#wayfaring tree

[the-busy-ghost]

A welcome sign you’re homeward bound, the wayfaring tree is so named because it grows close to paths. Look for them in hedges and woodland edges, with full bloom in the spring and heavy with berries in the autumn.

The Woodland Trust on the Wayfaring Tree (Viburnum Lantana)>>>

[thebotanicalarcade]

n197_w1150 by Biodiversity Heritage Library Via Flickr: British phaenogamous botany,. Oxford,Published by the author, sold by J.H. Parker [etc.]1834-43.. biodiversitylibrary.org/page/48855897

[20may]

Plant hedgerows.

“Bee engaged with Youth”. World Bee Day 2024. 

Which Hedge Plants Are Best For Bees?

All native plants, which make up our conservation hedge mixes, are great for bees, especially blackthorn and hazel, which open their flowers and catkins before most other trees and shrubs.

The other native classics are Hawthorn, Crab Apple, Dog Rose, Common Dogwood & Red Dogwood, Field Maple, Guelder Rose, Spindle, Sweet Briar Rose or Wayfaring Tree.

By mixing several varieties together (five is a good number), you ensure a good spread of flowering times.

Honey bee hives do not really hibernate; they are active on warm winter days, so plants that flower in cold weather are extra important.

Other great hedge plants for bees include:

Viburnum tinus Eve Price (Winter flowering)

Rosemary (Summer flowering)

Forsythia Spectablis (Winter flowering)

King Edward VII Currant (Early-Spring flowering)

These plants are too small or low growing to be a privacy hedge, but they are perfect for low ornamental hedging / edging.

Lavender (Summer flowering)

Sweet Box - Sarcococca confusa (Mid-Winter flowering)

[angeliteonfridgeduty]

hello feralians of the tumblr. i did this.

feel free to use this horrid creation of my brain wherever and whenever. sorry the tundra has consumed me

[marxonculture]

On Epic Fantasy, Gender, Changes in Belief and Samantha Shannon’s The Priory of the Orange Tree

Ordinarily I don't write about books here, but I had something I wanted to get out about what I've been reading lately, so here goes...

I’ve always maintained that high fantasy is something in which I have very little interest. While friends and family have raved about Lord of the Rings and Game of Thrones over the years, I’ve felt a great disconnect from those stories and worlds, and I always assumed that it was the genre itself at the root of the problem. Meanwhile, I was raving separately about the immense creative achievement of The Matrix (all of them, not just the original film), which is (if I’m being honest with myself) high fantasy wearing the skin of science fiction. Chosen one narratives, prophecy, fantastical creatures, magic systems, and a great battle to determine the fate of humanity are the makeup of The Matrix, just as they would be any other work of high fantasy.

I learned the hard way during my undergraduate degree and subsequent three years as a post-graduate student that reading for pleasure can very easily fall by the wayside when you have to read so much for work – the act of reading itself becomes a massive chore. So, when I left academia and started getting back into reading for pleasure in a habitual way, part of the journey for me was discovering my taste in literature as an adult, which meant giving fantasy another try.

The discoveries I’ve made since getting back on the horse have been a mixed bag – some expected and some very much unexpected. Among those realisations was the fact that fantasy as a genre is not as immediately repulsive to me as I thought; what is repulsive to me, on vibes alone, is fantasy written by men. It turns out that my lifelong struggle with masculinity (I’ve only recently begun coming out to myself and others as non-binary - I use he/they pronouns) applies to literature, too. Surprise, surprise, The Matrix’s exploration of gender identity and transness was more relatable to me than the aggressive hyper-masculinity of Game of Thrones and to a lesser extent Lord of the Rings (yes I know the consensus is that LotR is very gay, but it’s also very male). So, while in search of something to read on my local library’s eBook lending service, I decided to give Samantha Shannon’s epic fantasy novel, The Priory of the Orange Tree, a shot, and I’m so very glad that I did.

TPotOT has been misleadingly described by some as ‘feminist Game of Thrones’. And, while I can see where those people are coming from, this work feels like its own entirely distinct thing. Rather than plunging into the darkest, grimmest depths of humanity’s worst moral failings, as George R.R. Martin does almost fetishistically, Shannon uses her beautifully engrossing fantasy world to explore the necessity of trust and cooperation with those whom one’s belief system might deem unacceptable, in order to confront something that threatens everybody. This is less an allegory for climate change, and more an allegory about dogma.

The world of this Roots of Chaos series is built upon a series of conflicting, yet paradoxically overlapping, paper-thin religious belief systems. These systems hold the societies of Shannon’s four, wonderfully drawn POV characters together, and what makes the narrative of this gargantuan book so captivating, is the necessity of these characters coming to terms with the elements of their belief systems that have been falsely constructed in order to serve an agenda. This isn’t a didactic story about one morality system being superior to another, but rather one of learning to find common ground with those who believe differently to you, accepting truths when you are confronted with them, and having enough faith in humanity to trust that society won’t collapse as a result.

The Priory of the Orange Tree isn’t the only book in this series (Shannon has since published a prequel entitled A Day of Fallen Night), but it does function as a standalone story with a definitive ending. That being said, Shannon smartly chooses to end her story at the conclusion of its central conflict – the battle with a terrifying, all-powerful dragon called The Nameless One – rather than spending extra time exploring the aftermath. We don’t know whether the colossal revelations poised to shatter this world’s religions will lead to societal collapse, or whether the characters’ faith in humanity is justified. Anyone who knows me is aware of how I feel about certainty in narrative storytelling. Asking questions is much more interesting than answering them.

Ultimately, The Priory of the Orange Tree is a story that leads (and ends) with its characters. The book is deeply concerned with the repercussions of its plot on its intricately detailed world, but it is more focused on the way these characters grow and change when confronted with undeniable truths. Eadaz uq-Nāra is up there with my very favourite protagonists, and her journey and relationships are rapturously entertaining and moving. Shannon clearly adores her characters, which makes it so very easy for us as readers to fall in love with them, too.

I’m so glad to have found this book. TPotOT, along with Becky Chambers’ miraculous space opera, The Long Way to a Small Angry Planet, have been genuine reassurances to me as I come to terms with who I am as an adult, both in my tastes as a reader, and more fundamentally in myself and my identity. In short: genre fiction written by queer women is good for you.

[gaeapplehairline]

Sharon <> Wayfaring Stranger

I will not elaborate further and I will take no criticisms.

[felfiramoondesigns]

I made a shiny vdeo hehe!

LITTLE LITERARY ENAMEL PINS: SFF & YA EDITION KS is now live and running til April 24th at 7pm BST. FIND IT HERE ON KICKSTARTER We are so close to unocking the designs inspired by Priory! LETS DO THIS!! These designs are inspired by Six Of Crows, Shadow and Bone, Priory of the Orange Tree, Sabriel, The Long Way to a Small Angry Planet and Percy Jackson. All pins will be pretty little at 28mm! (Hence the project name if you couldn't tell hehe)

KS is an all or nothing platform which means no money will be taken before the project is over and only if the funding is successful. So pledge now to help unlock the pins you really want!!

[rainworld-wayfarer]

is there a food you like more than others?

Yes! They aren't common inside the walls, but carmin-berries are great!

For food within rainwalls, I'd say the hanging blue fruits, but they just aren't as good as carmin-berries.

[outerbankies]

the pool scene was SOOOO new light summer coded like right at the start ☀️ he comes to bring her her morning coffee and she’s like hmmmm can’t you just stay here and quit ur job pls!!!! and you know for a split second he’s considering it

OOPS!

new light: summer love

new light masterlist

a/n: also takes care of (caressing inner thigh then slowly leaning in to trail kisses) from the prompt celly! wahoooooo

You’re just about to doze off beside your parents’ pool, Gretchen stretched out on the chaise lounge beside you while Margot lazes on a raft in the pool, the thick July humidity and the shade of the gigantic oak trees covered in Spanish moss enough to lull you into a cat nap.

