in years. Caring for Ciri brought their love back to life. Before he knew it, he proposed, and then the three of them made a proper family Geralt never knew he would have. Whenever he was away, Yen had help from her brothers, and if they were deployed too, she could always count on Vesemir.

His marriage to Yen turned out to be a disaster in the long run and really, all of them – him, Yennefer, Eskel, Lambert, Vesemir – are just different shades of fucked-up. Ciri is their collective effort, though, and it often feels like she’s one of the few things they’ve ever done right.

“I’m sorry I can’t be there,” Geralt tells her.

“It’s all right, dad.”

It’s not, he knows it isn’t. Geralt should be there with her. He’s missed out on so much of her life already, and yet the Navy took almost another year away from them. Geralt fears that when he finally returns for good, he’ll seem like a stranger to her because of all the time they’ve spent apart. He's afraid that she’ll not even want him to make up for it.

“I love you, Ciri,” he says, desperate for her to know it all of the sudden.

She smiles slightly. “I love you too, dad.”

He smiles too and wants to apologize again but then Jaskier appears. Ciri starts talking about taking piano lessons from him and then Jaskier joins in, chattering about what they’ll work on first. Geralt simply sits back and lets their words wash over him in warm waves.

Week 32

There seems to be some development in the relationship dynamics back at home.

“Your ex-wife is very sexy and very scary,” Jaskier says, all casual, “I wish I could hate her but her fashion sense is impeccable. Is sexy and scary your type, by the way? Because if so, I only fall in within the sexy category.”

“Hmm.”

“Geralt, you wound me–”

Week 33

“I hate him.”

Geralt sighs. “You two are getting along, then?”

“He will do,” Yennefer answers. “You downgraded, of course, but you could’ve done worse.”

“Yen.”

“Fine. I’ll say this: I think he’ll be good for you.”

A smile tugs at his lips. “He is.”

“I’m glad to see you happy.”

Her voice is gentle like it almost never is and there’s an ache in his chest. In moments like this, the old regret that they didn’t work out burns bright. They’re too different and alike for it to be anything but damaging, though; similarly scarred and scared, knowing exactly where to bite on the raw. They lash out when they’re hurt, and they’re not good people, not exactly. All of this does not mix well. The good days, when they soared, could not compensate for all the pain.

The divorce two years ago was one of their best decisions, but they’re there for each other still, in a way no one really understands.

“I want to see you happy too, Yen,” he says.

“I have Ciri.” He doesn’t reply and she lets out a heavy breath. “I’m getting there. I think I really am.”

“That’s good. You... deserve it.”

“Aw, Geralt, Jaskier’s turned you all soft.”

Week 34

The past week, there have been three storms, two damages to the ship and one conflict among the crew. Geralt is just grateful that his job pays as well as it does.

He does miss home but the heaviness in his chest at the thought of his loved ones is not crushing anymore. Most days, he doesn’t think about them as much as he used to. When he focuses on work at hand, it seems like the ship, the crew and the waves around are the only things existing in the world. They’re supposed to get from one point to another, one task after another, and it’s fulfilling when they achieve it. He’s at home in the simplicity of it.

But then, there’re moments when he remembers that there’s another home, right where his family is, a whole world away. His weekly calls with Ciri, Yennefer and Jaskier only serve to aggravate him, showing him that there’s a different life for him out there. The sea pales in comparison to it.

This week, Geralt doesn’t like the reminder especially. He sees Jaskier on the screen and hates that he’s so far away, that it’s been like this for so long.

They don’t do much talking. Jakier strums his guitar idly and Geralt listens.

Week 35

“Your older brother is so nice!”

Jaskier angles the camera so that it shows Eskel next to him. Eskel raises his hand in greeting with a smile. Ciri is there too, focused on cutting vegetables.

They’re standing by the kitchen island in Yennefer’s apartment. Eskel returned from a deployment a few days ago and, being a good brother and uncle, he’s started taking care of their cub right away.

“He’s the devil incarnate,” Geralt grunts in reply.

Eskel makes a rude gesture at him.

“I refuse to believe it, darling!” Jaskier answers, “Such a sweet man cannot be evil.”

Eskel and Jaskier smile at each other. Something in Geralt goes dead cold.

He’s very well aware that his older brother is more attractive than him, particularly when it comes to character traits. Eskel’s gentler, more articulate and charming; a much better match for Jaskier, in truth.

Geralt secretly dreaded Eskel and Jaskier finally meeting and now as he watches the two joke and talk, it appears that he was right.

Week 36

“Just three more months!” Jaskier exclaims in greeting.

Geralt brushes his hand over his face because there’s nothing “just” about it. It’s been eight months at sea and the memories from before the deployment are like a distant dream.

“I wrote you a song, by the way. It’s about you coming home.” Jaskier smiles. “I know I’m getting a bit ahead of myself but it’s a nice thought. You being back.”

The song is by far the shortest and simplest Jaskier wrote for him but Jaskier voice has the haunting quality like it always does. Geralt, as always, can’t stop thinking it.

That day, he stands at the side of the ship and listens to the waves. He can almost hear the sea’s music and he already knows he’s going to miss it but at the same time, he can’t wait to be back on land; to return to the other home.

#myfic #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #the witcher fanfiction #modern au #the Sailor and the Singer AU

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dansnaturepictures · 2 years ago

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06/11/2022-Blashford Lakes and bits at home

I had a good afternoons birdwatching at Blashford. In terms of water birds it was nice to see many Great Crested Grebes especially on Ibsley Water. It was also good to see many Cormorants well this afternoon, as dusk started to approach on Ivy lake seen from Ivy South hide I liked seeing them gathered in the trees, with the call of two as they tustled echoing towards me it was pleasantly reminiscent of a seabird colony. It was sensual to see and hear one flapping on Ibsley Water from the tern hide earlier in the visit too. From Ivy North hide Wigeon’s bright colours glowed like perfectly painted cabinet ornaments in the murk of a rain shower.

Also over Ibsley Water a Red Kite soaring nicely showing its immense scale above a couple of flying Grey Herons stood out for the day. The best of the rest included a Jay in a golden birch, another Nuthatch seen well in the New Forest area lately after two weeks ago at Denny Wood with a lovely one feeding for ages at the woodland hide I took the seventh picture in this photoset of this and a great view of a Dunnock by the Ivy North.

I found some top bits of fungi between the entrance to the centre side of the reserve and Ivy North; a massive one, an entertainingly shaped one and a little brown button like one on the ground which I took the fifth picture in this photoset of a brittlegill I believe. It was great to take in much lichen here this afternoon in the field area, as well as ivy seen from the woodland hide, ragwort holding on in the field and remnants of another yellow flower a hawksbeard I believe. It was good to see rose hips and remnants of blackberries too.

Landscape wise it was so beautiful to witness the force of nature of the shower moving through at Ivy North. Dramatic when raging, then the green vegetation I had been attracted to during it got brighter and brighter as the sun emerged. With black clouds shuffling off into the distance towards Rockford Common which had its still quite purple heath revealed in the sun that followed as the fourth picture I took today in this photoset shows, a rainbow formed. Nearly a double the second didn’t quite make it, but the one that did come through was perhaps the brightest and clearest I’ve seen all year. A stunning colourful sight to behold I was transfixed by it. I tweeted photos I took of it on Dans_Pictures tonight. I don’t think I know of a place to watch and photograph rainbows better than Blashford Lakes, there always seems a potency about them here which I’ve enjoyed a few times over the years. In the midst of the shower where the autumnal colour was harder to discern, but for the weather and bare branches it didn’t feel too November like with how much green there is on the trees still. Wet autumn and green leaves in bright sunlight made great sights as the woods awoke from the shower the sun coming through and behind trees were enriching sights today. I enjoyed views of many different trees including pine, blue lakes and precious reedbeds, as well as smashing sky scenes here today. I took the first picture in this photoset of a view from the Tern hide, second of a sky scene, third of a colourful birch and sixth picture in this photoset of a view here today.

Such sky scenes enthused me at home today too and there was one heavy shower from there too. Seeing groundsel and captivating pink wet snapdragons in nice light outside the fence and House Sparrow and Starlings feeding as well as Collared Dove were good moments at home today too. I liked seeing the moon really well tonight again it looked beautiful. I took the eighth picture in this photoset during the shower with the mistletoe on distant trees looking clear and it was an atmospheric scene, ninth of a sky scene out the back with bits of autumnal colour in a view over the area that way starting to show and tenth and final picture in this photoset of the moon tonight. It was strange to see a Mute Swan beside the road and nice to see a few Carrion Crows on the way home from Blashford. A great and memorable weekend, I hope you all have a good week.

Wildlife Sightings Summary: Three of my favourite birds the Jay, Red Kite and Great Crested Grebe, Woodpigeon, Great Tit with one heard nicely in the woods too, Coal Tit, Chaffinch, Goldfinch, Nuthatch, Dunnock, Robin, Blackbird, a possible Redwing, Cormorant, Grey Heron, Black-headed Gull, Lesser Black-backed Gull, a nice selection of ducks Mallard, Tufted Duck, Wigeon and Gadwall, Mute Swan, Canada Goose, Greylag Goose I heard these from home today too, Coot, Moorhen, Grey Squirrel seen from the woodland hide and fly.

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anonsally · 6 years ago

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Day 13 in New Zealand: Otago Peninsula

It was a good day for watching birds on the larger side. Long report below!

Today, Wife had booked herself on a walking tour of the city, while I had booked myself a tour at the Royal Albatross Centre. After averting a near-disaster where she walked off with the car keys and I needed to drive [luckily, I caught up with her before she left on her walking tour], I bought a new pair of hiking shoes. I think they might actually fit better than the ones I lost, and they have the added bonus of being purple. The ones I lost might arrive sometime tomorrow, but I needed hiking shoes before then and I don’t even know whether they will arrive.

I then returned to the car, had my phone navigate for me, and drove alone to the Royal Albatross Centre at the end of the Otago Peninsula. The hard thing about driving on the left isn’t remembering which lane to drive in--it’s staying positioned correctly within the lane when seated on the opposite side of the car from what you’re used to. Both Wife and I are constantly drifting just a little too far to the left when we drive, to the alarm of the passenger. Also, the turn indicators and windshield wipers have switched sides, so the wipers are getting a major workout even though it hasn’t rained much at all.