But your parents’ dog Wilbur, who’d taken refuge under your chair, scrambles out from under and bolts through the back garden and toward the house, causing the three of you to investigate the intrusion on your otherwise perfect, post-workout pool day.

“Ladies,” Rafe greets, emerging from rows of hydrangea bushes dressed in his business casual. You place a hand over your eyes to block the sun and see him better in his powder blue button-up, navy-patterned tie faltering in the slight breeze. He makes a beeline once he spots you, setting what he’d been carrying down on the unoccupied lounge to your other side: a cardboard tray of three iced coffees from your favorite shop in town, the one you happen to know is so out of the way if he left from his dad’s office.

You hadn’t even expected to see him today, the scheduling gods against you both, but here he is taking a seat right beside you on your own chaise, leaning over you just close enough you catch his cologne, before he pulls his wayfarers off and places them on top of his head.

“Hi,” he says, leaning down for a kiss. He lets it linger, or maybe you do, still a bit stunned to see him here right now. 

“Hi,” you finally answer, taking his face in your hands the red of your nails a contrast to his cheeks. “What are you doing here, Rafe?”

He shrugs, eyes flickering down to your lips, where you’d just reapplied your Laneige, before he steals another kiss. “Wanted to see you. How was pilates?”

“Spin,” you correct, still dazed, even as you feel your chair move when your dog dives back under it. “It was good. Still waiting for you to join us like you promised you would.”

“And I will,” he promises again, with another shrug. “Before the end of the summer.”

“Sorry to ruin your nooner, Cameron!” comes Margot’s voice from the pool. Gretchen and Rafe both laugh but you just groan, hiding your face in your hands as he twists toward her to make his reply, his tongue just as quick.

“All good, Margs. Brought you a coffee, if you wanna act a little more grateful,” he says, tilting his head toward the drink carrier.

Gretchen gasps as she sits up, up until this point laid back and watching you two with a sickly fond look, “Me too?”

“Of course,” Rafe replies. “I know Y/n/n is a fiend, but these aren’t all for her.”

She pats his shoulder, squealing on her way to pick up her drink, taking Margot’s too and walking toward the other side of the pool where the other girl floats, chancing a wink back at you as she leaves earshot. 

“I’m covered in tanning oil,” you say in warning, concerned for his pastel shirt and what Ward will say if he comes back from lunch covered in oily splotches, as you feel him sink further into your side.

“I’m very aware of what you are and aren’t covered in right now,” he murmurs. Rafe seems completely indifferent to all the places your bodies touch, giving you a once-over.

You make hands at the last drink in the carrier, humming in satisfaction when he hands it over and it tastes exactly how you thought it would. “You on lunch?”

He nods. “Didn’t realize I wouldn’t get to see you tonight, so.”

“I know,” you sigh. “I’m sorry I got the days mixed up, but the Boneyard should still be fun.”

You had an overnight babysitting gig a few neighborhoods over that you thought wasn’t until tomorrow, putting a bit of a wrench in the dinner plans you made with your boyfriend before you were supposed to ride with your friends to a bonfire.

You’d let him know as soon as you confirmed with the kid’s parents this morning, to which Rafe had replied a long (and dramatic) chain of sad faces. 

“It’s okay, baby. Might stay in anyway,” he says, kissing your cheek, then hiding his face there for a second. His lips brush the shell of your ear, “especially if there’s any possible way you sneak me into the Truitts’ tonight.”

When he pulls away to smirk at you, you grasp onto his tie, keeping him close to your face. “You’re not down.”

Rafe swallows, and you hate the way your eyes track the movement of his throat. “It would be worth the awkward run-in with Mrs. Truitt at the Island Club.”

“You can barely handle sneaking in here,” you say, your head tilting toward your bedroom window, which Rafe takes a second to look at wistfully, probably reminiscing on the times he’s nearly broken an ankle scaling the trellis for it this summer. “You jump every time you hear a creak in the night, thinking it’s my dad about to drag you out by your ears.”

“There are a lot of creaks at night,” he defends.

“Old house,” you challenge, releasing him and stretching your arms up over your head, settling down further into the chaise. “You should be used to it by now.”

The hand he’d been resting on your knee cap trails just slightly down your inner thigh. “I’ll never be used to this.”

You sigh, pressing our legs together, which budges his hand out from the area it’d been exploring. But Rafe’s touch doesn’t stray far, the metal on his ring finger resting on your outer thigh instead, his thumb stroking.

“You’re teasing me,” you warn.

His thumb hooks into the string of your bathing suit bottoms. “Oh, I’m teasing you?”

“Sure you can’t quit your job?”

“Be our coffee boy forever,” Margot calls.

“We tip!” Gretchen tacks on.

“Well with an offer like that…” he murmurs only for you to hear, suddenly as privy as you to the fact that your friends are probably listening in on as much as they possibly can. 

He still leans in for another kiss though, a few pecks trailing from your lips, over your jaw and down to where the strap of your bathing suit top rests over your neck, his face coming back to hover over yours as his eyes slowly open again. “Dinner tomorrow instead?”

You nod readily. “Dinner tomorrow. I’ll be free by the afternoon. I could come meet you in town? By the office?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, I’ll come get you, sweetheart.”

You beam, pleased you already know when you’ll next see him again, even if it is over 24 hours from now. You couldn’t help it and neither could he; much to the chagrin of your parents and friends, the two of you were inseparable this summer. “Okay. And have fun tonight if you do go, alright?”

He shakes his head, collapsing back into you, his face hidden in your neck again.

“Nooo,” he whines. “On the real, if I did come to the Truitts—”

“Alright,” you laugh, getting your hands under his shoulders to push him away. “I’m pretty sure your lunch is over.” 

“Over when I say it is,” he says, not going without a few more kisses, one somehow ending up on your shoulder, right over a mark you’d had to cover up with clothes and concealer ever since he left it there. But he eventually does let you breathe, leaving a hand on your cheek while he checks the watch on his other wrist. “You’re right though. Shit.”

“Mhm,” you say, nodding into his palm. “Have a good rest of your day. I’m happy you came by.”

He kisses your forehead before finally standing again, readjusting his tie, looking down at it and then back to you. “I’m happy, too. How do I look?”

“Oh my god, fine, Rafe. Get outta here!” Margot shouts.

Over the sound of Gretchen’s laughter, you nod in assurance at him. “You look good. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He just barely avoids a splash of water from the girls as he makes his way back inside, causing you to laugh around the straw of your drink, which you’d barely gotten to try. Rafe looks back from the hydrangeas as he puts his sunglasses back on, shaking his head with a grin splitting his face.

You don’t know how you’ll last ’til tomorrow.

[folksaga-if]

“It is a long story, and it does no credit to anyone: there is murder in it, and trickery, lies and foolishness, seduction and pursuit.  Listen."

- Neil Gaiman, Norse Mythology

You are a human. A totally normal one.

Honestly.

You’re a human. You’re a bartender, which is a very normal job for a human to have, and when you walk down the winding streets of Akureyri you can blend seamlessly into any crowd of people which is, without question, only something that a human could do.

The fact that you came here two years ago with nothing but the clothing on your back doesn’t mean anything; you’re hardly northern Iceland’s first wayfaring soul. That you had no money to your name, no friends or family to speak of — that’s a fairly average human thing, too. And that little craving you have, that quiet urge to dig your teeth into any passing stranger’s throat? It's completely, entirely mundane.

It’s manageable. You’re managing.

Or you were, until someone — someone who's decidedly notas good at this human thing as you are — begins leaving a trail of dead bodies at your doorstep, and a trio of god-like siblings take a seat at your bar.

MAGNI THORSON .

No doubt the mightiest of his siblings, the eldest child of Thor is exactly the sort of person you would expect him to be: a giant (half-giant, in fact) asshole with a smoulder and a knife-sharp jawline to match. He’ll match your every word with a cocky grin and a joke that’s nowhere near as funny as he thinks, and he’ll look every inch the prince that he is all the while.

(Well, the prince that he was. Just don’t let him hear you say that.)

MODI THORSON .

For the supposed embodiment of his father’s wrath, the God of Thunder’s second son is surprisingly…not that. He’s no picnic, mind you — he’s broody, he’s secretive, and he's fucking intense, but that hardly equates to fury incarnate. You’re sure there’s something hiding under that moody surface; whether or not you want to uncover it is a different story entirely.

(Looks like even gods aren’t immune to middle-child syndrome. Who knew?)

THRÚD THORSDÓTTIR .

Valkyrie, seidhr,paragon of strength — with all of her mother’s best traits (and a few of her father’s worst), is it any wonder that Thor’s youngest child was also his favourite? Smarter than her half-brothers and more likeable by a longshot, you might find yourself forgetting how easily the fortune-telling goddess could break you in two. You might, but she’ll be happy to remind you if you do.

(Maybe a little too happy, in fact.)

KATLA B̶͍̏L̸̝͑O̵̟͠M̴̳̓Q̴̯̔V̵̺͆I̷̗͛S̵̠͒T̸̬̒ .

A fellow nomad and your coworker at Black Thunder, the first friend you made in Akureyri has remained your closest. Mischevious, magnetic, and often up to no small amount of trouble, there are times when you think you might know Katla better than you know yourself. You even know about her…well, you know that she…sorry, what were you talking about again?

(It's just that it’s nice, being close to someone who’s so very human.)

THE MARE .

There’s a voice in your head and a shadow in your dreams, and they’re telling you to run. You probably shouldn’t trust them.

(…Right?)

Customize your monster character. New life, new you! Choose your gender identity, change your name, cut your hair, and remember: if you’re starting to grow tired of running from your past, try on a new outfit and start running faster.

Play as one of three runway creatures from Norse mythology — a cunning keeper of the forest, a charming warden of the lake, or a formidable guardian of the mountains. Each has its quirks (would you prefer a hollowed-out tree for a back, or webbed fingers and forearms covered in scales?), but they all have two key things in common: they’ll killto protect their homes, and you’redefinitely not one of them.

Choose your own fate, out of the countless that are presented to you. Had oatmeal instead of skyr with your breakfast this morning? You might have just brought about Ragnarök 2.0. Nice one, asshole.

Multiple romance options, with each available to pursue regardless of your gender or background. Ever wanted to kiss a god under a starry sky? Now's your chance! Or maybe you’re through with immortal beings and desperate to ask the pretty server on a date? Go for it! She’s definitelya human too. Totally. You’d be able to tell if she wasn’t. Wouldn’t you?

Save the world — or don’t.It's your choice, and isn't that what true freedom is all about?

Folksaga is inspired by The Edda, Norse mythology, andTwin Peaks, with a bit of tweaking to the myths as needed for the sake of plot. MC backgrounds have been adjusted to fit for all players regardless of gender identity, and creative liberty has been taken with some smaller points for a smoother storytelling experience. All changes will be explained in an FAQ post (too be added in the links below ASAP!)

AS OF AUGUST 21 UPDATE: The current demo consists of the prologue (introductory lore + character creation), + chapter 1, about 70k words total.

I expect it to be somewhere in the range of 600,000 to 700,000 words, but this is subject to change (and likely will due to my propensity for rambling text. oops.).

I’ve written  short and long-form original fiction as well as a lot of fanfic (say hello @ pentaghastly on AO3, and @kendallroynsfw on tumblr!), but this is my first IF! Bugs and coding issues may appear in the demo; please let me know if any issues arise during your playthroughs.

Folksaga is a work in progress. I would love constructive feedback when the demo is posted, as well as any bugs or grammar issues to be brought to my attention if I've missed them :) I would also love patience, because I'm a full time health care worker who gets sleepy lots xoxo

A Swedish farmer named Sven Andersson was executed in 1691 for having intercourse with a mountain nymph, or bergsrå. I will neither confirm or deny if his Wikipedia article was the inspiration for this IF, except I will confirm it and it definitely was.

MC ORIGINS | RO INTROS | DEMO!!!!! | COG FORUMS | PATREON

[derinthescarletpescatarian]

hello I just got caught up on the free chapters of tto:u and I just wanna thank you for making it! I had to go on a pretty stressful family trip this past week, and I had to fly (which I'm terrified of, not for logical reasons but for phobia reasons. irrational fear of heights runs in my family) and honestly this story got me THROUGH that week. i can't stop thinking about it, in a good way. it's getting me hooked on sci-fi again, falling in love with the genre all over again. I keep thinking about arborea, about a hacker obsessed with retro-futurism who plays doom on the side of buildings, about bees and sleeping in a nest in a tree. i haven't felt this way about a sci-fi story since I first read the Wayfarer's series, and that story permanently changed my brain chemistry. you write in a way that is so easy, getting across dense exposition in a way that Feels quick and easy and digestible, but grows like a fungus once it's inside my head.

I spent the flight over crying like a baby. I spent the flight home rereading ttou from the start, and all the fears I had about flying seemed so small compared to aspen crawling along the hull of the Courageous hours after waking up from a months/decades long coma. there's this current of teeth-gritted hope and a stubborn will to survive just a little longer, no matter how bleak the future looks, that I cannot get enough of. it's in all your work, but ttou resonates with something in me that's very unique.

basically just wanted to send you a reader's love letter. you did also make me miss SEVERAL buses, because I kept thinking 'ill just read this next paragraph and keep checking the road, there's no way I'll miss this next one by getting too distracted to notice the bus pass me" which honestly, is entirely my own folly. I knew what this story does to ADHD readers. still, getting home late was worth reading more. it's just so damn good.

also (apologies if you've answered this before), does TTO:U have a planned ending? I see the chapters titled but not yet available to read, and I'm not sure if those are available on Patreon or if those are the planned final chapters? I desperately never want to stop reading new chapters of this, but of course I understand that isn't likely Actually feasible. no matter how much is left though, I look forward to reading more, and to finding new things in the previous chapters to fall in love with

I'm so glad you're enjoying it! There's always another bus coming :P

TTOU is 183 chapters long, so you'll be getting the ending pretty soon. Patrons already have the whole thing. After TTOU, there'll be a new story called Child of a Wandering Star, which has bug aliens in it.

[from-the-clouds]

texas sun - joel miller x f!reader - vol. x

series masterlist | series playlist | writing masterlist | previous chapter |

chapter summary: an old friend finds you at your lowest point, and you're confronted with ghosts of the past. pairing: joel miller x f!reader words: 5.7k chapter warnings: HEAVY ANGST. Grief. Time jumps. Referenced death of family members and romantic partners. Canon typical violence. Blood mention. As always please dm if you have questions. a/n: I took a week off to get my shit together. I hope you are still with me :) Also, please pay attention to dates in this chapter.

**ALSO! I got rid of my taglist. Please follow @ftcwriting and turn on notifs if you would like to be notified when I update my works :) **

-March 7, 2022-

You hobble forward through the snow, dragging your right foot behind you for as long as you can until you’re forced to use it to step forward. Every time you have to bear weight on your ankle, you try to mentally prepare yourself for the pain, to convince yourself it’s not that bad. But each time your injured foot comes in contact with the ground, you realize your imagination didn’t do it any justice. Still, you try to keep the noises you make in response down to nothing more than sharp inhales. Despite the fact that the boy trailing a few steps behind you always keeps his eyes cast down, he sees everything, and the last thing you want him to notice is the severity of your injury. 

Both of you have more important things to worry about. 