Anyway, it was a beautiful drive, winding along the coastline with lots of different seabirds (reef heron (I think), white-faced herons, possibly some little shags?, black swans, paradise shelducks, oystercatchers), some boats, and views across the Otago Harbor to Dunedin. There was some road construction going on, but even without it the drive would have mostly been pretty slow, which feels safer to me.

I made it to the Royal Albatross Centre on time. There were only 4 people on my tour--a retired but active Scottish couple, a retired Australian man with a fancy camera, and me. We had a brief lecture and saw an instructional video on the royal albatross, and I learned some fascinating facts:

The chicks stay at the nest for about 9 months before they fledge, and they get really fat--too fat to fly! So their parents have force them to exercise a little and put them on a diet (the chicks eat food their parents regurgitate for them) so that they’ll be able to learn to fly.

Once they fledge, they take off and then don’t touch land for 5 years! When they finally do land, very clumsily on legs they have not stood on in 5 years, it’s always at the site where they hatched.

At this point they are not yet sexually mature, but they start hanging out and showing off with other albatrosses their own age, flirting and gradually building a relationship with one of them. They hang out together on land for a few months, then fly around the pole again and meet up the following year, repeating this a couple times.

The year before they reach sexual maturity, they commit. They build a fake nest together, practice preening each other, etc. Then they fly off for a year and meet up again to try to mate this time.

They only lay one egg every two years. It takes 3 months to incubate the egg (both parents take turns) and then 9 months to raise the chick, and then the parents need a vacation. They fly off separately toward South America and keep going in the same direction until they get back home again a year later. The male usually arrives first and builds the nest, though the females sometimes aren’t happy with the results.

There are currently two F/F couples. The volunteers give them fake eggs to incubate and then, if another egg gets abandoned (or something happens to the parents), they can switch it out and the F/F pairs will raise the chick.

The royal albatrosses have only been nesting on Otago Peninsula for a few decades; previously they nested exclusively on Stewart Island, but maybe it got a bit overcrowded, or some albatrosses got lost? This is the only mainland breeding site for albatrosses in the southern hemisphere.

After this, we walked up the hill to a small building with tinted glass windows that the albatrosses can’t see through. We had a pretty close view of a chick on its nest, with two or three other chicks within sight too. They were large, very fluffy, and pretty fat! There was also a great view of a bunch of Stewart Island shags and their nests, which were all crowded close together (but not within pecking distance). And then we got a brief glimpse of an adult royal albatross soaring around. It was unimaginably huge (wingspans are 2.9-3.3 METERS).

We then went to another hide, this one originally part of a military installment. There was an even closer chick, and we saw the adult flying again. Spectacular.

Afterwards I drove back about 15 minutes or so to pick up Wife, who’d taken a bus as far as she could up the peninsula. We went to do a tour at Penguin Place, a private wildlife reserve and penguin hospital dedicated to conservation of the endangered yellow-eyed penguin (hoiho).

Unlike the little blue penguins, which return home in big rafts of up to several dozen individuals, these penguins are more solitary. The pairs make a nest together but they don’t like their nests to be too close together. We also found out that there are some gay penguin couples in the reserve who have raised orphaned chicks together.

The main problems facing the hoiho are overfishing and climate change; the fish they eat are becoming scarcer due to humans catching most of them, and the fish are living in deeper waters, below where the penguins are evolved to swim. This year the penguin hospital had to care for 300 starving penguins, which is nearly half of New Zealand’s population of them and nearly 20% of the world’s population.

So, first we visited the penguin hospital. There was a fence with a wide slit at eye level to look through; due to the fence, the penguins can’t tell how big we are and don’t feel too threatened. There were still 9 of them there, which is unfortunately a lot for this time of year. Some of them were still moulting and looked pretty hilarious. Others had their new plumage already and looked very sleek and fancy! It was nice to see them so close up, and they won’t be kept any longer than necessary to rehabilitate them, but of course we were still hoping to see one out in the wild, and there was no guarantee.

Next we all boarded a bus which bumped along rough farm roads down to the reserve, where we were taken into covered trenches to the hides where we could look through slits at the penguins when they came ashore and then waddled toward their homes. On our way down to the trenches, the guide pointed out a penguin on the beach already! I had my binoculars with me and was able to get a better look. Then we hurried through the trenches to the hide and had a great view of it waddling along the path. Once it was out of sight, we waited a bit, and then another one came! It basically got followed by another one who wanted to be friends but was rebuffed. We watched the two of them waddling up the path (one a few meters behind the other), stopping periodically to preen, and we also saw two more from a distance, as they didn’t come up the trail from the beach but came up on the rocks a little ways off. It was so great. We saw five of them altogether, and it felt really special. I hope some protections get put in place to help them survive. They are such beautiful birds.

I’m glad I bought the tiny binoculars--they’ve definitely helped me get better views of the birds today. I have now achieved most of my birdwatching goals for the trip: kiwi, royal albatross, blue penguin, yellow-eyed penguin! I am still really hoping to see a tomtit and a pukeko, and I would, of course, be happy to see a kakapo or a South Island kaka, or for that matter any other bird I’ve never seen before. But even if I don’t, I think it’s been quite a successful trip for birdwatching!

#personal #travel #birdwatching #tl;dr

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serpentariusart · 6 years ago

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alliance-fr replied to your post: i just realised. I always imagined Skydancers as...

I mean have you seen how graceful seabirds are? And dancing doesn’t have to mean manuverability it could be the ability to use thermals.

Oh yeah I get it. I love watching seagulls chase each other. The fact they’re quite small certainly helps (imps are big AND have soaring wings, i don’t see much maneuverability with them.

skydancers still won’t be able to reach the level of acrobatics pigeons can. Pigeons are WILD. They need to escape ultra fast raptors after all. I’ve seen them do back flips midair.

A lot of it comes down to size of the body and the wing. Bats are acrobatic in part because of the wide surface area on the wing, and the small body and very light frame. A heavier animal can’t do that.

So at the end of the day much of it may come down to how much weight matters in Sornieth. Seeing as we can assume magic helps these several ton imperials fly, we can assume magic helps skydancers be more acrobatic. After all, their encyclopedia entry does state they channel their energy into their acrobatics.

but at the end of the day im also a hard-ass bird fanatic who cares too much about shapes hjfdjdfs

#alliance-fr #fae on the other hand #good luck catching them #those wee fuckers are BUILT for it #tiny #light #big open wings #its just fun to take into account wing shape when drawing dragons #depending on how you want them to fly #for example the SD im drawing rn flies long distances #narrow wing boy #ish #im bad at drawing narrow wings ngl

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edinzphoto · 6 years ago

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This is Tawhiti Rahi at night. The sky is full of Buller’s shearwaters - rako - returning to feed their fat fluffy chicks. Their giggling, braying, moaning cries begin to fill the forest, burbling up from burrows underground. There are crashes as they hit the canopy, followed by a solid thud as they reach the ground. Lying in a clearing overlooking a steep chasm, I’m mesmerised by their shadows soaring through the air. The endless ease and grace with which they navigate in the dark, over rocky cliffs, through tangled forest, always pinpointing their burrow and dropping in beside the entrance. I could watch them fly across the moon all night. #seabirdscience #scientistlife #fieldbiology #biologist #seabird #shearwater #birdvideos #nature #newzealand #aotearoa #poorknights #birdland #discover_earth #nikonnz #nikond500 https://www.instagram.com/p/BuRteY5gRF2/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1798ccnwgcsg8

#seabirdscience #scientistlife #fieldbiology #biologist #seabird #shearwater #birdvideos #nature #newzealand #aotearoa #poorknights #birdland #discover_earth #nikonnz #nikond500

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writerlilahsuzanne · 4 years ago

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Adrift - A Tack & Jibe short

Bodhi must have been a dragonfly in a past life. Or maybe a frog or a turtle or something else that thrives in the mess and muck of nature. It would explain how her body and soul settle and still out here in the Sound where the brackish water is placid, where it’s as if her kayak is slicing through a sheet of opaque glass.

She has mud and up to her knees from dragging her kayak through the surrounding wetlands, her long sun-streaked blonde hair sticks in sweaty clumps to her neck and forehead, and her own earthy scent swirls around her in the slow, heavy breeze: dirt and musk and patchouli shampoo and coconut sunscreen and lemon-eucalyptus bug spray that only sort of works.

When Bodhi was younger, her moms would have to beg her to come inside and take a bath, to sit at the table like a civilized person and do homework or chores that she never quite saw the point of. Why work on long division when she could climb a tree? Why study old men and the dates of wars when she could scoop tadpoles from a creek. Isn’t that more real? Life squiggling in her cupped palms, sturdy branches holding her, safe, up in the sky? And anyway, her moms always encouraged her to be free and wild and so she is.

It’s meditative, the rhythm of her paddles dipping in and out of the water; one side, then the other. Gentle waves glide along her boat, the seagrass and wild oats dance to the wind, the trees set farther back rustle with life. Along the way, Bodhi spots a flock of Redhead ducks that float in a clump near the shore, Seagulls and Royal Terns loudly scavenge for food and fish, Cormorants fly high above. She even spots a Great Blue Heron, long-legged and graceful and impossibly huge, picking its way slowly through the shallows. The Great Heron spreads its wings suddenly, perhaps startled by Bodhi and her bright red kayak, and takes flight. Bodhi drifts and watches it soar across the sky. Perhaps she was a bird, before, in a different life. She could spend hours or even days out here, all alone among the for birds.

“Hey, can we make a pit stop at the Visitor Center?”

She isn’t all alone. “Sure.” Bodhi smiles back at Hunter who is keeping pace behind Bodhi in her own kayak. Bodhi doesn’t mind the company, she’s out here with friends often, in fact, a whole group of them paddling the sound, or sailing between and around the chain of islands that make up the Outer Banks, or hiking through the dedicated nature preserve that takes up nearly half of this island. Hunter is around a lot lately. Like, always around a lot lately. Bodhi isn’t sure what she should take from that, exactly.