It’s a forgivingly warm day, and by forgivingly warm, you mean not freezing. Snow still covers the ground, so tightly packed that in some areas you can walk on top of it, but in others you have to forage a path – it’s nearly above your knees. Without the support system of the group you had just been with, there was no way you’d be able to make it in this weather. This was the plan – head South, for warmer weather. But still, you’ve no real destination or purpose, you’re kind of wandering aimlessly through the woods and mountains, with nothing to direct you but a cracked compass. 

Despite the pain you’re in, you find the discomfort a welcome reprieve. If you’re focused on that, you’re not thinking of her. Of what you’d just lost, which would spiral into all the things you had lost, and so on and so forth. If you let yourself go down that path, you wouldn’t be able to come back, despite your future looking more and more uncertain each day. 

The boots that crunch behind you echo your own footsteps, so when they come to a sudden halt, you turn to look at him. He puts a finger to his lips. “Did you hear that?” 

His head tilts towards the wind. It’s hard enough to hear already, between the rushing river to your left, and the whistling of the breeze through the pines to your right. It ruffles his dark hair and you watch him – but it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking when his eyes are obstructed by a pair of Rayban Wayfarers perched on the bridge of his nose. You’d found them – along with the aviators you wore – on a road full of abandoned cars about three days back. Or was it…four? You’d have to look at your journal. Either way, you’d known they were necessary to avoid snow blindness, especially now that the sun was out. 

After a few moments of listening, he shakes his head. “I thought I heard horses.” 

Whether he did or not doesn’t matter. “We should move back towards the woods,” you advise.

He frowns, but doesn’t argue, and you abandon the easy path in favor of what’s safer, but also much, much, harder terrain to move over. Now, you have to move slower, but the pain is just as bad as before. 

You’re not sure how much time passes before you lose your footing over some gnarled tree roots, and it sends you to the ground. It hurts, and because you weren’t prepared for it, sharp cry you let out can’t be held back. 

“Shit!” 

Within a second, the boy is kneeling at your side, brow furrowed in concern. And you’re reminded, with him hovering over you, that he’s not a boy anymore.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine,” you say rapidly, rolling onto your stomach to push yourself up to a seated position. 

“No you’re not,” he crouches down, gesturing to your foot. One of his hands lands on your shoulder, keeping you from trying to rise to your feet.  “You’re clearly not.”

You lift up your pants to tighten the cloth you’ve wrapped around your ankle – a makeshift compression sleeve – even though you know it’s not going to fix the problem. It’s main purpose, really, is to hide the majority of the bruising and swelling. It makes it easier for you both to stay in denial of how bad the situation really is. “I twisted it. It’s fine.”

“It’s fucking broken,” he insists. “You know it is. We can’t keep going like this, we need to rest, and food. You need to ice it and actually let it fucking heal-”

“Ethan,” you hiss. “Just where the fuck are we going to do that?”

Wherever you are is incredibly remote, you hadn’t been able to find a reliable shelter since you first started running away. 

Your nephew frowns again, his head dropping. “You’re right. We’re fucked, aren’t we?” 

“We’re not fucked,” you say, even if you don’t believe it. “We’ve seen worse.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know....this is pretty fucking bad, right?” 

There was something equally tragic about almost every situation you’d been in since the beginning of the outbreak, so it’s honestly hard if you’re actually doomed or not. 

“I mean we survived….that,” you gesture towards the general direction from which you’d come, even if it’s a week’s worth of travel away. 

“Maybe we’re still not out of it.” 

“We are. The worst is over.” Despite your own doubts, you try to remain determined for his sake. 

Ethan only sighs. He doesn’t argue with you, and rarely does. It doesn’t mean he agrees with you. Even after everything you’d been through, he’s sensitive – and incredibly introspective. 

This conversation was getting filed away to bring up later. There’s a lot of things you know he wants to talk about, but he knows now is not the time for those conversations.

“Let’s keep moving,” you decide. “Hopefully we’ll find shelter soon, and when we do, I promise, you can rest.” 

“You can rest,” he corrects.

You hum your affirmation, and he stands. The thick pelt that’s draped over his shoulders shifts when his hand reaches out to help you up. There’s still blood that stains his clothing, and it’s caked under his fingernails. Yours too. It’d be nice to clean yourself off properly, but with the unpredictable temperatures, you’re not interested in diving into the river and risking hypothermia.

The second that you rise to your feet, you can see you are – as Ethan predicted – fucked. 

There’s four, hulking figures cantering towards you on horseback. You turn to look into the woods. “Fuck, we have to-” you fumble for the revolver strapped at your hip, and Ethan lifts his rifle, but it’s too late. Before you can even draw your weapons, or comprehend an escape plan, you’re surrounded. 

“Don’t even fucking think about it,” there’s at least two guns trained directly at you. “Hands up.” After everything that had gone down, you’re out of bullets, so even if it might’ve been a good bluff, a gun would only get you so far. 

You both obey, but Ethan subtly shifts his weight so he stands in front of you. “Hey kid. Step away from mom or we’ll shoot you both.”

The words come from the man on the horse directly in front of you. Probably the leader, if you had to guess, and clad just like his counterparts. They’re all clad in muted tones, handkerchiefs obscuring their mouths and cowboy hats casting shadows over their eyes. There’s a dog seated obediently at one of the horses feet. 

You don’t say anything as Ethan steps away. This wasn’t the first time you’ve both been cornered like this before. And hopefully not the last, you think, before realizing just how grim of a wish that would be. Either way, he knows what to do. Silence is an incredibly effective card to play when you have absolutely nothing to offer. It allows you to bide your time, to strategize, to listen.

Once Ethan is an appropriate distance away, he raises his chin in defiance. “What brings you to the area?” 

“Nothing. We’re passing through,” you answer. Maybe that would be enough. Maybe the only thing you really can use as leverage right now is just how down on your luck you actually are. Unfortunately, you have found that even when you have nothing to give, there are still things that can be taken.

“What’s with all the blood?” another man asks, this one to your left. “You in some kind of trouble?”

“Only the usual kind.”

“Infected?”

“We aren’t sick.” 

“We’ll see…” the third man whistles to the dog at his feet, which trots forward with a low growl to sniff at your shoes. 

Neither you or Ethan have been bit, so you know you’re in the clear, but that doesn’t make things any less hopeless. You exchange a sidelong glance with your nephew as the dog sniffs at you, and you glance to the only cowboy who has been silent the whole time, the one at your right. He clears his throat, adjusts his hat, and you catch a glimpse of his eyes….just for a second. The dog backs away.

“Looks like you aren’t lying,” the cowboy in front of you sounds almost satisfied. “Both of you, take off those glasses.” 

You sigh, glancing over at Ethan. 

“Don’t look at him, just do it.” 

You do, pushing them off the bridge of your nose and up into your matted and tangled hair. Pointedly, you turn to look at the men surrounding you. Revealing your face is always a risk, and you’ve made plenty of enemies who would recognize you. But you’re out of options.

“Where are you headed?”

“South,” you say. “Just trying to get out of the cold.” 

“If think this is cold, then you must have not been in the area long enough.”

Actually, I have, asshole. Is a decade long enough? You keep the commentary to yourself. 

“Any friends nearby we should know about?” 

Your stomach twists. No. But he doesn’t deserve the story. Not when all you want to do is forget every second of the last week. “Can you just tell us what you want from us?”

“Answer the question.”

“Hold on,” the man to your right speaks up for the first time, and you turn to look over at him. “What’s your name?” His voice is muffled by the bandana.

Hesitantly, you give him your first. 

The man pulls his handkerchief down around his neck, pushes the brim of his hat back. Now, you can see him clearly. He looks familiar, but it’s not someone you know from this lifetime. His long, dark hair pokes out from where it’s slicked back behind his ears. He looks far too young to be the first person that comes to mind. But….maybe. 