The Porter Island Visitor Center comprises two single-room buildings, one a museum-slash-information center, one a gift shop, both raised up a few feet on decks that connect via a weathered wooden walkway. There’s an outbuilding-type bathroom—barely more high-tech than an outhouse—and in the gift shop there’s a much nicer air-conditioned single stall restroom. They dock, and Hunter heads toward the gift shop.

When Bodhi moved here several years ago with her moms, the Visitor Center was one of their first stops. It was so quaint; a little sand- and salt-speckled shack with lighthouse and beach themed goods for sale. In the adjacent museum there is an entire wall dedicated to the years Blackbeard the pirate used the island’s shallow sound as a refuge in his downtime between the murders and pillages. There’s another whole wall about the island’s lighthouse. But Bodhi quickly adapted from suburban to tiny-island style living and now can’t imagine ever being anywhere else.

Bodhi idly browses the small sea-themed trinkets and a few racks of postcards, a shelf of hats and one of Porter Island t-shirts. There’s a section dedicated to books by local authors and books about local history and about the flora and fauna of the island. Bodhi flips through a book about seabirds. When Hunter emerges from the bathroom, she scans the gift shop until she finds Bodhi, then smiles like the sun coming out. Huh. That’s new.

“Ready?” Hunter freshened up while she was in the bathroom; her hair is smoothed down and damp with water instead of sweat, her light makeup touched up, and there’s no trace of dirt or grime. It’s interesting only because Hunter typically isn’t very fussy about that sort of thing. Sometimes, but she’s usually chill about... Well, everything. That’s why Bodhi likes hanging out with her. And doing other stuff with her.

“Yup. Ready.”

As they head out of the store, though, Hunter stops at the checkout counter and snags a giant sun hat from a spinning rack. “You’re so fair; you should get this.” She plops it on Bodhi’s head as the young-looking cashier watches them with obvious interest.

“This hat is like, excessive,” Bodhi says, tugging at the extremely wide brim. It’s one of those floppy sun hats, a rich lady sipping cocktails while on a yacht type hats. “Anyway, the sun is good for you.” Bodhi hooks the ridiculous hat back onto the rack. Cashier Boy’s mouth flicks up into a tiny smile. He’s cute. Too young, though, probably only eighteen or nineteen, Bodhi would guess. Bodhi is a little unsettled by that; being at a stage in her life now that someone that age would be too young for her to be interested in. Is this what getting old and mature feels like? Gross.

“The sun is good for you in small doses.” Hunter moves in closer still, brushes her thumb across Bodhi’s cheekbone. “All of those gorgeous freckles won’t be so lovely when they turn into melanoma.” Bodhi wrinkles her nose. Hunter’s thumb lingers at the corner of her jaw. Hunter’s eyes are pretty, Bodhi thinks. Like, she knew that but she hadn’t paid that much attention to them before. Well, she has. Just not this much. They’re like, ochre. Or a tiger’s eye gemstone.

“You guys are a cute couple.”

Bodhi startles and moves backward; Hunter’s hand briefly hovers mid-air then falls away. “No, we’re—” Hunter says, as Bodhi stutters out, “We aren’t— We’re—” But what even are they? A summer hookup that’s lasted four summers and now more? Friends, now that Hunter lives on Porter Island full time? Really good friends? Really good friends who hook up sometimes, but then go for long stretches without hanging out at all because it gets too intense too fast and yet they keep finding their way back together, as if it’s something cosmic or inevitable but neither of them really want it to be, unless they do?

It’s too complicated, too much to understand yet alone explain so Bodhi finishes her thought with a casual shrug.

It’s whatever.

“We should get back out there,” Hunter says, saving them all from the awkward moment. Bodhi doesn’t do awkward, so she’s grateful.

Back out on the water, Bodhi can’t seem to lose herself in the natural world like she always does. The cashier’s comment, and Hunter’s face after… Her own vehement reaction… Why Hunter has been around so much lately…

“Do you want to stay over tonight?” Hunter calls, trailing behind Bodhi’s kayak once again.

They usually end these excursions by falling into someone’s bed, or sleeping bag, or boat, or, once, a rustic treehouse. And usually it’s casual. It’s chill. Neither of them care to put a label on it because it’s just sex but if things have changed for Hunter, that means Bodhi should probably put a stop to it. Hunter’s her friend and that means something to Bodhi. She doesn’t hurt her friends, not on purpose.

“I dunno. I have to work early.” She never really has to work, let alone early, her moms are cool with Bodhi helping at the sailing shop they own whenever she’s in the mood to help. More or less. She probably should go in though, so it’s not a total lie. “But we can hang after if that’s chill.”

Bodhi can’t see her, and doesn’t crane around to look, but she can hear the disappointment in Hunter’s voice all the same. “Sure yeah, it’s chill.”

Bodhi is now certain that it’s anything but.

+++

At dusk, Bodhi sets up shop on the back deck, a packed bowl on the glass table in front of her, her bare feet propped up next to her phone, a full backpack ready to go next to her reclined patio chair. She waits.

The location is always a secret until the very last moment; a precaution so no one reports their activities and sends everyone scurrying away and they miss the entire event. Tonight an event Bodhi has been waiting for, since she missed the last one. Accidentally fell asleep, her own fault. Her friend on the inside will text her when it’s go time, so Bodhi watches the sun go down and the moon come out as her eyelids grow heavier and her mind and body relax. But not too relaxed; not this time.

She planned to go with Hunter tonight but…

“Hey.” Willa slides the back door open. Her curly hair is extra wild tonight; Bodhi loves that. She loves that her roommate and best friend is both predictable—never late for a shift at the sail shop, never oversleeps, never once missed a bill’s due date—and also totally off the rails unpredictable. Bodhi really never knows what Willa will do next. She’s predictable in her unpredictableness.

“Whoa, galaxy brain moment.”

Willa’s eyes narrow. “What?”

“Nothing.” Bodhi drops her feet to the deck. “‘Sup dude. Join me.”

Willa picks up the bowl and then holds it away from her, skeptical-like—sometimes she’ll partake, sometimes she won’t, but she always grabs first and hesitates later—then sits at the table next to Bodhi and picks up the blown-glass bowl and lighter.

“What are you doing tonight?”

A flame lights Willa’s face, she smokes and coughs and croaks, “Mostly questioning all of my life choices.”

Bodhi laughs, Willa is always so funny, even when she doesn’t mean to be. Especially then. “Same. But like,” Bodhi loses her train of thought when a cloud passes over the dimly lit moon. It’s wicked. What was she— “Oh. Yo, come with me tonight.” It’s not usually Willa’s scene, this sort of thing, but Bodhi couldn’t say with certainty what Willa scene really is except like, nothing or everything or… Something. Anyway, Bodhi doesn’t want to go alone, and that’s the relevant point.

Willa squints one eye closed, and fixes Bodhi with the other. “Sit around outside in the dark for hours, get eaten alive by mosquitos and no-see-ums while we wait for something that might happen?”

Bodhi grins. “Hell yeah.”

“I thought you were going with Hunter.”

Bodhi waves a hand in the air. She means it to be exactly as vague as it is.

“What’s up with you two?” Willa takes the bowl again and manages not to cough, and sits back more comfortably in her chair. There was time, at the very beginning, that Bodhi thought she and Willa might be something more than friends. First of all, Bodhi was very into the hot skater chick thing, and Willa is smart and determined and super fun besides, but she’s glad they only ended up friends. Bodhi gets a little emotional thinking about not having Willa around and has to smoke a little more weed to settle herself down.

“C’mon, come with me,” Bodhi tries again, when she’s sure she won’t sound too invested in Willa’s answer. “It’s cool, I promise.”

“Another night I would, I’m just so tired with everything going on and—”

Bodhi's phone goes off with a text, and she scrambles to get it. It’s the coordinates for tonight, so it’s now or never, or least not for another several weeks at least. And yet, Bodhi stays in her chair and watches her phone go dark again. “Maybe I’ll skip it,” she says it mostly to herself. “I don’t really want to go alone.”

Willa looks at her with alarm. She’s not the only one. Since when does Bodhi care about doing things alone? Since now, apparently.

“Bo, is it possible you miss Hunter? I mean you two were like, glued together and now you aren’t even speaking to her.”

It won’t be the same without Hunter there. That’s the issue. But why? Too stoned for this conversation and these thoughts, Bodhi’s mind is a jumble of feelings and half-formed ideas and spiraling tangents. She doesn’t have an answer for Willa, or herself, so she shrugs, as if she doesn’t care. She does, though. Too much. Way too much.

Willa stands, grabs the bowl and lighter from the table and plops Bodhi’s backpack into her lap. “Go watch your turtle eggs hatch.”

Federal law prohibits the sea turtle rescue organization from posting the location of active nests. It keeps the turtles safe and keeps flocks of tourists from gathering en mass on the beaches and bothering everyone who lives nearby. Bodhi’s friend Kea volunteers for the organization, she regularly patrols the beaches looking for nests and collects data, keeping tabs on the number of hatchlings that conquer the hard-won journey out to sea.

“You made it.” Kea keeps her voice low and ducks in for a quick hug.

The sea turtle rescue organization has already roped off a small section of the beach, and a handful of volunteers mill around nearby. There’s about ten other people gathered farther back, including a family with two young kids. Bodhi wonders if their parents are aware that they’ll likely be up until morning. Her moms brought her to a few of these hatchings when she was a kid, so she doesn’t judge. It’s cool, actually.

Kea goes off to take some measurements of the nest and count the eggs. It’s a Hawksbill nest, they think, so there are likely hundreds of babies getting ready to hatch. Bodhi finds a spot back with the rest of the non-volunteers. The kids are digging holes in the sand and jumping in and out of them, though their parents are making sure they don’t get too loud or wound up. Bodhi’s buzz has worn off. The night is humid and sticky. She does miss Hunter.

“Did you know sea turtles can hold their breath for seven hours?” Bodhi says to the kids when they scurry past her. They both stop. “And some kinds of sea turtles eat jellyfish.” Bodhi glances back to the parents to make sure they don’t mind her talking to their kids. “Do you guys already know that the babies have to find their way to the ocean all by themselves?” They both nod, in sync. She guesses one or both of them has an interest in sea turtles and probably have a few facts collected of their own. They’re quiet for a few beats, and then the smaller one asks,

“How?”

Bodhi tips her head. “How do they find the ocean?”

“Yeah… Yeah 'cuz if the mom leaves them and they’re just borned--”

“Born,” the other kid corrects.

“If they’re just born— How do they know where to go?”

Bodhi likes how innately curious kids are, how they instinctively yearn to explore the world around them and aren’t afraid to ask questions, to admit when they don’t understand things. She tries to keep that spirit alive in herself.

“Well,” Bodhi draws her knees up to her chest and smiles up at the kids. “Sea turtles are phototactic. Do you know what that means?” They shake their heads no. “It means they’re drawn to light. Like, when you have your porch light on at night and moths and other bugs all come to fly around it? Same thing. So when they’re born, the moon reflecting on the ocean tells them where to go. Cool right? Like, the moon and the ocean are calling to them, telling them where their home is.”

“Yeah!” says one.

“That’s why it has to stay dark,” the other one says, quiet, a little shyer than their smaller sibling.

Bodhi glances back to the parents again. “Right. And the beach at night can seem a little scary, but we’re totally safe and we want to make sure the baby turtles don’t get confused and go the wrong way. They could get too tired or hurt or a predator could get them and that’s not good.”

Bodhi talks sea turtle facts with the junior turtle enthusiasts a little longer, until Kea returns to announce two hundred and twelve eggs total.

“Can I take a peek?” Observers have to stay back, but Bodhi’s a regular at this point. Kea nods and leads Bodhi to the nest that’s illuminated only by the light of the moon.

“So when are you joining our ranks?” Kea asks while Bodhi crouches near the nest. She always asks that, when Bodhi will start volunteering for the rescue. Everyone else on the volunteer team is like, getting their PhD in turtle nesting or whatever, or else retired conservationists with more experience and knowledge than Bodhi will have in her entire life, so.

“Yeah, I’m good.” It sounds dismissive, she knows. As if she doesn’t care. But that’s better than everyone knowing she doesn’t have much to offer.

“All right, all right. You’d be so good in outreach and education, though. Especially with kids.”

Bodhi shrugs. Scratches her neck. “The trainings are too early…”

Kea wisely leaves it alone, though she changes the subject to something else Bodhi doesn’t want to talk about. “Oh, hey, where’s your girlfriend tonight? Hunter, right?”

+++

“I thought you were avoiding me?”

“I was.”

Hunter shifts in the doorway; her hips cocked, one arm braced against the doorjamb, the other stretched across. She’s tiny, a pixie with short brown hair and delicate features and round doe eyes, yet she takes up the entire doorway. “And?”

“And… Now I’m not?”

Hunter doesn’t move. She lifts an eyebrow. If she tells Bodhi to get lost—and she should—Bodhi will do it. But this is their dance: On and off, up and down, together and not. Hunter must be tired of it, though. Bodhi can tell because it’s usually Hunter who comes calling, and Bodhi who gives in once again. Bodhi says nothing and Hunter says nothing, then Hunter finally drops her arms and retreats into the muted cool of her condo, leaving the door open for Bodhi to come in.

This was easier when Hunter was only in Porter Island for the summer, four years of summer months working at one of her mom’s restaurants while she finished school. There was an end date, and Bodhi didn’t have to worry about what Hunter might want after that. Or what she wanted.

“How did the hatching go?” Hunter sits in a hard-backed leather chair, her arms and legs crossed. Hunter’s inherited home decor has always made Bodhi think of a law office waiting room, all heavy wood and leather and polished chrome. Such a contrast to Bodhi’s moms’ colorful bohemian vibe, or the kitschy beach-themed cottage she shares with Willa. The entire condo came as a gift, furniture and decor and everything, a life already chosen for Hunter.

“Good. Kea asked me to join their volunteer corps again.” Bodhi sprawls across the couch, her thighs stick to the black leather.

“You should.”

Bodhi shrugs. Hunter thinks she should do a lot of things. Bodhi sighs and stretches, her t-shirt and shorts bunch up, her hair falls loosely across her face. She knows what she’s doing, and it works. Hunter’s gaze shifts from exasperation to clear desire, and Bodhi wishes they could just keep things the same between them. It’s hot and fun and easy. Why does it have to get complicated just because Hunter moved here? “Look, Hunter. We’ve talked about this. I’m not looking for...” She leaves the statement unfinished because what is she looking for? A time machine? A way to capture the perfect summer fling and put it up somewhere for safekeeping, like fireflies captured in a jar?

“I’m aware.” Hunter’s lips press flat, her eyes flick away. She gets Bodhi. It’s too much, sometimes. “And I’m not asking you to.”

Bodhi sits up. “Okay, then… Okay.”

Sea turtles bury their eggs deep in the sand, Bodhi told the two kids she’d befriended yesterday. They stayed all night and, enraptured, watched the hatchlings take to the sea. Buried so deep that by the time the babies hatch and claw their way to the surface the mama turtle is long gone, far out to sea. One of the kids asked, eyes wide with hope, if they ever find each other, if they might meet up out in the ocean one day. The ocean is too big, their sibling answered, matter of fact. So, so huge it’s impossible. But Bodhi wondered if maybe they did. Despite the odds, perhaps they could find each other someday.

Bodhi stands and offers her hand, reaching out across the expanse. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you.”

Hunter looks up. “You should have.”

“Yeah.” She should do a lot of things.

Hunter takes her hand and rises from the stiff chair, lips pouted and shoulders high. Bodhi tugs her close and kisses her until she stops frowning. Hunter releases a long breath and her body relaxes into Bodhi’s arms. She’s pliable and willing, and so Bodhi walks them to the bedroom and pulls off first Hunter’s clothes and then her own. She’s been with Hunter so many times that the taste of her is like coming home. She knows what makes Hunter sigh or moan or fist the sheets at her side or clutch fruitlessly at the carved oak headboard and it should bore Bodhi but it doesn’t at all. Being with Hunter, in bed or out, is easy. Why change that?

It’s quiet after, a heavy quiet, with Hunter curled at Bodhi’s side. Her fingers drift idly across Bodhi’s stomach.

“I applied to graduate school,” Hunter says, voice gone sex-rough. She clears her throat. “At UNC Wilmington, but also other schools that are… Well, farther away. My mom wants me to get serious about taking a regional manager position with the restaurant group. So. I wanted you to know that.”

“Cool,” Bodhi says. Her chest goes tight. “That’s chill.”

Hunter’s hand moves from Bodhi’s stomach, and she rolls away to find her clothes. “Ryan’s having a party tonight if you want—”

“Yeah, definitely.”

She met Hunter at a party like this one, with camping chairs gathered haphazardly around a fire, sand turned orange from the glow, the ocean so dark it bleeds into the sky, impossible to tell where one begins and the other ends.

Silhouettes move across the beach—dancing, laughing, tipsily leaning on one another. It seems to Bodhi as if she knows every single person on this island and has gone home with many of them and it’s so simple for her. It’s fun, like kayaking or sailing or free-falling off of a pier. She doesn’t need labels or relationships or complications. Or at least, she didn’t.

Hunter stays at her side all night, warm and happy. Bodhi keeps her arm slung around Hunter’s hips, a possessive gesture she rarely feels the need to make. She wants to keep her close by is all.

“I’m gonna get another,” Hunter says, waving an empty can in the air. Bodhi blames her own too many empties for tugging Hunter in close and kissing the top of her head. “Hurry back,” Bodhi says. She’s a very affectionate drunk, so she’s been told.

“Hey! Tell your girlfriend to bring her keg tap over!” Ryan is a loud drunk.

Bodhi ignores the first part. “What idiot is dragging a keg down the beach?”

“Me!” Ryan is fun, but… Well, he’s fun.

It’s not late, but Bodhi is already considering packing it in for the night. She’d rather stay in and hang out at Hunter’s, watch TV, smoke a bowl or two. God, she is getting old. If they leave to go get the keg tap, it’s very unlikely she’ll want to return. “Sorry, dude. Not tonight.”

Ryan boos at her and quickly gets distracted by someone who announces they brought vodka. Hunter returns and together they watch the vodka quickly disappear.

The party really is so much like the one where she met Hunter, and like so many more before that, and yet even Bodhi has to admit that it’s changing. Some people have moved on, and younger, wide-eyed and innocent faces have taken their place. The number of friends who have traded partying for jobs that have them up before sunrise is steadily growing, some even with new engagements and recently signed mortgages and 401Ks. Even Ryan is starting medical school in the fall. The guy who once did ten fireball shots in a row and had the brilliant idea to surf on the top of someone’s Jeep, fell off and found out two days later that he broke his arm in three places will be a doctor.

And next to go will be Hunter. Bodhi tugs her in close again.

+++

“Where’s your girlfriend?”

Bodhi is barely two steps into the marina when Mr. Kelley accosts her. “Why does everyone think we’re together?” Even her footsteps on the floating dock sound petulant, a sulking slap slap slap. Mr Kelley shrugs. He’s the owner of the marina next door to her parent’s sailing shop, and a family friend.

“I suppose you have a— You’re vibing.”

Bodhi pauses. “Mr. Kelley did you really say ‘vibing’?”

“I have nieces and nephews,” he defends. He’s white-haired and sun-worn with a slow, drawling accent and a heart of gold. “Anywho, let’s get to work.”

Once every summer, Mr. Kelley moves the long-time dockers and rental boats into a dry dock to scrape off the coatings of barnacles that have attached to the hulls, and after, applies a coating to slow the accumulation of the sticky little crustaceans. It’s difficult, dirty, exhausting work that Bodhi refuses to let Mr. Kelley do by himself.

“The bane of my existence,” Mr. Kelley says as they set to work on the first hull, while seawater still sluices off in rivulets. They’re definitely a nuisance, the barnacles, as they not only look unsightly but cause significant drag in the water and a waste of fuel in motorized vessels. Bodhi thinks they’re kinda neat, though.