And then he repeats your name, adds your last himself. How does he know?

You tilt your head to the side, squint against the sun. 

“....Tommy?” 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Huddled at the far end of a couch, you’re still trying to make sense of the situation when Tommy settles into a chair that he pulls alongside you. 

“Let me take a look at your ankle.” 

“It’s fine, really,” you insist, even though all your efforts to refuse help since you’ve arrived have been futile.

It’s the most normal-looking community you’d seen in a decade. Completely self-sufficient and self-governed – no FEDRA, no Fireflies. Hell, you’d just showered under warm, running water – had watched the blood and dirt and grime swirl about the tiles before disappearing down the drain. And now, despite the temperature having dropped since nightfall, you are perfectly warm in a thin gray sweater, thanks to the central heating and a fire crackling in the fireplace. It seems far too civilized to be real. 

Your eyes flick behind Tommy towards the stairs, and you register the sound of the water running above you. Ethan. For the past few days, he hasn’t left your sight once, such a force of habit that leaving him alone puts you on edge. If something happens, and you’re separated….

“He’ll be fine,” Tommy assures you, almost like he can read your mind. You focus back on him, but don’t have anything to offer in response. He sighs, lowers his voice. “Whatever happened to you, I want you to know that you’re safe. And can trust me. You know that, right?” 

You study Tommy. Of course, you want to trust him. But he is a man, after all. A man you haven’t seen in a long time. You had been betrayed so many times by people you thought you could trust that it was no longer something you could give so easily. The sincerity in his expression, the conviction with which he speaks, however, causes you to soften. “C-Can I?” 

“Of course,” Tommy says. “We knew each other….before.” 

“I know, I know.” You nod, wearily, and take in the room. “Guess it’s just….a bit of a shock.”

“I get it,” he sympathizes. “But I’m here to help. If I wasn’t, all this…” he gestures around the living room of the once-empty house he’s letting you use for the night. “...would be a huge waste of time and resources.”

You offer a small smile, feel some of the apprehension fade, and allow him to examine your ankle. When you’d gotten a glimpse of it in the shower, you really couldn’t deny the severity of the situation. 

“It does look like it could be broken,” Tommy says as he begins to wrap it in a bandage. It’s so sensitive, you can’t even watch, trying not to wince. “Tomorrow, I’ll get the doctor to come by and take a look. But for now, we’ll ice it and keep it elevated. Maria’s coming by later with dinner and some medicine that should help with the discomfort.” 

You nod. To be real, the whole situation seems too surreal. There is something interesting about this situation – that right after one of the most traumatic events of your life, someone you knew from before was there to help. It wasn’t nothing. 

And you’re aware that there are a thousand questions that hang between you. It’s overwhelming, you don’t know what one you want to pick, or if you even want to. So you keep it simple. “Who’s Maria?” 

Tommy maneuvers a pillow under your foot and gingerly rests an ice pack on top. “She only kind of runs the place. And….she’s also my girlfriend.”

“How nice,” you say, earnestly. 

“Yeah….” Tommy smiles to himself. “Yeah, it is nice. I have a life here. It’s been awhile since I’ve felt that way.”

His candid nature further helps you relax. If you can trust him, and he feels safe here….maybe you are, too.  

“Look, I’m sorry, but I have to ask…” Tommy begins, rubbing his hands together and looking over his shoulder. “But uh….the kid….Ethan…is he….”

You tilt your head.

“Is he….Joel’s?” 

“Oh,“ your eyes widen. You register that a less hardened version of yourself might have laughed at the misunderstanding. But not now. Something twists deep in your gut at the implication. “No, no. No. He’s not mine. He’s my nephew. My brother’s son.”

“Okay,” Tommy looks almost relieved. “Sorry, it's just. He’s so young and you sort of look alike and-”

“It’s alright, Tommy,” you say. Because you can see why he thinks that. You are old enough to be Ethan’s mother, and people constantly assume he’s your son. Most of the time, you don’t bother to correct them. No one needed that information. Ethan was only a child when his parents passed. The two of you were all that remained of your family, and if it weren’t for him, you probably wouldn’t even be here. -“I get it.”

It’s been awhile since you’ve thought of Joel, of Sarah. It seems cruel, but it’s really just a matter of self-preservation. For some time, right after the outbreak, you had tried to find them. But you weren’t willing to abandon Ethan or Vincent, and there was only so much you could go. You kept losing people, and then started to avoid thinking about them entirely. Those memories became a distraction. You had more important things to focus on. Staying alive. Only when things were quiet would you let yourself indulge. 

“He’s still alive,” Tommy’s voice cuts through the silence. 

It almost feels selfish to be relieved that Joel’s alive.  Because anyone who remembers what it was like before has survived, against all odds. And it’d be impossible to meet anyone who hasn’t traded over part of their humanity to last this long. 

Despite that, you aren’t surprised. Joel was practical, smart….a protector. You remembered a hot summer night, the way he’d made some guy harassing you and Sarah cower and retreat with all his friends. It would be terrifying to be on the receiving end of that rage. What kinds of things was he capable of? Maybe you’re just projecting. 

“And Sarah?” You think of her, her sweet smile and quick wit. 

Tommy’s head drops, he shakes his head once. 

“No….really?” It’s such a stupid question to ask. As if he’d make such a terrible joke. 

At first, you’re overwhelmed by the anger you feel. It grips you tight around your throat and you struggle to breath as Tommy continues. 

“It was the night everything went down. The military had these orders to kill all civilians….we all got split up. Sarah and Joel were cornered by this soldier. I shot him but…. I got there too late…she, uh….yeah….” 

The anger dissipates quickly. Because you know all too well that it’s not useful. You’re completely powerless, it won’t fix anything. So all that momentum and energy comes screeching to a halt. You’re left thinking of Joel, of what that loss must have felt like. What you’re feeling now probably isn’t a fraction of what he felt. And you feel terrible. 

“No,” you choke out, the frustration fizzling into grief. “She was so-”

All that time you’d spent with her, all those years ago, yet you still can see her so vividly. 

Something you’ve always longed for is the ability to know, the second you meet someone new, just how much they are going to change your life. You think of Sarah, standing timidly at the end of your driveway, asking to use your landline. That was it. Then, she was always over at your place – eating your snacks, sprawled out on your couch watching television, asking for life advice as if you were qualified to give it. In the end, you’d probably learned more from her than what you had to offer. It wasn’t fair. Not to her. Not to Joel. Not to Tommy. Or you. 

“I know, it’s-” Tommy starts, but he doesn’t finish. You understand. What is he supposed to say?

You’ve been a fortress, held together by nothing but sticks and plaster, and this is the blow that takes you down. It’s not just Sarah, it’s everything you’ve been holding back for the past week. That you’d hidden from Ethan because you didn’t want him to worry. But you can only take so much loss, pitching forward to sob into your palms.

You don’t cry like you used to. The tears come, but you don’t make any noise, save for the shaky, staggered inhales your body forces you to take to self-regulate. There’s a hand on your shoulder, and a weight settles next to you on the couch. “I’m s-sorry,” you manage through a faltering breath.

Tommy doesn’t say anything, but he wraps his arms around you. Something in the back of your brain reminds you that this could be a part of some long con. But you’re sick of listening to that voice. You lean into him, and accept the little bit of comfort, because you can’t remember the last time it’s been offered to you. So much time spent being strong, but you’re only human, and no one is built to endure this much without breaking. 

“Where is he?” you ask Tommy, once you’ve finally managed to pull yourself together, his hand still between your shoulder blades. “Is he here?” 

“Last time I saw him, we were livin’ in the Boston QZ.” Tommy shakes his head. “But it’s….been awhile since we’ve spoken.” 