“What’s really cool is like, their adhesive is one of the strongest substances on Earth. The tensile strength is crazy.”

Mr. Kelley grunts. “I believe it.”

They’re also super important to the ocean’s ecosystem since they clean the water like crusty little filters. They also eat with their legs and have the largest penis relative to body size of any animal. So that’s something. Which reminds her…

“Mr. Kelley,” Bodhi calls out over the frantic scraping. “How about you? Any new men you want to dish about?”

“Bah,” he says. “Men.” Which Bodhi takes as a no. Mr. Kelley spends all of his time out on this marina. Unless the perfect man comes sailing in one day and sweeps him off his feet, it’s never gonna happen. Bodhi tried to get him to join a dating app, but he waved her off and claimed he was too old.

Bodhi doesn’t bring it up again until they’ve finished one boat and started working on another. Her arms and shoulders are already sore, but in a good way.

“Let me set you up with someone.”

He sprays off his scraper with the hose, cups some fresh water in his hands, and splashes it on his face. “What is it you told me, Miss Bodhi? Love looks like a lot of things?” He sweeps his arms out toward the marina, the ocean, the sky. “What if this is my great love?”

Bodhi can’t argue with that. She could see herself ending up the same way, her love of the natural world around her could be enough to fill her heart. The thing is, though, she has strong feelings for Hunter. She can admit that. But what she wants to do with those feelings is the issue. She doesn’t really do monogamy and as much as she admires and appreciates her moms’ super-solid relationship, she just doesn’t think it’s for her. And so she’s at a fork in the road: be with Hunter, settle down, commit; or accept that Hunter will be the one that got away. Which can she live with?

The sun is sharp on her skin, sweat pools in her clavicles and between her shoulder blades and settles damply in the waistband of her shorts. She mops her face with the end of her shirt and takes a water break.

“Can I ask you, like. A totally non-judgmental question?”

Mr. Kelley’s face is red from exertion and the heat. He raises his eyebrows and comes to sit on the dock pile next to the one she’s perched on. “Okay, shoot.”

“Are you happy?” It seems like a rude question, but she thinks Mr. Kelley will understand what she means. He’s way chill for an old dude. “Like, actually happy out here alone, doing your own thing? Or would you trade it for something else— Or like, someone else?”

Mr. Kelley is thoughtful as he re-hydrates, then he sets his water bottle on the dock with a decisive thunk. “You get to be my age, Miss Bodhi, and you come to understand that some things just are what they are.”

Bodhi nods, squinting into the sun. “Yeah.” She feels like that now.

“Even still,” he continues. “You have but this one, bitty life to live and if you aren’t living in pursuit of the things—and the people—that make you happy, then what’s the point?” He fixes his pale blue eyes on her, somehow getting to the root of Bodhi’s question. “She makes you happy.”

Bodhi shifts on the dock pile, as if trying to move away from the accuracy of the statement. She nods again. “Yeah. She does.”

He stands with some effort and creakily picks up his barnacle scraper. Next year, she’s bringing other people to help with the operation; Mr. Kelley is going to seriously injure himself one of these days. Not that he’d let that stop him. “Then don’t be afraid to imagine what a life of happiness could look like with her. As you said yourself, love looks like a lot of things.”

Bodhi hops up to follow him back to the partially de-barnacled boat. “I have to say, I do not appreciate you using my words of wisdom against me Mr. Kelley.”

Hunter comes over that night, for sex and for dinner and to get stoned, in that order. Bodhi watches her cook linguine with clam sauce and allows herself to imagine it: Hunter there every morning, that faux-hawk bed-head her hair forms itself into and the way she always, very first thing, stumbles mostly asleep to the kitchen for a glass of water. She’s always parched when she wakes up but refuses to keep a water bottle by the bed because she claims it isn’t fresh enough. Bodhi imagines Hunter there to kiss her goodbye when she goes off to the sail shop or to sail or hike or kayak, Hunter there to greet her when she gets home. Dinner together every night. Regular dates with the same person. Regular sex with the same person.

Bodhi can easily use the blueprint of her parents’ incredible marriage to construct a healthy relationship of her own. She knows it takes sacrifice and selflessness and a willingness to put Hunter’s needs and wants in step with her own, always. Ahead of her own, even. But can that fit in with Bodhi’s more fluid definition of commitment? Would Hunter be okay with that? And what if she wants something Bodhi can’t give her?

Hunter sets two plates of food out on the table and gives Bodhi a concerned look before sitting down. “You okay?”

What if Bodhi is too selfish and too afraid of being constrained? If there were anyone that she could see a settled future with, it would be Hunter. If. Bodhi picks up her fork and plasters on a smile. “Definitely. Thanks for dinner.”

“No problem. Your turn next.”

Bodhi fake-smiles harder. “So have you heard from any of those grad programs yet?”

+++

Bodhi has spent the last two weeks at Hunter’s side, at Hunter’s condo, living out of a backpack that contains a toothbrush and two entire outfits that Bodhi swaps back and forth. She uses Hunter’s deodorant and shampoo and toothpaste and hairbrush until Hunter picks up extras for Bodhi at the store and stashes them all in an emptied out drawer. Bodhi spends a long time looking at that drawer. Her drawer. That she has at Hunter’s house.

“I don’t think I’ll ever want to live with anyone,” Bodhi says one night while they watch a movie. She’s draped over Bodhi, legs entwined, her head rests on Bodhi’s chest and her arm is snug around Bodhi’s waist. Hunter shifts a little, presses a kiss right above Bodhi’s sternum. “Okay,” she says. It’s to her credit, Bodhi thinks, that she doesn’t full-out laugh in Bodhi’s face.

One morning, they wake up before dawn to go hiking. Bodhi wakes first, rubs her eyes with both hands and nudges Hunter awake with her foot. Hunter sits up, groggy and mussed, and blinks into the darkness for a while. She grunts and, predictably, stumbles to the kitchen for her morning glass of water. Bodhi’s stomach twists with a deep pull of affection. She makes Hunter eggs and toast with fruit and packs a backpack and they sail out as the sun is beginning to skim the edge of the stretch ocean behind the condo complex.

The trails out on the North Carolina coast are all flat, easy walks; certainly no comparison to the rigorous mountain trails on the other side of the state. But as much as Bodhi likes the challenge of mountain hikes, there’s something special about the maritime forest trails. When they arrive on a different Outer Banks island for their day’s adventure, the hike takes them from the ocean, up the sparsely populated beach, around though the soft dunes, down onto a long boardwalk built over a salt marsh, and on into the woods. Bodhi always marvels at how these towering trees of pine and holly and oak and maple can not only survive but thrive in such a place; how it grows from nothing but shifting sand, withstands harsh winds and hurricanes and sea spray and flooding, and has found a home for thousands of years on a little sliver of an island. She tells Hunter as much.

“The beauty of nature,” Hunter says, offering Bodhi a sip from her water bottle. “Stand back, trust that things will unfold as they should, and amazing things happen.”

Bodhi doesn’t call her out on the obvious metaphor.

On their way out of the trail’s loop, they encounter an older couple looking a bit bewildered. They pass by, then Bodhi doubles back.

“Afternoon.” They’re both wearing khaki safari hats, cargo shorts, and multi-pocketed khaki vests. One of them has binoculars slung over a shoulder, the other has a camera with a huge zoom lens.

“Awesome day for a hike, right?” Bodhi has found that asking people if they’re lost or need help rarely works. People don’t like to admit that they don’t know what they’re doing, even if they’re tourists who have obviously never been here before. But if she waits, they’ll usually bring it up on their own.

“Oh, yes. Hot though!”

Bodhi mmhmms

“Say, can you tell us if this is the Fort Macon Trail?”

“It is,” Bodhi says. “And you can start in this direction because it’s a loop, but if you want the full experience, start from the beach and head into the forest that way. Make sure you follow the trees with white dots once you’re under the canopy, the trail isn’t super obvious in some places.” They thank her and head into the woods first anyway. She waves, walking backward as she adds, because she has a hunch, “Keep an eye out for Painted Buntings! They migrate through here this time of year.”

They give each other a wide-eyed look of excitement and Bodhi smiles as she turns away. She knows a birdwatcher when she sees one, and the colorful member of the cardinal family is a unique find.

“They’re a threatened species,” she tells Hunter once she catches up to her. Hunter’s face reminds Bodhi of the time she studied for something for once in her life and got third place in a spelling bee and her moms sat in the front row, cheering as if Bodhi had received the Nobel Prize. “What?” Bodhi squints at her.

“Nothing, you’re—” She slips her hand into Bodhi’s hand even though it’s sweaty. “You’re good at that. How you share nature with people.”

Bodhi looks away and mumbles, “I only told them about a bird.” It’s not a big deal.

Hunter shrugs, the motion tugs Bodhi’s hand up and down. “Okay,” she says.

Hunter has left the brochures from various schools sitting out on her coffee table for weeks now. Bodhi has looked at them a few times in the same way she kept looking at the drawer of her stuff in Hunter’s house. It’s hers for the taking, so simple, just reach out and grab the hairbrush, Bodhi. Just open the brochure. Just claim what you want already. After their hike, back at Hunter’s condo, while Hunter is in the shower, Bodhi takes a breath and flips a brochure open.

Downtown Porter Island gets crowded as soon as the weather starts to warm, though “downtown” is a very generous term for two streets and a parking lot. Bodhi and Hunter and Bodhi’s Mom and Ma get ice cream cones and find an empty picnic table, baked from the sun, and try to eat faster than the ice cream melts.

“So, Hunter. How are we feeling about grad school? Excited? Nervous? Concerned that you may be only doing this because of the weight of your mother’s expectations?”

“Jeez, Ma. Sometimes the former high school guidance counselor in you really jumps right out.”

Robin gives a pained smile. “Sorry. Only making sure.”

Hunter licks around her ice cream cone and nods. “Actually, I’m excited. UNCW has a solid business management program and I think the job will suit me. I get to travel, meet new people. I’ll be stuck in an office a lot but…” She slides a knowing look to Bodhi. “I’m sure I’ll still spend lots of time enjoying the outdoors.”

Bodhi’s lemon sorbet gets a little stuck as she swallows.

“And it’s not too far,” Jenn, Bodhi’s mom, adds, likely for Bodhi’s benefit. “A quick ferry ride and a drive south a bit.” She pats Hunter’s arm. “Though of course we’ll miss seeing you all the time!” Bodhi swears she emphasizes the words all the time on purpose, also intended for Bodhi.

Hunter’s ice cream drips from the bottom of the cone, first a few drops, but then the soggy cone breaks away and a puddle of blueberry cheesecake quickly pools onto the table. “Shoot,” Hunter raises her sticky hands. “I’m gonna go get some napkins.”

“I’ll help,” Robin says.

As soon as they’re a few steps away, Jenn raises her eyebrows. “So.”

“So,” Bodhi repeats. She quietly eats her ice cream just long enough to bug her. If her Ma had stayed instead, she’d have been totally grilled by now, but Jenn likes to take the good cop role, usually. Bodhi spares her. “UNCW has a forestry degree.”

Her mom’s face plainly says she’s trying very hard not to react to that. “Oh? Is that so?”

“Mmmhmm.” Bodhi crunches into her cone. “It is so.”

Her mom pokes around her own cup of chocolate peanut butter cup with a wooden spoon. “You know, I was wondering how you were planning on handling the long distance relationship thing.”

Bodhi shakes her head. “We’re not in a relationship.”

“Enlighten me then,” her mom says. “What are you?” There’s no intent to argue there, only genuine curiosity and Bodhi can understand why. Even she isn’t sure how to define it, or if she ever really wants to. She’s come to realize that’s okay.

“She’s just— My person.” How else to explain it?

Jenn considers this, tips her head and swirls her ice cream thoughtfully. “Okay. I get that. And I’m excited for you, too. I think forestry is perfect for you, if you decide to pursue that. You know we always support you one-hundred percent, love.”

She does know it.

Hunter and her other mom are heading back, Bodhi watches them talk and laugh as they cross the street and it’s weird, it’s like her heart is bigger; stronger and brighter in her chest.

“I think it’s perfect, too.”

“And Hunter? Is she aware of how you feel?”

Bodhi doesn’t look away from Hunter’s approach, how right Bodhi’s life is when she’s around, how Hunter just knows somehow. “She does.”

She figured it out long before Bodhi ever did.

+++

It’s raining the day of the big protest in Wilmington. Fat drops of it make steam rise from the pavement as they all gather in place. Bodhi is sweltering inside of her raincoat. It does nothing to deter Bodhi and the other protesters, though, if anything it’s spurring them on. This is nature; it’s not always convenient. That’s the whole point.

The school is moving forward with plans to bulldoze an old-growth pine forest on the edge of campus to make way for a new practice field. Hunter has joined some other protesters in locking arms and forming a human blockade between the trees and bulldozers. Bodhi wasn’t crazy about her being directly in harm's way, but Hunter acknowledged Bodhi’s concerns and did what she knew was right anyway. And that’s what Bodhi loves about her.

“Did you know longleaf pine forests used to be one of the most extensive ecosystems across the South?” Bodhi offers a flyer to the small group scurrying by between classes. It’s fifty-fifty if anyone will take the flyer detailing the importance of pine forests and why they’re trying to save this one, and another one-out-three odds the flyer will end up directly in a trash can nearby. But Bodhi figures that's about one in six people who will read it and possibly be moved to join their cause. “And it’s also home to many plants and animals who don't live anywhere else in the world.”

Behind her, the bulldozers rumble.

“The forest you see behind me is nearly five hundred years old!” Aleksi, the leader of this and many other protests shouts through a megaphone. They have a shaved head and face full of piercings and the confidence and carriage of a leader. “It is home to at least thirty endangered species! Now I ask you, students, faculty, staff, esteemed guests, is this really worth sacrificing in order to give the athletic department yet another piece of our beautiful campus?”

The bulldozers finally leave at 7:30. The already gloomy day has grown darker. Everyone is exhausted and hungry and the construction crew will return the next morning, but the mood among all the protesters is jubilant. “The forest stands another day!” Aleksi calls, and everyone cheers. It’s decided that they’ll reconvene at a nearby vegan burrito place to celebrate and plan for tomorrow.

“I think I stared down that one construction worker for three solid hours,” Hunter laughs, lifting an umbrella someone gave her, a little too late, over both of their heads. Bodhi unzips her steamy raincoat.

“You were amazing.” Bodhi flaps her open raincoat in Hunter’s direction, trying futilely to dry her off even as the rain still splashes up from the pavement.

“Thanks.” Hunter drops a kiss on her lips. “Someone who was on the on the front line with me lives on campus and said they have some clothes I can borrow. Be right back.”

Bodhi watches her. An enormous part of her reluctance to commit to, well, anything, was because she was already happy. And what if she changed things and then she wasn’t happy? If it ain’t broke and all. But things change anyway, and like a fjord in a river, she might as well have some input on the direction of her own life. Nature is always changing, life is always and she has to learn when to change with it, and when to fight for the things that matter,

Aleski, in a black trench coat and black combat boots, approaches Bodhi. “Hey, I appreciate you two coming out. Hunter’s really a force, huh? Only quietly.” Aleksi laughs and Bodhi is fully drawn into their aura. Like, they’re super hot anyway, but it’s the charisma that really does it for Bodhi.

“Yeah, she’s something.” If Bodhi is a swiftly moving river, Hunter is a steady stream: under-appreciated and gentle, yet strong and steady enough to cut through a mountain.

Aleksi leans in, eyes lowered, intentions clear. “Is she your girlfriend?”

“No,” Bodhi says. Aleksi’s eyebrows lift. “She’s more than that.”

“Ah.”

Even now, Bodhi can’t quite put a label on their relationship, or if either of them ever really want to. It’s meant that Bodhi has to be more open and vulnerable, and Hunter more demanding of what she wants from Bodhi. Whatever it is, the two of them, it works. They love each other, they’re on the same page, and that’s enough. It’s more than enough.

Aleksi shifts away, their stoic face covering the sting of rejection.

“We’re usually open to a third, though.” Bodhi offers. Plenty of people aren’t really into that and that’s fine. Bodhi puts it out there only as an offer, nothing more. She’ll have to check in with Hunter first, anyway. Though Hunter’s gaze for Aleksi has been nothing short of awe and infatuation—and desire—from the moment the two of them met.

“Like a package deal?” Aleksi clarifies. They smile. It’s awfully charming. “I could be into that.”

Hunter appears from behind a building, now dry and wearing clothes that don’t quite fit. Bodhi’s heart soars. It’s incredible, Bodhi thinks. How rich her life has become by being open to love in all of its forms. Romantic love, sure. But love for her friends and family and the world around her. Although her path there has been a little erratic, adrift for a while in her own life and mind, in the end she got there.

Hunter holds her hand and, on the other side, Aleksi presses in close. Despite the heat and the rain and the exhausting day, Bodhi is buoyant. Her spirit is free.

And they will save that forest. Guaranteed.

Tack & Jibe

#short story #writing #original fiction #romance #my writing #writers on tumblr #Adrift #Tack & Jibe #Lilah Suzanne

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summerhuntresses · 5 years ago

Text

oh, icarus

[ao3]

There is a castle on a hill, and in that castle is a girl who never leaves.

But she wants to.

There is a castle on a hill.

Water surrounds the castle, water and jagged rocks that jut to the sky.

Perhaps it would be more accurate to say-

There is a castle that sits on a crag of rock in the middle of the sea, with only the waves and the bravest of the birds to see it.

There are people, of course. This castle was built for a reason.

If you asked one of the residents, they would tell you there is no safer place in the world and the only dangers we face here are the storms and the king is wise oh he is so wise we are lucky to have him.

If you asked the king, he would say no one would attack a castle surrounded by rocks and reefs on all sides and I had a duty to my people to protect them and I must do all I can to keep my daughter safe.

If you asked the king’s daughter, she would answer hubris and fear and selfishness.

Of course, you would not ask the king’s daughter.

The castle is not entirely cut off from the world; there is a port, and many merchant vessels dock here.

Not much food can be grown in solid rock, and there is not enough space for livestock. The people of the castle rely on trade to survive, trade brought to them by ships and merchants from the outside world.

They have quite a bit of spare time, without the need to raise their own food. Time is precious and powerful, even in the wrong hands, and the king chose his people well. There are artists and metalworkers and poets and scribes, but what the king is most proud of are his scientists.

The castle on the rock is filled to the brim with knowledge, quite literally. The library stretches from the ground to the sky, soaring over the sea and constantly growing.

(Not on its own, of course. This is not that kind of story.)

As the castle’s knowledge grows, the king’s architects and engineers expand the library so it can contain it all. The result is the most magnificent tower - the most magnificent library - in all the land, and pilgrims of knowledge come from far and wide to see it.

Very few are allowed in; the king is wise, and cautious, and guards his knowledge jealously.

But that is not the only thing he guards.

At the very top of the tower there is a room. Not a large room, to be sure. The nature of this room is such that as the tower grows, the room follows, cleverly anchored to its peak.

In the room there lives a girl.

This girl is not extraordinary - she is not inhumanly beautiful, and neither is she touched by the gods. She cannot bewitch a person with only her voice, and there are very few suitors fighting for her hand.

None, in fact. The girl is not a social animal, and the few times she makes the effort, she is not the most charming of girls.

What she is, however, is brilliant.

She lives at the top of the tower - at the top of the library - and she reads, and she learns, and she creates.

The girl is the greatest of the king’s scientists. Her hands make miracles, that is what the castlefolk say, and they are not entirely wrong.

From her hands spring wolves made from steel; fierce and loyal and twisted from the earth into her own design.

She forges strong iron bulls, beasts of burden that can carry many times what a flesh and blood creature could, and dainty electrum cats that twine around the ankles of the castlefolk until the line between flesh and metal is blurred to nothing.

But her greatest creations, the ones that leave the castlefolk in awe, are her birds.

Songbirds fashioned from gold, sweet music ringing from copper throats.