They had always seemed close, but you don’t press, because you get the impression it’s painful to talk about. You wonder what kind of man Joel must have become after losing Sarah. What else would he have to fight for? You know how loss has changed you, too. How all of this has changed you. For better, and for worse. 

“I bet he would be glad to know you’re still here,” says Tommy, patting your back.

“Sure,” you say. “But it’s been a long time.”

“It has been. But you took good care of him and Sarah,” Tommy says. “So there’s a place for you here. If you want to stay, the house is yours.” 

“Tommy, I can’t-” You aren’t really sure why you are refusing. It’s all so much. And it doesn’t even make sense to do it, because where had you been planning to go to begin with? You’re just stubborn. You know if you stop moving, everything will catch up to you. 

“You don’t have to decide tonight. But at least wait until you’re back on your feet.”

“Is that…a joke?” you glance towards your ankle, relieved to find some remaining proof of your sense of humor, something you’re pretty sure you can’t go on without. 

Tommy seems to share this relief, smiling gently. “It wasn’t intentional.” 

There’s a lull, then: “Maria was a lawyer, too. She could use your help on the council.”

You sniff, wipe at a stray tear that falls at the mention of your old life, the job that you were constantly complaining about. Everything had been perfect, and you had taken it for granted. “I don’t know how much of that stuff I even remember.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re family,” Tommy speaks definitively. “Maybe not technically. But eventually…you would’ve been.” That makes you ache, and he goes on. “It’s the least I can do.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

-April 10, 2024-

The wind rustles the leaves of the trees, through the windchimes that hang off your back porch. The sun is on the horizon, you can tell because there’s a red glow behind your eyelids. Huffing, you fold your body forward over your feet, pulling yourself towards the floor by the backs of your ankles, before stepping back into a lunge. 

The sound of a door sliding up interrupts the quiet, then two plates hit a glass tabletop. 

“Breakfast.” 

You open your eyes. Ethan’s head is tilted as he glances over at you. “I can’t believe you still do this shit everyday.” 

“Old habits die hard.” You push yourself up off the tattered blanket you’ve been using as a yoga mat and roll it up. “Gotta stay limber.” 

It’s the truth. You’re in your forties now, and have spent the last twenty years under constant physical and mental stress. If there’s anything you can do to reverse the damage and be a little kinder to your body, you’re going to do it.

You put your hands on your hips and look at the omelets he’s prepared. “Wow,” you say. “You know, you’re becoming quite the chef.”

“One of us has to.”

You ignore his dig to take a sip of the tea he’s prepared you. “What are you doing up so early?”

“Patrol. I have to leave in like 20 minutes. Are you going out today?”

“Tomorrow,” you correct, sitting in the chair across from him. “But today I have to meet with Eugene, and then I told Maria I’d look after the baby while she gets some work done.” 

“Makes sense. Tommy told me they’re hardly sleeping. How is she?” 

“She’s doing good. But…there used to be this saying…It takes a village.” 

Ethan considers this. “I still don’t know how you and dad looked after me all those years.” 

“You were five years old, not five weeks. At least you could walk.” 

“That’s still young. It must’ve been hard.”

“It was but….” you shrug. “We made it.”

Ethan looks into the backyard, like he’s contemplating the past two years you’d spent in this house. “You think this is it?” 

After Tommy had brought you to Jackson, you’d never left. Will it last? Is really what he’s asking. It’s easy to feel jaded. The last place you’d been before Jackson had housed you for almost a decade. It hadn’t been nearly as nice as this, but it had its appeal. Today, you feel hopeful. “It’d be nice if it was.” 

Ethan seems comforted by your answer. “I don’t remember much…from those days. Back at the beginning of everything.” 

“That’s probably for the best,” you say. There are so many things from that time you’d erase from memory if given the chance. Some things never felt less jarring, even with time. 

Ethan looks down at his food. “I miss them. I wish I got to know them better.”

You think of your brother, of Elizabeth. His parents. “You knew them,” you assure him. “And they loved you.” 

Ethan studies the divots in the glass of the patio table. He’d grown up to be a spitting image of his dad. In fact, if Vincent were still alive, you would’ve found a way to give him shit about it. I knew you were self-absorbed, but don’t you think cloning yourself is a little extreme? But he’s not here, so you whisper those sorts of things when no one else can hear you, and hope that somehow he can. 

He finishes his last bite of food and stands, towering over you, tall and lanky. When he reaches to collect his plate, you stop him. “I’ll get it. Don’t want you running late.”

“Thanks,” he leans down and gives you a quick hug. “I’ll be back before dinner.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The sun is about to set when he returns. You’re back from Maria’s, mellowing out on the couch with your knitting while listening to an old comedy album you’d found the last time you were on patrol. 

“Hey,” you crane your neck to see him kicking off his boots in the foyer. Taking your shoes off when you walk in a house was a habit that had taken some getting used to. Before Jackson, you’d been so used to sleeping in your clothing, your shoes, knife and gun curled by your side, ready to grab at a moment's notice. The first week you’d lived here, you and Ethan had slept on the couches in the living room and refused to separate. 

In general, there were a lot of things that had taken some getting used to while you were settling in. But humans have a natural instinct to put down roots. It was only a matter of time before you’d start to thaw out. And boy did you thaw. 

For a long time, you were resistant to staying. At first, it was just for the night, then, it was until your foot got better. Your foot got better, and then you wanted to put on some weight. Then one day, you were sitting in the Tipsy Bison, sandwiched in a booth listening to Tommy brazenly flirt with Maria while watching Ethan joke with the kid his age working at the bar. It had been three months, and you didn’t want to leave anymore. 

Twenty years of running, of not knowing when your next meal was coming from, or what could be lurking around every corner. It was a different kind of exhaustion, and the second that you felt safe, it all caught up to you. All you did for the first two months was sleep. 

You woke only when Maria dropped by. Like Tommy had said, Maria had been a lawyer before. A prosecutor, however, so the work was different. You’d had a good laugh over the fact that you were raised by a ruthless criminal defense attorney with questionable clientele, because that was her worst nightmare. She was always enthusiastically telling you about things happening amongst the town council, and would even ask for your expertise. When you were done sleeping off the exhaustion, she’d extended you an offer to work for the town council. 

Not leaving your house for weeks you assumed would earn you the reputation of the town recluse. But when you started to participate in community affairs, no one gave you any grief. That was probably thanks to Ethan, who from the beginning, fit right in. He was desperate for a social life outside of you, and more importantly, with kids his actual age. 

Between helping Maria on the council, and Eugene with his….business…you didn’t go out on patrol too often. But you were glad you and Ethan had managed to find some sort of normalcy in Jackson. Even though you’d never admit this to him, the last group you’d lived in had some…..questionable traditions. 

“Did Tommy come by already?” Ethan asks as he strolls into the living room and practically throws himself down on the couch. 

“No,” you say. “Was he supposed to?” 

“He said he was coming over tonight because he has a surprise for you or something?”

“A surprise?” you ask. “What?”

“I don’t know,” Ethan says, sounding slightly annoyed by your questions. Sometimes, you still get glimpses of the fifteen-year-old boy he once was. He had always been well-behaved, but those sorts of things slipped through on occasion. 

“Hmmm,” you return to your knitting, but don’t think much of it. It’s not like Tommy coming over is out of the ordinary. If it wasn’t him walking through your front door, it was Maria, and you and Ethan were over at theirs several times a week as well – whether it was for dinner or to help out with their new baby. 

You think about what Tommy had told you when he first encouraged you to stay. He’d called you family. At the time, you didn’t think that was true. But now, it was. Maybe you weren’t bonded together by blood, but you’d grown to care for each other as if you were. Opening your heart used to feel impossible, painful even….but all the people who had helped you at your lowest had proven otherwise. Shutting them out only made things worse. After everything you’d been through, all you had left were the people you cared about. What else was there? It was stupid to do anything else but love. 