Hunting birds knapped from obsidian, their swift bodies bound together with deft twists of dark iron.

Even seabirds, gulls woven from bronze and alloyed titanium, swooping over the open ocean and catching fish to bring back.

No one knows how her birds take flight, and no one is willing to venture up the tower to ask.

To do so would be to risk the king’s wrath.

The girl, you see, is his daughter.

If you asked him, the king would tell you she is my most precious treasure and all I do I do for her and I have to keep her safe.

If you asked her…

Well.

You would not ask her.

She sits in her room at the top of the tower, and she reads, and she learns, and she creates.

She does not venture down to the ground.

When she was younger she tried, of course. Children are curious and want to explore, and she was a curious child indeed.

The tower was smaller, then.

She was a child and she wanted a friend, but all she found was deference. The castlefolk feared her father, and because of that they feared her too.

That fear hurt her, deep in her soul. They were polite, of course, perfectly willing to speak with the king’s daughter, but they never forgot who they were speaking to. They bowed, and smiled, and greeted her as princess and my lady and your grace (but never by name) and each and every time she remembered that they only spoke to her for fear of her father.

Still she kept exploring, finding new places and new people each day. She told herself that she would speak to every single person in the castle and find the one who would see her for herself.

(Existing as simply a concept in the minds of everyone you meet is exhausting, she had learned.)

Weeks passed, and with them months. Seasons changed and she grew older, still hoping to find a single person who would call her by her name.

Her thirteenth nameday came and went, celebrated by all the castlefolk. The girl hid in the cellar with a stolen honey cake and a treatise on the chemical properties of iron. No one realized her absence, all assuming she had different and grander plans than theirs.

(There was a merchant girl, once. She smiled, and spoke to the girl, and didn’t fear her father. There was a merchant girl, but the problem with merchants is that they leave.)

(She wishes she could leave, sometimes.)

By the time she is fifteen she has spoken to every single person in the castle. Not a single one has used her name. Her father tries to comfort her, saying they are only peasants, they do not understand your brilliance, you are so much more than them.

She returns to her tower that night, to the library, and she does not leave.

Years pass.

The tower grows.

She stays in her tower, watches as the ground gets farther and farther away, and she brings metal to life.

The castlefolk see this, and they marvel. Witch, they call her, sorceress, she who commands the earth to bend. They do not call her king’s daughter any longer, but then she would not know that, would she?

She breathes life into metal and she wonders what it feels like-

what life feels like.

Her father the king is pleased with her work. How could he not be, when his daughter works miracles in his domain? He does not enter the library. A king has much to do, and there is no time for him to waste on books.

It does not occur to him that his daughter is in the library. It does not occur to him that she is alone.

The girl does not spend all of her time in her room. That would be silly. She lives in a library after all, the greatest library in the world. She walks among the shelves, reads book after book after book, learns to refine her work more than she ever thought possible.

The castlefolk, if they see her amongst the shelves, do not speak to her. Perhaps they think they are doing her a service, that she would prefer to be undisturbed, or perhaps they merely fear her still; she does not know.

She is not guarded, of course. Why would she be guarded, in the castle on the rock? Who would she need guarding from? The only people in the castle on the rock are those who the king allows to be there.

And the king would never allow her to be harmed.

(She never thinks about how even being guarded night and day would be preferable to this constant, neverending solitude, for at least a guard might speak to her.)

(This is a lie.)

As time passes and the girl grows older, her spark begins to dim. She still weaves her creatures from metal, still breathes life into them, but they dim as well, forged from iron and built for work. The cats grow less plentiful, and the bulls less ornate.

There are no more songbirds.

The castlefolk whisper - of course they notice the change, how could they not - but they do nothing more than whisper. The girl is barely more than a legend to them by now; she is a flicker in the corner of their eye, a shadow passing through the library.

Her creations still roam the castle, but they have been there forever, without a beginning or an end. They merely exist.

(Like her.)

Her gaze has turned inwards, no longer gazing to the stars and dreaming. She looks at the ground, sees the castlefolk there, and resigns herself to solitude.

Once upon a time a little girl imagined what it would be like to fly; she stretched her hands out to meet the glittering songbirds that circled her tower and felt them soar through empty space, held up by nothing but their wings and their will.

The longing to fly was fierce and all-consuming. To soar with her gulls, dive with her raptors, dance with her songbirds.

A messenger had interrupted her daydreaming, then, with a requisition form from the stone workers on the ground. She had gone back to work and pushed the dream from her mind.

Her shoulders itched for days.

Now the girl was three and twenty, an adult in both body and mind. The passion had faded from her creatures; they did their jobs and moved like beasts, but it was easy to tell that they were metal instead of flesh.

The castlefolk whisper about it in secret. They had quickly grown to love the quirks and foibles of the creatures, how one of the electrum cats would knock the paintings askew while another of the bronze gulls roosted in the rafters, refusing to leave unless forced to.

Those creatures, the early ones, had had names, individuality, personality, but no more. As the girl lost her spark, so too did her creatures.

The dreams have returned to her. Her days are filled with thoughts of flight, of sprouting wings like the songbirds of her childhood and simply falling off the tower. No longer the dreams of an artist, these are the dreams of a girl without hope, one forced to grow up too soon.

She dreams, and as she dreams she despairs.

Her father the king is pleased with her work but concerned all the same; even he, with all his distance, has noticed the change in the creatures roaming the castle. A dinner invitation is sent, one that she accepts after a great deal of thought. It has been so long since she had left the tower, after all, and even longer since she had interacted freely with the castlefolk.

Would they remember? Would they recognize her face, or think her merely one of the travellers who came to visit the great library?

She does not know, and in that uncertainty she finds fear. But her father the king requests her presence, and, after all, he is the king.

She leaves her tower and ventures down to the ground for the first time in - decades? centuries? lifetimes? - years.

The castlefolk do not recognize her.

Dinner is- fine. It is fine. Her father marvels at her beauty, asks after her work, says we do not see you as often as we would like and she does not know if he is speaking of the castlefolk or if he merely means himself the king. She does not ask.

When he asks after the songbirds, she tells him I am an adult now and there are responsibilities I must fulfill and I do not have time for childish fancies.

Her return to the tower is quiet but long, winding around courtyards and through corridors she vaguely remembers, soft and faintly lit as if she was walking through a dream. A man runs past her, laughing merrily.

The sound of his laughter echoes for a long time. Scant seconds later a woman races up to her and asks after him, her words rushed and breathless from running and laughter. The girl from the tower stumbles over her words, taken aback.

She does not notice the woman leave.

It startles her, having that much contact with someone, and that surprise is a shock in and of itself. She has been alone for so long, so many days and months and years of solitude.

She remembers the merchant’s daughter, then. Tall and dark, flowers braided through her hair and hands roughened by years of hard work, she had been the most beautiful thing the girl had ever seen.

Her laughter, though, had stuck in the girl’s mind not because of its beauty - the merchant’s daughter had been thirteen, wild and unrefined, and her laughter had been the same - but because the merchant’s daughter had been willing to laugh with the daughter of the king. There had been no duty, no fear, no fealty. There had only been two girls who had laughed together.

For a instant the girl thinks of the future, of what it could have been.

She imagines laughter and warmth and freedom and it hurts, hurts her to realize that that is not hers to have. All there is is her duty and her tower, climbing ever higher away from the ground.

There are tears in her eyes but before they can fall she hears a noise, far down the long hall.

She is a scientist, and her curiosity is peaked. The hall is long and full of hiding places, and she very nearly gives up. As she turns away, however, she hears the noise again, metal scraping on stone and a faint animal noise. A glint of gold catches her eye and she turns.

There is a songbird in the wall.

One of her songbirds, golden wings and copper throat, dust covering it as though it had lain silent for years upon years. It wriggles faintly, beak opening and closing as though it is trying to sing. One wing brushes against the stone wall, scraping gently as the tiniest chirp makes it out of its throat.

She has no idea how long it has lain here, silent and still, as lifeless as any statue in any hall in the castle. So too does she not know why it has woken now.

(This is a lie.)

Gently, oh so very gently, she takes it from the wall, cradling it to her breast as she hurries back to her workshop.

(She does not think of the tower’s height now.)

The songbird is very nearly a ruin, twisted by time and neglect until it is little more than a lump of metal and wax. She sets to work anyway, deft hands dancing as they have not in years.

The sun rises. The gulls cry. The songbird is repaired.

Sweet music rings from its throat, as cheerful and pure as the day it was forged.

The girl sits back from her workbench, stares in awe as the songbird takes flight. It circles the room, singing all the while, golden wings bearing it easily through the air. She is mesmerized, watching it sing and fly and fly and sing.

It flutters past her, grazes her hair with one golden wing, and makes for the window, the blue sky outside calling to it. Singing still, it soars towards it- and bounces off.

The songbird is not stunned; it is not alive, it cannot feel pain. It merely flutters back up and tries again, the crack of metal against glass sharp and jarring to her ears. The girl stands frozen, watching as the songbird collides with the glass once, twice, thrice.

As the songbird rises for a fourth attempt, the girl shakes herself from her stupor. She rushes to the window, quickly opening it and allowing the songbird to escape. She does not close the window immediately, though. She leans outside instead, turning her face to the sun and basking in its warmth for long moments.

Then she looks down.

The ground is a dizzying distance away, hundreds and hundreds of meters down. The castlefolk are mere dots, ants scurrying along with their little errands in their little lives. Her stomach drops, but she is not afraid of falling. She never has been.

She stares at the ground for a moment longer, turns her gaze to the ocean, and ducks back into her workshop.

She does not close the window.

Three days later, Alexandria leaves her library, wings of iron and gold strapped to her back.

(Her wings are not wax.)

(She does not fall.)

#the 100 #lexa #commander lexa #vic writes #gonna be honest i wrote this for something else and then reskinned it #but in my defense this is how it started out before i hijacked it for other reasons #validate me

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wikitopx · 5 years ago

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The attractions of the Gold Coast bring smiles to folks of all ages and stages.