There’s a knock on your screen door, and Ethan is the first to practically jump off the sofa. You don’t get up right away, figuring that Tommy will stroll in shortly. 

Instead, you hear more voices than you were expecting, the screen door closing behind Ethan, his muffled “Nice to meet you.” 

The sun is setting, and the last thing you want to do is go and meet someone who's new to the community to make small talk. But then you hear Ethan call for you. You need to be a good member of the community and keep up appearances. Begrudgingly, you lift yourself out of the sofa and walk down the hallway to your front door. 

You slide into your sneakers, pull on your pair of aviators to protect from the intense light of the sun on the horizon, stepping onto the patio. 

“What’s up?” you ask, stepping out onto the patio next to Ethan, and Tommy is to your right, though you are hardly aware of him as you focus immediately on the man standing in front of you.

You recognize him instantly. It doesn’t matter how much time has passed. It doesn’t matter that his hair is more gray now than it is brown. It doesn’t matter or that the lines on his face are deeper, and his shoulders slump under an invisible weight. There’s a scar on his temple that hadn’t been there before, and his eyes, once warm and sparkling, seem impossibly cool and distant. He’s hardened by the world, and so are you.

“Joel?” 

It’s a stupid to pretend like you don’t know that it’s him. Like you need the confirmation. And you lower your sunglasses, just in case you’re seeing something you want to see, and not what’s actually in front of you. 

When you meet his eyes, his jaw clenches, and something unrecognizable flashes in his eyes.

“How are-” you step forward, and you’re not sure why. 

What were you expecting, a hug? A kiss? Some grand reunion, like you hadn’t lived separate lives for two decades, like you hadn’t loved someone else in the meantime. He probably had, too. So it’s not like you’d be able to pick up where you left off and forget all the things that happened. It wouldn’t be possible, but you have an instinctual urge to wrap him in your arms, to press your face into his chest as you did so many times before. You’d tilt your head back to kiss his neck, his jaw, and to feel his stubble scratch your face – you’d do it anyway, because you don’t care if it hurts you. 

Joel steps backwards just as you move closer. There’s a young girl hovering behind him, the same way that Sarah used to. But it’s hard to see much of her from where you are standing. His eyes flicker between you and Ethan, and then he turns on his heel and walks down the pathway without a word.

“Ellie!” he calls out, and doesn’t even so much as glance over his shoulder. It’s the first time you’ve heard him speak, and his voice gruffer, a bite to it that didn’t exist before.

You don’t call out after him, don’t trail after him down the street like the girl or Tommy does. But you do stare after him until he turns the corner and disappears from view. The only evidence he’d been standing in front of you at all is the pounding of your heart and a sick feeling in your stomach.

-

-

-

[thebotanicalarcade]

n132_w1150 by Biodiversity Heritage Library Via Flickr: Plantarum indigenarum et exoticarum icones ad vivum coloratae, oder, Sammlung nach der Natur gemalter Abbildungen inn- und ausländlischer Pflanzen, für Liebhaber und Beflissene der Botanik /. . biodiversitylibrary.org/page/44261785

[bbloveseevees]

So… I’m getting back into Wandersong, so here’s a lyric redo of “The Song Of The Wayfarer And The Witch” with Isabeau and Siffrin :3

“On the last eve of his travels

Under full moon’s twinkling glow

A Fighter true of heart

Was drawn to a meadow

Where the trees stood still and silent

Watching a Dancer twirl the air

His breath escaped in song

And his soul had been ensnared

They danced in step

Weightless in time

With nothing left but

Two hearts entwined

From that moment on

The Rouge’s magic burned

The spell had been cast

As their love did slowly learn

As each night lingered on

The Fighter’s soul grew thin

His body faded softly

As the spell pulled him in

They danced in step

Weightless in time

With nothing left but

Two hearts entwined”

I AM FUCKING INSANE

[random-xpressions]

I don't intend to be everything to someone all the time. I'd be content if my role in someone's life is minimal yet vital. Like a brief rain in the desert or a ray of sunshine on a cold winter morning or a shade under the tree for a wayfarer or perhaps just a book someone reads on their vacation, its last page will soon arrive, but some of its lines never forgotten...

Random Xpressions

[say-hwaet]

You did your worst, you tried your best. Now it’s time to rest.

I’m just a poor, wayfaring stranger,

Traveling through this world below

There is no sickness, no toil, no danger,

In that bright land to which I go…

Arthur Morgan, with each breath barely exiting his body, crawls to the edge of the mountainside. His body aching, his lungs burning, he knows this is it. This is the end.

Dutch had backed away and left him. Micah, his enemy, snarled and gurgled on his way back down the mountain as he retreated like the rat he is. Will he meet the Pinkertons there? Arthur doesn’t care. That isn’t what’s on his mind.

As his cracked and bloody fingers grip the gravel beneath him, he clutches to the hope that his brother John and his family made it out alive. If he didn’t do anything good in his life, it was this.

But he tried. In the end, he did.

And that has to count for something.

He pulls himself up onto a jutted out wall of the mountain’s cliff and lays his back against it with a hard gasp.

He turns to his left as he pants heavily. The sun is rising and he soon feels the warmth on his face. Death is welcoming him with her gentle arms and warm embrace.

He thought death would be cold, as he had seen it many times. It was, if not always, behind the cold barrel of a gun, so it has to be so.

But it isn’t. He hears a morning dove cooing in a nearby tree. It was a song he hasn’t heard in a while. It is, to him, like a sweet lullaby.

He thinks of his mother, for the first time in forever. He wonders if he will see her soon.

He takes in one more breath and exhales.

***

Gasp!

Arthur rises to a sitting position. It is day. He keeps taking in deep breaths and quickly looks around.

He sees a field of tall grasses. He’s on a hill. There are clouds in the sky and they are moving quickly as though a storm is rolling in, but there’s no rain and no gray.

It dawns on him that he’s not on the mountain.

“Where…where am I?”

He begins to move and realizes that his muscles don’t ache. His lungs don’t burn. In fact, he doesn’t really feel anything.

He also doesn’t notice the figure standing afar off. A smile forms on the man’s lips and he speaks.

“Arthur…”

Arthur quickly turns, surprised to hear the familiar voice.

It is Hosea. He’s younger. Near the age he was when Arthur first met him. But his smile and expression still carries the wisdom and wit he had moments before he died.

Arthur quickly rises to his feet and hurries over to him. “Hosea?” He still cannot believe his eyes.

They embrace and Arthur hugs his father tightly.

“I’m proud of you, son,” Hosea says and he releases Arthur from his embrace.

Arthur knows it now. He’s dead. And wherever he is, it is where his soul has gone to remain. His body is still on that mountainside, or perhaps it has been over a hundred years and his body has long since been decayed and gone. He feels a weight come over him, a life unfinished, and the people he left behind. “But,” he begins. “I couldn’t save everyone. If I died then...” His voice trembles. “Karen, Dutch, and the rest of them. I couldn’t stop them from…from…”

Hosea forms an empathetic smile. and he places a gentle hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Redemption comes in many ways. It’s never too late, Arthur. You clearly saw the error or your ways and you sacrificed your life for the truth, that’s why you’re here.” He pauses a moment, gesturing to the land around them. “And now you’re home.”

“But…” Arthur speaks, his voice edged with trepidation. “Is there…is there anyone else here? Did they make it?”

The smile on Hosea’s face grows and removing his arm, he motions for Arthur to follow. “Let’s go see!”

They begin to walk across the valley. As they walk across the lush, beauteous field, Arthur begins to notice the colors in the sky. As a gap forms in the clouds, he sees a myriad of stars twinkling with swirls of pink, blue, and green dancing around them. An Eagle flies above them as though it is about to break through the clouds and explore the galaxies behind them.