With exhilarating rides, exotic animals and endless waterslides to assist you to cool off on hot summer days, your Gold Coast vacation offers a full spectrum of interactive recreation - from dazzling huge budget Gold Coast theme parks to little, uproariously kitsch museums.

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1. DREAMWORLD

As Australia’s largest amusement park, never-never land has it all. hormone junkies will withstand the world’s tallest free-falling ride, be propelled from zero to 161 kilometers per hour, and even challenge gravity fifteen stories higher than the bottom of the massive Thrill Rides.

Come face-to-face with the jungle’s most direful predator at Tiger Island or immerse yourself in ancient autochthonic Australian culture and life at never-never land Corroboree. Families will take a scenic ride aboard the never-never land categorical, create a splash on the Log Ride or repulse in time in Dreamworld’s picture Vintage Cars.

Kids will meet favorite tv characters Hoot and Hootabelle, and Dorothy the archosaurian reptile at ABC's youngster's WORLD, whereas animated movies Madagascar, Shrek and Kung-Fu Panda come back to life within the DreamWorks expertise.

Go from thrills to spills at WhiteWater World, currently one in all the various worlds of never-never land. Ride the enormous waterslides or the world’s most enjoyable simulated wave on FlowRider, or just cool off within the wave pool.

Treat yourself at a variety of shops together with the flagship LEGO® store and pull in a souvenir of your never-never land expertise. With such a big amount of worlds in one, there’s one thing for everyone at Dreamworld!

LOCATION: Dreamworld route, Coomera QLD, 4209

2. CURRUMBIN WILDLIFE SANCTUARY

Explore this painting Gold Coast life Sanctuary.

Experience the wild lory feeding, free-flight bird shows, and Aboriginal performances. take a look at your ability on the TreeTops Challenge High Ropes Course, Associate in Nursing exhilarating ninety challenge cover ropes course and see the howling vets in action at intervals the life Hospital city district.

With an enormous out of doors themed playground, Wild Island, there's lots of amusement for youths to relish as they tour the sanctuary on a miniature train. Lost vale a replacement exotic city district options 5 hectares of the gorgeous rain forest, Lost vale takes you on a journey through the traditional supercontinent Gondwana.

Explore a forgotten world and obtain up shut and private with a number of the world's most original and distinctive flora and life together with friendly Lemurs, Cotton-top tamarins, Red pandas, Capybaras beside free-flying birds and exotic reptiles.

Currumbin life Sanctuary may be a not-for-profit organization and reinvests all yield back to life and conservation programs.

LOCATION: Gold Coast road Corner of Tomewin Street, Currumbin QLD, 4223

3. AUSTRALIA'S SEA WORLD

Delve below surface and find out a full new world of fun and journey put off World, Australia’s favorite Marine Park!

Embark on a journey to avoid wasting the oceans with the all-new ocean Guardians Presentation or loosen up within the shade whereas the youngsters quiet down in Sea World’s latest splash pad attraction, The Reef at Castaway Bay.

Plus, don’t forget to prevent by and meet Chase and Marshall from PAW Patrol and catch their new show, PAW Patrol On vacation.

Make friends with splendid marine life, from dolphins to seals, Polar bears, penguins and additional. want the sky with our all-new ocean World Sky Flyer attraction! expertise breathless views of ocean World and therefore the Gold Coast Broadwater as you soar in an exceedingly big swing chair thirty-three meters on top of the bottom.

Discover the wonder of ocean jellies at our new exhibit, ocean Jellies lit that options associate array of ocean jelly displays and academic parts to require you on an associate illuminating journey.

If you favor a thrill, you'll be able to mount up the Jet Rescue ride and speed around the track your terribly own jet ski or attack the amazing Storm Coaster.

LOCATION: Sea World Drive, Main Beach QLD, 4217

4. BURLEIGH HEAD NATIONAL PARK

Discover a wild, natural foreland within the heart of the Gold Coast that gives walks on the rocky geological formation and through the timberland, and therefore the probability to check whales in spring and sea-eagles soaring on the coast.

Ancient volcanic columns meet the ocean during this park, that options timberland, eucalyptus tree forest, pandanus groves, clump piece of land, coastal heath, and mangroves. Its northern facet is one in every of Australia's most known water sport purpose breaks.

Walk the Ocean read walk round the rocky foreland from Tallebudgera Creek and see the tumbled lots of six-sided volcanic rock columns. Explore the timberland circuit, wandering through a living deposit of plants, and wait for humpback whales from Tumgun lookout in winter and spring.

Note that access to the drop line boulder fields, together with Cannon Rock, and therefore the steep slopes between the Oceanview track and boulder fields square measure prohibited because space has been declared a restricted access space for traveler safety. perpetually be the fashioned walking tracks. explore for Australian brush-turkey nesting mounds, seabirds, and water dragons as you walk.

Picnic on Burleigh geological formation or relax on Echo Beach.

LOCATION: Goodwin Terrace, Burleigh Heads QLD, 4220

5. TREETOP CHALLENGE

The top Challenge at Tamborine Mountain is Australia’s largest top journey Park with quite a hundred and twenty top activities together with ten nada lines! Their courses vary from simple to extreme and traverse through 9 acres of fantastic bushland and rain forest. to complete the complete journey Park can take 3 to four hours wherever you'll have an incredible journey flying through the trees, capture your fears and having an entire heap of fun!

You will suspend concerning within the trees, balance on suspended bridges, mount ten vast flying foxes with some spanning over a hundred thirty meters - it's nice fun, it's safe and appeals to the daredevil in everyone!

Their journey Park is meant for the complete family aged eight and up, you don’t want any expertise and it’s excellent for all fitness levels! make preparations to expertise the frenzy of flying through the trees and gaining large satisfaction as you conquer your fears and make lingering memories!

LOCATION: Corner Cedar Creek Falls Road and Tamborine Mountain, North Tamborine QLD, 4272

6. SKYPOINT CLIMB

SkyPoint Climb takes place on the highest of the Q1 building in Surfers Paradise and at 270 meters within the air, it's one in all Australia's highest external building walks. beginning on level seventy-seven of SkyPoint Observation Deck, Climbers can enter the out-of-doors wearing a full-body suit and harness.

Following their Climb guide, participants can then traverse up towards the platform settled at the best purpose of the Climb at around 270 meters higher than the bottom.

Regular stops are going to be taken to admire the gorgeous 360-degree views of the Gold Coast region together with the golden beaches, town skyline, and luxurious inexperienced backwoods. Climbers can then descend to level seventy-seven.

Altogether the expertise takes about ninety minutes together with a rendezvous session and also the time on the Climb course.

LOCATION: Surfers Paradise street, Surfers Paradise QLD, 4217

7. WARNER BROS. MOVIE WORLD

Step underneath the noted arch of Australia’s favored pleasure ground, Warner Bros. picture show World. withstand world category rides, attractions and shows and meet a number of your favorite stars!

Home to the tallest, longest and quickest roller coaster within the hemisphere, picture show World boasts a full day of journey crammed with all the loudness and glamour of Hollywood, your favorite loony Tunes Characters and the Super Heroes and Super-Villains of the DC Universe.

Experience all-new attractions as well as the family favorite Scooby-Doo Spooky Coaster Next Generation. Uncover endless thrills with new camera work like projections and lasers!

Plus, witness the all-new exclusive JL fifty-two Batmobile within the Streets Star Parade. you'll be able to conjointly get your image smitten tender and also the Batmobile throughout the day.

Don’t miss your probability to satisfy the foremost technically advanced member of the Justice League – bionic man. Part man, half machine and every one Super Hero, a bionic man may be a crowd favorite. Snap a photograph with this spectacular hero, alongside your different favorite Super Heroes, throughout your next adventure!

LOCATION: Pacific superhighway, Oxenford QLD, 4210

8. HOTA - HOME OF THE ARTS

Surrounded by parklands and a lake with Surfers Paradise because the background, HOTA, Home of the humanities is your home for live performances, lake-side strolls, star-gazing, cinema-watching, art, and new ideas.

There’s a novel bandstand for live events and a fresh restaurant for restful and connecting. Plus, all of your favorites, like their cinemas, theatres, and gallery. Discover art—indoors and out. HOTA is that sort of place—where art meets life.

LOCATION: 135 Bundall Rd, Surfers Paradise QLD, 4217

9. WET N WILD GOLD COAST

Enjoy endless summer days at Wet’n’Wild Gold Coast! Splash into a world of fun with a world category line-up of slides and attractions for the young and young in spite of appearance.

Experience Wet’n’Wild Junior, an enormous zone only for very little adventurers. Designed particularly for teenagers, Wet’n’Wild Junior options kid-friendly water slides together with miniature versions of our larger thrill slides like Tornado and therefore the blueness Racers.

If you’re when one thing additional courageous, tackle the gut racking Aqualoops! You’ll be discharged down a trapdoor, causing you plummeting into an enormous vertical free fall. If you’re when a slower pace, you can’t go past Calypso Beach or the enormous Wave Pool – the proper place to relax and unwind finally the action.

LOCATION: Pacific thruway, Oxenford QLD, 4210

10. PACIFIC FAIR SHOPPING CENTRE

Pacific honest is that the Gold Coast's unmissable searching and eating destination, providing an associate expansive assortment of luxury, painting international brands and leading Australian retailers. With four hundred stores, Pacific honest offers a charming mix of the world’s best brands, set amongst tropical landscapes and a novel outside ambiance.

Dine 'til late at upmarket restaurants within the Resort, The Patio, and also the street. The Food Court offers an associate array of nutrition choices. Hours of fun to be had at Play Street foot. a high climb course and child space.

A fantabulous traveler Lounge offers coach set down and parking, free LAN and a prayer space. baggage storage lockers and shower amenities square measure obtainable for a little fee. The complimentary traveler Privileges Pass provides exclusive retail merchant offers and is on the market for assortment from the traveler Lounge.

A free searching shuttle service operates daily between Main Beach and Burleigh Heads. Visit the web site for the timetable. Pacific honest is open seven days per week and simply a brief walk from Broadbeach South G.

LOCATION: Hooker Street, Broadbeach QLD, 4218

More ideals for you: Top 10 things to do in Melbourne

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