Arthur exhales at the sight. If he had his satchel with him, he’d sketch what he sees, but even if he hasn’t given it to John, he doesn’t think he could bring it with him here.

Hosea takes the lead and Arthur follows until he suddenly stops. They have reached the top of the hill and can see it slope down into a valley below.

And in that valley is a mass gathering of people. People he has never seen before. He turns to Hosea, expecting to get an answer but he only pats Arthur’s back. “Just go down there.”

Arthur hesitates. He doesn’t want to leave Hosea and the unknown frightens him. But then again, he was once afraid of death, and now he knows he has nothing to fear.

He begins to walk down the hill.

And he hears a voice call his name.

“Arthur!”

It is a youthful voice and it calls from within the crowd. He looks around and sees a group divide to reveal the outlaw that he had last seen on the roofs of Saint Denis.

Arthur feels his eyes sting and a lump in his throat. “Lenny, my boy!”

Lenny smiles. He looks clean and happy. When they are close enough, they clasp hands. “So this is you in your former glory, eh, Arthur?”

Arthur looks down at himself. There wasn’t a way of knowing, but he is younger looking. He lacks the scorched, leathery skin from the sun. He resembled himself when he was younger. Arthur grins. “I guess so.”

Lenny turns to a man beside him, who looks to be an older version of himself. “Father, this is Arthur Morgan.” The two men shake hands. They are strangers, but there is a mutual respect for one another. Lenny smiles. “There was someone looking for you, Arthur. She told us she’d meet you here.”

An excitement fills his mind as he begins to look around. “Who?”

Lenny quickly points into the crowd, and Arthur begins to walk in that direction, not sure what he is going to find. The sea of strangers part the way for him, almost with a unified knowledge of what he is searching for.

He sees other familiar faces, people he thought he’d never see again. He wants to greet them, but they all seem to know that he is on a mission.

He keeps going. He doesn’t know how fast to move, but he feels like he’s floating on air. Who has been looking for him? How long must he sail these seas?

Then a soft voice calls to him. “Arthur…”

He turns quickly and sees a woman standing there. He doesn’t initially recognize her at first. After all, he was just a child when she died.

But then she speaks again. “It’s me.”

And he remembers.

“Mama?”

She beams. Her dark hair braided in a bun, her dress still remnant of the 1860s. She opens her arms to him and he enters into her embrace. It is warm and welcoming and he is almost taken back to when he was a boy.

They part and she holds her son in front of her, taking him in. “You’re all grown up…”

Arthur bashfully looks down. “Sometimes.”

“And so handsome.”

He smiles sheepishly and chuckles. “You’re just sayin’ that.”

His mother, Beatrice, looks into her son's eyes, and there is a tinge of sadness. All of those years she missed with her son. She didn’t get to see him grow up or learn what he had become. She wants to know how he’s been, but she isn’t sure where to begin. She reaches up and places a hand on his cheek. He is so much taller than her and towers over her. “It’s been a long time, my son.”

Arthur feels tears well in his eyes, but they don’t go beyond that. It is almost as though he is unable to cry. “I missed you, Mama.”

“I missed you too…”

“I lived a bad life, Mama. I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head regretfully. “No, I’m sorry. I'm sorry that I left you too soon. I wasn’t there to protect you from your father. I know he was hard on you.”

Arthur knows she’s putting it delicately, but she doesn’t know who he needed protection from after his father died. He wants to tell her now, but it can wait. They have plenty of time. So he decides to just say, “It’s more than that, Mama.”

But she has a reply. “Which is why you shouldn’t blame yourself. You’re here now, and that matters more to me.”

“Yeah, Hosea was just telling me.”

After a moment, Beatrice holds out her hand. “Come with me, my son.”

He hesitates, but takes her hand. Leading him gently, they walk through the fields of grass. As they add distance between themselves and the crowd, the scenery changes. What was once an open valley is now hills and mountains in the distance. Something about it begins to look familiar to him. As though it is a place he had been before.

Reaching the top of a small hill, Beatrice looks down into the valley below and smiles. Arthur follows her line of view and instantly feels himself frozen in disbelief.

A small boy, around four years old, is playing with a dark-coated Chesapeake Bay Retriever. The boy’s laughter carries throughout the land and echoes into the wonderful day-lit, starry sky.

He’d recognize the two anywhere: it is Issac and Copper.

He doesn’t have to wait long before the boy looks off in their direction. Their eyes meet and the boy recognizes his father. “Daddy!”

Arthur smiles. It isn’t forced or made to hide the pain and ache that he once felt. He really feels it this time. “Issac!”

Beatrice lets her son go and he runs down the hill to meet his son. Isaac goes to meet him, with Cooper happily running at his heels.

As soon as the boy is within arms reach, Arthur slides to his knees to hold him in his arms.

“My little bear, my son…” Arthur utters, as he can hardly speak.

Issac nuzzles into his father’s arm, relieved to feel the safety and warmth that he always craved. The last time he saw his father was nearly a year ago, in his mind, and even if he felt the weight of years that passed, his desire would be just the same.

“Papa bear!” the boy cries.

“Lemme look at you…!” Arthur holds Issac in front of him. The same. He looks the same as though nothing has changed. He doesn’t show signs of death, no bullets to mar his skin.

Issac turns his head and looks up to the side of Arthur. The boy’s eyes soften and he smiles. “Hi, Mommy.”

His eyes start at the skirt then follow all the way up. When their eyes meet he wants to question whether or not this is all real, but he knows it to be true.

It’s her. It’s Eliza. Her chestnut hair gleams from the light all around them. She may as well be the sun. An angel.

He rises to his feet but doesn’t move towards her. Isaac shifts back and forth between them, eager to see what will happen.

Her brown eyes bring him back. Back to that day he found the two crosses.

He walks to her. He touches her soft hair, then her shoulders, then her face. She holds his hands there for a moment as though she cannot believe it either.

A tear threatens to fall from his scarless face and she reaches to wipe it away. “No tears, Arthur.”

His hands remain on her face, his thumb gently caressing her cheek. The softness and warmth of her skin only validate the reality that he is here. Right now. With her. “I…I missed you so much.”

She now knows it has been a while. “I know, but it’s over now.”

He can’t help himself. After years of holding back, he longs to do what he should have done years ago. He kisses her.

As though creating a mutual understanding, Eliza responds in kind, pressing her lips deeper into his. She wraps her arms around his neck and he brings her up into his arms and lets the passion run its course.

After a moment, they break away. Arthur returns his woman to her feet and he feels a tug on his pant leg. They both look down. Isaac looks back up at them, extending his arms upward.

Arthur feels a swell of joy overcome him. He picks up his son and tosses him into the air. Isaac giggles with delight, holding out his arms. If Arthur throws him any higher, he could very well fly. Eliza, keeping one hand on Arthur, smiles gently. She had hoped that this day would come. Now Arthur is home and he is here to stay. No longer will he leave and no longer will she ever worry if he will ever return. Here, they are truly free to be together, and death can no longer separate them.

Arthur sets Isaac back down. Copper rushes to the boy and licks his face.

Arthur puts his arm around Eliza. With a gentle nod, she gestures over to a single house a few yards away. It looks almost like the home he had left behind many years ago. Only, it glistens. It were as though it were made of the purest gold.

Isaac takes his father’s hand. “Look it, Daddy!” he sighs.

Arthur can only look at her. She is more beautiful than anything he could ever lay his eyes on. “Eliza?”

She looks up at him. “Yes, my love?”

He loves to hear her say that. He takes in a deep breath as though he could inhale every lovely word she speaks. “Let’s go home.”

He feels her arm wrap around him. “Sounds wonderful to me.”

And as the sun and moon glide over the sky in their own paces, and the colors and stars of the galaxies dance, the wayfaring stranger walks through the fields with his loved ones. He was going over home.